


Heart of the Storm

by Imaginationfever



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Action, Adventure, Angst, Cybermen - Freeform, Daleks - Freeform, Doctor/OC - Freeform, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, OC - Hartley Daniels, Original Character(s), Romance, Sci-Fi, Shenanigans, Slow Burn, TARDIS - Freeform, Time Travel, it's just generally a great time, original adventures
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:42:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 55
Words: 777,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22525726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imaginationfever/pseuds/Imaginationfever
Summary: Hartley had made a living on impossible heroes and faraway places, she'd grown up daydreaming and wishing for the days when she could be living her adventures, instead of just writing about them. But when the chance to run far, far away from her boring old life is dropped in her lap, is it something she has the courage to do? And who exactly is The Heart?
Relationships: Tenth Doctor/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 33
Kudos: 111





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hello readers, welcome to Heart of the Storm. To start with, this story was originally posted on FF.net under the name Sonny13, which is my pen-name on that site. So don't worry, this work isn't stolen. It belongs to me, and I hope people enjoy it on here as much as they did over there.
> 
> This is something I've been working on for at least the last two years, trying to get it just right before beginning to post it. This will be an incredibly slow burn between the Doctor and my OC, quite possibly the slowest slow burn I've ever written, and that's saying something. 
> 
> I know there are a lot of sources for Doctor who outside of the show, including audio stories and comics, but none of these will be taken into account in this story. This is strictly show-canon, and always will be (this makes things so much easier to track).
> 
> A lot of people have been doing 'Time-Lady' and 'timeline-jumping' stories (which, don't get me wrong, I love and spend hours reading myself) but I felt like I wanted to bring something a little different to the table. This story will be moving chronologically with the show, starting with Nine and going forwards. I will be doing episode rewrites – but not every episode, only the ones I felt were crucial to keep the plot moving – and to balance it out I have original chapters and new adventures interwoven throughout.

**PROLOGUE**

“ _We can experience nothing but the present moment, live in no other second of time, and to understand this is as close as we can get to eternal life.”_

P. D. James

* * *

Hartley had always believed she'd been meant for more than this.

More than weekly meetings with her publisher, or late night writing while she could barely keep her eyes open, or press conferences where reporters asked her the same questions over and over about her novels; all of this while trying to deal with the general ups and downs of everyday life...

It was exhausting.

She liked it, don't get her wrong. She enjoyed her job, and she knew she had it a lot better than most of the working force.

She'd always wanted to write, ever since she learned how to properly hold a pencil in her hand. She loved the scratch of graphite under her fingers, loved the smell of old parchment, adored the feeling of a pen gliding over paper, and the way the keys of a computer sounded when she tapped away at them, the story appearing on the screen before her like her own special brand of magic.

She loved everything about writing, even the boring parts. But that didn't mean she didn't still want more out of life.

She wrote about all kinds of things: shooting stars and rockets, knights and dragons, aliens and vampires. She couldn't get enough of fiction, she couldn't get enough of adventure. It was like she was hardwired for writing, unable to stomach doing anything else with her time. Growing up, her dad had called her his Little Storyteller, and she supposed it was an accurate nickname.

She was content to daydream, to write out exciting stories and publish them for people old and young alike to read and enjoy. She knew those types of things didn't happen in real life, no matter how much she – and her readers – wished they did.

So, it was to say that she was at least _mildly_ surprised when she was torn from the boring repetitiveness of her life and thrust into the real world, one that existed all around them, one that nobody knew about. She was _moderately_ shocked when her universe, everything she'd ever known, was ripped out from underneath her and she was tossed into an adventure greater than even _she_ could have ever imagined.

She was bewildered, terrified and ecstatic all at once, in every minute, of every day, in her insane new life that she still wasn't completely convinced _wasn't_ a dream.

So, she was right in a way. She _was_ meant for something bigger and greater and more meaningful than she could have ever predicted. It would bring her pain, yes, but didn't all things? It would also bring her such joy and such love that she wouldn't know what to do with it all.

This was the story of how she became the Heart, and the family she found along the way.


	2. Down the Rabbit Hole

“ _Sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast._ ”

Lewis Carroll

* * *

Hartley yawned, shoving her keys into the lock with a pitchy jingle. She strived to juggle the overflowing binders and half-empty thermos of now-cold coffee in her hands while pushing her way into her flat.

“Finally!” her flatmate, Emma, exclaimed once the door was shut with a practised kick of her foot. Hartley had been hoping for quiet when she got home, under the impression the other girl would be out for the evening, but of _course_ she just wasn't that lucky. “You were meant to be home hours ago!” Emma continued in her usual, loud fashion.

“There was a problem with the cover art,” Hartley murmured back tiredly, dropping her belongings on the small desk just inside the entryway.

She took a moment to lean against the peeling paint of their wall, sighing tiredly. Exhaustion pulled at her muscles, making her body feel heavy. She couldn't wait to just sink into the soft heaven that was her bed, curl up under her fluffy covers and let reality melt away.

“I had to stay behind until Melia and I could finally agree on a design,” she told Emma once she'd gathered enough energy to speak.

“You _really_ need a new Editor,” Emma told her blithely, her full, thick brows pulled into a deep frown. “She's running you into the ground.”

The redhead waved off her friend's concerns. It was an exchange that was happening more frequently than ever, these days. Emma was an opinionated woman, particularly when it came to her friends' wellbeing. It wasn't a trait Hartley could find fault in.

“I just need some food and a strong cup of tea, then I'll be golden,” she assured the talkative blonde, kicking off her towering, uncomfortable heels and sighing in relief when her bruised feet hit soft carpet, her toes wiggling into the shaggy material.

“I got Chinese from Wan's,” Emma revealed, and Hartley practically began to drool at the mere mention of her favourite takeaway.

“Did you-?”

“Get your usual order?” Emma finished for her, a cheeky grin on her face as she looked back down at the magazine she was holding, the picture of nonchalance. “It's in the fridge.”

Hartley didn't even bother heating it up, it was only slightly chilled anyway. She swiped a pair of chopsticks from the counter and took the familiar little white box into the lounge room, taking a seat on the chair opposite her flatmate. “You're a gem,” she told her, the words garbled, mouth full of her favourite sweet and sour stir fry.

“Nothing I haven't heard a thousand times before,” Emma assured her lightly, flipping the page of the magazine, brown eyes scanning the page efficiently, free hand absentmindedly circling a sparkly dress with a biro.

“Your mum called while you were out,” Emma told her conversationally once she'd gotten everything she possibly could out of her magazine, turning her focus to her friend. Hartley looked up, a noodle hanging from between her lips, her look very much that of a startled deer in the headlights.

“She did?” she asked slowly once she'd swallowed her mouthful. The food sat forgotten in her lap, her attention now focused on her friend, who was wearing a rather pitying expression on her pretty face.

“Unfortunately,” she confirmed, face shining with sympathy.

“What'd she want?” Hartley asked carefully when it became clear Emma wasn't about to volunteer the information – which usually didn't mean anything good.

“To do lunch with you tomorrow,” Emma replied, her voice measured.

Hartley frowned, looking back down at her food and scooping up a mouthful, taking her time chewing it as she considered her options. Her relationship with her mother was complicated, to say the least. Over the course of, well, pretty much the better part of the last fifteen of her twenty-five years on the Earth, things had deteriorated between them, and lunch alone with the woman sounded like the seventh circle of hell to the young author.

She put down her box of food, moving across the living room and through the door that led to her bedroom. She reappeared a few minutes later with her makeup scrubbed off, clad in her green flannel pyjamas.

“Maybe she's trying to fix things,” Emma suggested like the five minute break in conversation had never happened, watching Hartley carefully as she reclaimed her seat and dug back into her food.

“It's gonna take more than lunch to fix fifteen years of emotional blackmail,” Hartley said with just a hint of bitterness. It was mostly overridden by an immense sadness, and Emma saw through her like she were made of glass, smiling a smile that was tinged with pity. Hartley looked away, staring down at her stir-fry like it might hold the answers.

“Maybe it's worth at least a _try_ ,” Emma said, frustratingly reasonable.

“Since when are you my mother's cheerleader?” Hartley replied tersely, but Emma took no offence, laughing lightly at the frown on her friend's face.

“I couldn't imagine life without _my_ mum,” she told her evenly.

“That's because _yours_ isn't a callous shrew.”

Emma laughed again, the sound easy and bright. “You've had a long day,” she said simply, standing and moving over to their small kitchen, throwing out her empty Chinese carton. “I've got class first thing in the morning,” she added, glancing back at the clock on the wall with a frown. “I've gotta get to bed.”

Hartley frowned, prodding at a chunk of chicken with the tip of her chopstick.

“I told your mum you'd give her a call,” Emma continued softly, and Hartley sighed, the fight leaving her body, replaced by an exhausted resignation that made her shoulders droop. “It'll be okay, Hart,” she said reassuringly. “Just give her a chance.”

Mouth full of food, Hartley just grunted non-committally, not having the energy to give any other kind of answer.

“I'll see you tomorrow,” Emma told her easily. “Try not to get into any trouble between now and then.”

She'd said it as a joke, but the odd foreboding feeling Hartley got in her gut was anything but funny. It made her look up, eyes narrowed in trepidation, but Emma was already heading for her room, paying her no attention. Hartley could only shrug it off and turn her focus back to her meal.

She took her time eating her food, then did the dishes by hand to kill even more time. She knew she was being a coward, and it was with a heavy sigh that she forced herself to meander over to their landline, pouting at the phone before reaching out to grasp it.

But before her fingertips could so much as touch the receiver, there was a sharp tug at her waist, like a rope hooking around her middle.

Hartley stumbled backwards, but righted herself before she fell over. Her hand moved to her waist, sliding over the soft material of her pyjamas, searching for the source of the unpleasant tug. There was nothing there, but when she looked down at herself to double check, she realised her body was emitting a faint, alarming glow.

The shiny source of light seemed to be coming from behind her, and she turned around with a loud gasp, coming face to face with what she could only describe as a vortex of swirling, golden light.

She stumbled back again, this time in the other direction, desperate to get away from the frightening, supernatural occurrence. Like a lasso around her middle, Hartley was tugged closer to the vortex, the exact opposite direction to where she wanted to be going. She wanted to scream for help, but what could anyone do? What if she was just hallucinating? That would be humiliating enough as it was.

But what if it was _real_?

There was another tug, sending her staggering closer to the glimmering golden light, swirling in the air like a whirlpool in the water. She could hear sounds spilling from its depths, so many at once, she couldn't have named a single one. The non-existent rope tugged again, and she vaguely wondered whether she really _had_ finally cracked, just like her mother had always said she would, and was about to be carted off to the nuthouse.

Hartley should have been panicking, but she'd always been one to be cool in a crisis. Her heart was slamming against her ribs like a jackhammer, but other than that her breathing was steady and her hands were only trembling slightly.

The rope tugged again, forcefully beckoning her into the vortex. She wanted to resist, but it was strong and insistent. She was beginning to wonder if she had a choice. Whatever was happening, there didn't seem to be any stopping it.

There had to have been something wrong with the Chinese food she'd just devoured, or she'd simply passed out from the exhaustion from the day and this was all some whacky dream thought up by her overactive imagination. The fact she even briefly considered this could _actually_ be happening was completely absurd, and she frowned at her own insane thought process. Surely there was some kind of sane, rational explanation.

There was another tug, and this time it – whatever _it_ was – definitely wasn't taking no for an answer. Finally gaining control over her vocal chords, Hartley let out a loud, panicked scream, but before Emma could appear to help her she was tumbling headfirst into the swirling vortex of light, the safe feeling of her shaggy carpet disappearing from beneath her toes.

Her heart flew into her throat and her stomach dropped out from under her. She wanted to gasp, but she could barely breathe to try. She tried to scream, but it was too hard without any air. She realised she'd slammed her eyes shut out of instinct, and wrenched them open, squinting out at her surroundings as she continued to fall like Alice down the rabbit hole.

Everything was glittering gold, rushing past her like silky water. It was solid but at the same time translucent, and she could see images through the sheen of what she assumed was...some kind of energy?

She saw a firetruck rushing past her, and a man made completely out of metal marching in her direction. She spied what was some kind of large pepper-pot robot, and she could see the crashing of waves, could practically feel the sea breeze brushing her cheeks. She spotted a roaring dinosaur, and the shadow of a man in a wheelchair.

She could hear sounds that seemed to come from all around her, much clearer than they had been before. Sirens blared to her left, and a wolf growled in her ear. There was the sound of laughter, so joyful and heartening that it made her thumping chest swell. She could hear children screaming and somebody humming, the sound comforting in a way she wasn't used to. Underneath it all there was a steady, unyielding drum beat; a pattern of four that seemed to hold a sort of warning in its sound, if such a thing were possible.

And then as soon as it had started, it had stopped, and she was rather unceremoniously spat out of the tunnel that was _definitely_ an early onset of psychosis.

She landed roughly, falling to the hard ground, crashing to her knees, her thin flannel sleep pants tearing and her palms grazing on the rough surface. She hung her head for a long moment, regaining her breath and recovering from her drop through the strange tunnel... _wormhole_?

The sounds stopped, replaced by a quiet hum that filled her mind rather than her ears in a sense that was both foreign and familiar. She allowed herself to be at peace for several long, serene moments, enjoying not falling through that never-ending passage anymore, before she finally lifted her head, observing the place she'd been dropped into.

The peace she'd felt dropped away, like a lifeline swinging out of reach, giving way to a sheer, heart stopping panic.

She was somewhere completely and utterly unfamiliar. Her deep blue eyes slid over the large branches of coral winding their way up to the ceiling. The golden-brown light the room was bathed in that didn't seem to have a visible source, and if she weren't so terrified, she might have thought it to be calming.

She pushed herself up, the metal grate of the floor leaving indents in her hands. A chill shot through her at the cool temperature of metal under her bare feet. There was a sort of console in the centre of the room; knobs and dials were everywhere, dark coloured buttons that were just aching to be pushed. She spied something that looked like a paperweight, along with what could only be a typewriter.

It was like whomever had built this thing had used whatever they'd had laying around the house. It was so strange that for a moment, Hartley was more befuddled than scared. She didn't know what to do with herself. She spun in a slow, cautious circle, hands shaking as she tried to piece together what the hell had just happened to her.

She turned her attention back to the console, reaching out and again running her hands over the odd controls. It was one hell of a realistic dream; everything sure _felt_ real.

“Oi!”

Hartley jumped nearly a mile high, heart leaping into her throat as she whirled around, eyes wide as she spotted the source of the loud, accented voice.

A man stood in the doorway, arms crossed over a boxy leather jacket, a deep scowl settled on a set of thin lips. “Who're you?” the stranger demanded crossly. He was glaring at her accusingly, like she'd done something wrong. “How in the name of Rassilon did you get in here? We're in the vortex! This isn't _possible_!”

Too shocked to move, Hartley just stared back at him with wide, bewildered eyes, barely able to swallow as she watched the complete stranger carefully, wondering whether he was going to attack her.

“I _said_ : who are you?” he demanded again, and she noted absently that he had a crisp, Northern accent.

He pulled out some kind of scientific instrument, and her eyes widened even further as the tip lit up a glowing blue. He approached her, strong brow furrowed, ears looking bigger and bigger the closer he got. This strange kind of electrical buzzing noise filled the room, and he began to wave the stick-thing over her pyjama-clad body, pausing after a moment to assess it carefully.

“Who are you?” he barked for a third time. His leather jacket crinkled as he moved, the glare on his face only growing harder as time went on.

“Who am I?” she asked loudly, _finally_ locating her voice. It was weak and shrill with panic, but she didn't care about that right now. “Who are _you_?!” she demanded, deciding to go on the offensive.

“You're the one who beamed yourself onto my ship!” the stranger bellowed.

“What?” she hissed, growing more panicked – and frustrated – with every passing moment. “You _kidnapped_ me!”

“I did no such thing!”

“Then why am I here?!”

“ _You_ tell _me_!”

“Is this some kind of elaborate blackmarket scheme where you knock me unconscious and harvest my kidneys?!” she demanded shrilly, terror gripping her at the notion. She slapped her hands over her stomach as though to shield it from harm – like it would do any good.

“I don't want your kidneys!” the stranger insisted.

“Then why am I _here_?!”

“I don't _know_!”

Abruptly their shouting stopped, and they were left just staring at one another. Hartley's chest was heaving in her panic, while the strange man only looked bewildered and more than a little bit petulant.

“Who are you?” the man asked again, sounding like he was trying very much to keep from yelling the question – his fourth time asking it in the last two minutes.

She wasn't sure she should be telling him her name, but he seemed just as shocked as she was, so maybe it was all one big misunderstanding, and he could help her get home from – wherever the hell this was.

“I'm Hart,” she finally said, glad that her voice came out steady.

“What kind of name is _Hart_?” he asked in a snap, as though arguing with her were an instinct. “That's an organ.”

“Short for Hartley,” she informed him tartly, crossing her arms over her chest, realising with a cringe that she was in nothing but her flannelette pyjamas – although she supposed that was a step up from a nighty, or something else equally as embarrassing.

The man stared at her, expression hard enough to cut diamonds. She stared back, shifting her weight from foot to foot, the odd humming of the room they were in warming her slowly from the inside out, like a warm drink might on a cold night. “I'm the Doctor,” the man eventually introduced himself, looking grumpy about having to do so.

“The Doctor?” she repeated confusedly. “Doctor who?”

“Just the Doctor,” he replied primly, putting away his glowing device and stepping closer to the circular console. Cautious, Hartley edged away from him as though expecting him to suddenly whip out a weapon and begin sawing off her limbs one by one, like something out of a horror film she'd have regretted watching.

Thankfully he only began to tap away at the keyboard on the console, eyeing the accompanying monitor carefully, like it held all the answers. She wanted to ask what sort of name 'the Doctor' was meant to be, but had a feeling it wouldn't go down very well.

He glared at the screen for a long few moments, and with every passing breath Hartley grew more and more uncomfortable. “What's going on?” he finally growled, slamming his hand against the monitor as if he might be able to bully it into responding.

“My dreams aren't usually this argumentative,” Hartley murmured to herself, reaching up to run a hand through her day-old hair.

“Dreams?” the Doctor repeated, buzzing device reappearing in his hand as he whirled around, aiming it at her. Flinching like it might be a weapon, she eyed it warily, but it only glowed and buzzed, just as it had before. The man began waving it up and down as if it were a wand; which, at this point? She wasn't ruling it out.

“Yes,” she said slowly, “because there's no way this could _actually_ be real.”

The Doctor assessed her closely, and she got the strange sense he could see into her head. Self-conscious, she reached up to rub at her forehead, frowning at him deeply. “What happened, exactly?” he asked, returning his eyes to his blue gadget, staring at it with a thick, furrowed brow.

“What do you mean?” she asked, careful.

“Before you appeared here, what were you doing?” he demanded impatiently.

Startled but figuring she had very little to lose, Hartley swallowed and resigned herself to replying.

“I was just standing in my living room,” she told him, glad her arms were crossed, as it hid her trembling hands. “There was this...vortex of golden light – like something out of a science-fiction film, and I was being yanked into it. Next thing I know, I'm falling like Alice down the rabbit hole and I get spat out the other end here, in this room, to find you _shouting_ at me,” she finished, the words coated with accusation.

His hands suddenly grasped her shoulders, a stern glint to his eyes. “You're talking British English,” he muttered lowly, staring at her like she were something unsavoury, a problem he had no choice but to solve.

“What?” she asked in surprise. “Of course I am,” she said, bemused that he'd had to state as much.

“So you're from England?”

“Yes,” she said slowly, slowly putting things together. Did that mean...they _weren't_ in England anymore? If not, where on earth could they be?

“What year?” the Doctor demanded.

“What year?” she parroted in shock.

“Yes,” he was still grasping her shoulders, squeezing almost painfully tight. “What _year_?!”

“2005,” she answered him in a hiss, flinching back in an attempt to escape, but he held on firmly.

“And you're human?”

Beginning to grow fearful, she squirmed until he let go, then scuttled back until she was pressed against the railing surrounding them. “Of course I'm human,” she said shakily, sounding exactly as terrified as she felt. “What else could I _possibly_ be?”

“Well, you could be an alien,” he said casually, but she still choked on her tongue. She'd always believed in aliens, of course. She'd always been more of a Mulder than a Scully, if that was the scale one was working off. But still, being slapped in the face with something that was so blatantly extraterrestrial was a little much for even _her_ to handle.

“Alien,” she repeated, noting that he'd turned back to his monitor, scanning the information on it intently. “You're an _alien_?” she asked, and even she couldn't put a name to the emotion in her voice.

“Yup,” he confirmed blithely, tapping away at his keyboard distractedly.

“And, what happened to me, that was alien, too?”

“Probably.”

“And _this_ is … it's a spaceship, then?”

“That would be correct.”

Hartley was silent for a long minute, and for awhile the Doctor didn't seem to notice, until finally he turned and met her stare.

“You okay?” he asked warily, and she wondered what her expression must look like to warrant such a reaction.

A feeling bubbled up in her stomach, one she couldn't immediately identify. It was strong and hot, and she stared back at him as it began to trickle through her body like a poison, working its way through her nervous system like little sparks of electricity. It wasn't until the sensation found her heart that she could finally recognise it for exactly what it was.

Hysterical delight.

“I'm on an _alien spaceship_?!” she practically squealed, but she was too far gone to bother caring what an uncool idiot she sounded like. “This is _crazy_! I'm on a _spaceship_!”

The Doctor looked completely blindsided by her enthusiastic reaction. “Uh, yeah,” he said carefully, eyes narrowed in sheer perplexity.

“I've – I mean I've written about all sorts of things, but science-fiction has always been my favourite genre. And of course, I've always believed in life in the universe. How could space be so big and endless and humans be the only life out there? It's crazy that some people think we're alone. Of course, I'd always pictured you to be small and green and unable to speak English––” she cut off her gleeful rant to give a frown. “If you're an alien, how come you speak English?” she asked critically.

“It's a long story,” he answered her shortly, but she was already past it, paying him no mind.

“And your spaceship – I expected it to look more like the Enterprise, but I suppose the sixties didn't get everything right. Is that your uniform? I think I like it – very badass, very _Farscape_. Where's your crew?”

The Doctor's expression darkened into something stormy, and although she wasn't sure why, Hartley suddenly regretted asking.

“No crew, just me,” he said in a tone that clearly told her that was the end of that topic. “How did you get here?” he continued without pause, like it were all one long, run-on sentence.

“I told you––” she tried to say, but he cut her off impatiently.

“Golden vortex of light,” he nodded, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “But it doesn't make sense – it should be impossible.”

“ _Sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast_ ,” she quoted without thought, and the Doctor's expression grew somehow curious and irritated in the same instant. “It's from Lewis Carroll,” she explained, feeling suddenly meek.

“I know who it's from,” he muttered as though the clarification had annoyed him. Feeling uncomfortable, she rocked back on her heels and rolled her lips into her mouth, eyes scanning the room for a distraction. “I'm going to run some tests, nothing too painful, so don't worry,” he said the words suddenly and unconvincingly, making Hartley wary.

There were two possibilities – either it was all an elaborate dream, in which case the imagined pain would probably be enough to wake her up; or it was completely and utterly real, and an alien was about to do experiments on her inside of his spaceship.

She wasn't totally certain of which option she was hoping to be true.

The Doctor's hand was abruptly on her shoulder in a tight and somewhat uncomfortable grip, pushing her towards a door in the back of the room. Bewildered with her heart thudding in her ears, Hartley was powerless to do anything but allow herself to be dragged through the halls of the alien's spaceship. She took everything in with wide eyes, reaching out to run a hand over the coral-like walls, noting how realistic if felt under her skin.

The Doctor was quiet until they got to a decent sized room filled with all manner of machines that reminded Hartley vaguely of the time she broke her leg when she was twelve and had to go get x-rays to see how much damage she'd done.

“Have you eaten at any point in the last six hours?” the Doctor asked her clinically, and she was jolted from her thoughts, peering over at the alien with furrowed brows.

“Yeah,” she nodded, recalling the Chinese order she'd devoured earlier… In fact it couldn't have been more than a half hour ago, yet somehow it now felt like it was a memory from an entirely different life. He sat her down on a bed in the corner, then picked up a small, presumably medical, instrument and held it up to her eyes. A laser shot out from the tip, hitting her irises with a sting. She yelped, instinctively shutting her eyes and flinching away.

“Hold still,” the Doctor said impatiently, grasping her shoulder again in a firm grip to keep her from inching away. “Open,” he ordered, and it was with a reluctant grunt that she complied, forcing her sore lids open and staring into the painful light. “Your eyes are an odd shade of blue...” he trailed off distractedly, as though he were a medical doctor listing a symptom of a disease. It created unease in her gut, and she knew she'd rather gloss over it than linger.

“I thought you said it would be painless,” she grumbled, still wincing against the ache in her eyes.

“I said it wouldn't be _too_ painful,” he corrected irritably. “Try and keep up.”

The Doctor finally put down the instrument, picking up what looked like a paddle-pop stick.

“Open,” he said again, poking at her lips with the stick. She opened her mouth and let him peer down her throat. “Say _ahh_ ,” he instructed, and again she complied, wondering what kind of explanation he could possibly find in her throat. He stepped back and she snapped her jaw shut, watching him curiously as he fetched what looked like a tablet, picking it up and holding it to her, beginning to scan up and down her body.

“What're you looking for?” she asked, blinking her eyes at him owlishly.

“Answers,” he responded succinctly yet cheerfully, shooting her a wide, toothy grin that absolutely wasn't genuine before turning his attention back to the glowing screen of his sleek tablet, blue eyes swivelling across the information at an impossible speed, the fake expression wiped from his face like a cleared whiteboard.

She stared back at him, her own sapphire blues taking him in. He was tall, and he certainly _looked_ human. As far as she could see, there wasn't anything 'alien' about him. His broad shoulders were draped in leather that crinkled lightly every time he moved, and he had pale skin and a very human mole on his left cheekbone.

Obviously it was a dream – only she could dream up such a totally _mundane_ type of alien.

“So realistic...” she mumbled to herself, reaching out with one hand to press against his chest, pushing him away slightly, causing him to rock back on his heels, humouring the girl briefly before he balanced back to his previous position.

“'Cause I am,” he murmured back, accent thick as he sounded ever so slightly indignant, as though offended at the mere suggestion of him not actually existing. She stared at him, and he looked up from his tablet to frown at her. “I _am_ real,” he insisted, catching sight of her disbelieving expression.

“That's _exactly_ what a hallucination would say,” she argued back with an impish sort of grin, finding the easy banter comforting. The Doctor hummed noncommittally, not wanting to indulge her suggestion. “Am I passing the tests?” she asked curiously, legs swinging back and forth in the space between the raised bed and the floor.

“They're not really 'pass or fail' kind of tests,” he murmured back, tapping away at the device he was holding. “Hold still,” he said again, putting the tablet off to the side and reaching for her head. She flinched away out of instinct, but he grasped her face in his hands, her hesitancy making him impatient. His calloused fingertips pressed against her temples, and all of a sudden she felt a presence inside her head that most definitely _hadn't_ been there before.

Oh God – was he _mentally probing_ her?

“What're you doing?” she squeaked, unable to help closing her eyes against the sensation. It felt like something was crawling into her head, the sensation unlike anything she'd ever experienced before.

“Shh,” he hushed her irritably, and she felt compelled to comply. The presence moved from simply digging at her brain to actually entering her memories.

With a gasp Hartley was thrown into scenes from her childhood. Her mother was scowling at her, a muddy dress in her hand, but then in the next heartbeat her dad was pouring honey into her tea and handing it off to her with a cheeky grin. Her childhood friend, Michael, was dressed up like Batman for Halloween, while she was in a Wonder Woman outfit, trying to hook her lasso around him to force him to tell the truth about stealing her sweets.

“Nothing interesting about you at all,” the Doctor was murmuring back in the present, and with a start Hartley wrenched herself backwards, severing the connection between them.

“That felt unnecessarily rude,” she muttered, but he didn't seem to care. He scowled at her in irritation, but she didn't care, leaning back and frowning at him. “So, you're psychic, then?” she asked, and he scoffed like she'd just asked the most stupid question in the history of mankind.

“I have telepathic abilities,” he corrected her sharply.

“Cool,” she nodded, figuring that, everything else was already so damn crazy, why not add 'telepathic abilities' to the ever-growing list? “What were you looking for, anyway?” she asked, watching as he reached for his tablet and began to type something onto it like a scientist writing down his findings after a complex experiment, saying nothing in reply to her question.

Hartley sighed heavily, rolling her neck. She'd been awake since six o'clock that morning, and she desperately wanted to get to sleep – that is, if she wasn't already.

The pad was put down again, and this time the Time Lord picked up a shining silver device shaped in a long cylinder.

“What's that?” she asked curiously, leaning over to get a better look.

“Not important,” he said casually before slamming the end of it into her arm. Hartley let out a shocked, pained shout as the device seemed to have a needle attached, stabbing into her arm with a painful sting.

“Not important?” she demanded shrilly as he yanked it from her arm, and she slapped a hand over the puncture wound with a grimace.

“Just collecting a blood sample,” he told her cheerfully, and she glared at him as fiercely as she could manage. “Honestly, _humans,_ ” he added under his breath like _she_ were the mad one in this situation. Her glare intensified, but it made no difference to him, unaffected as he was.

“Anyone ever tell you that you're kind of a git?” she asked grouchily, rubbing at the minor wound. “This whole experience is beginning to lose its appeal.”

The Doctor paused, raising both eyebrows at her in consideration. He seemed to be thinking about saying something, but just as quickly he went back to what he was doing, pressing a complicated series of buttons on a machine before sticking the cylinder into the waiting hole. The apparatus whirred loudly, a piece of paper printing from a wide slit like a receipt, which the alien then yanked away, staring at the results with a critical eye.

“So, what's it telling you?”

“That you're 100% human,” he sounded both disappointed and baffled by the readings. “No sign of anything that would explain your sudden arrival.” He paused, reaching up to run a hand over his buzzed hair. “What _exactly_ were you doing before you arrived here?”

“Nothing worth mentioning,” she shrugged. The Doctor shot her a stern look that made it clear he thought it certainly _was_ worth mentioning. “I was eating Chinese takeout and was just about to return a call from my mum,” she finished lamely, feeling ill at the thought of returning to that moment, where she would have to follow through with those plans.

“Well,” the Time Lord clapped his hands loudly, the sudden noise making her jump as it jolted her from her thoughts. “I wouldn't want you to miss such terribly exciting plans,” he said with heavy sarcasm, although she wouldn't hold that against him. He spun around, marching towards the open doorway without so much as glancing back.

Assuming she was meant to follow, Hartley leapt to her feet, rushing after him as he wound his way back to the main room, the one she'd appeared in before.

“What's your address?” he asked over his shoulder, stepping onto the grating of the ramps and hurrying around the console, beginning to flick at a seemingly random string of notches and buttons.

“You're taking me home?” she asked, feeling inexplicably hollow. This was most probably a dream and/or hallucination, so what should it matter where it ended? It was a fantastical escape from real life – but that was what her mother had always said, wasn't it? That her tendency for escapism would one day get out of hand? That she had to start living in reality with everybody else?

“Address?” the Doctor asked again. She rattled off the address of her flat in London, the one she'd only been able to afford thanks to her mediocre book sales and the help of her brilliant roommate and friend, Emma. “Which room?” he questioned further, pumping a lever several times really quickly before slamming his hand down on a glowing button.

“On the right off the living room,” she murmured back numbly, her own voice sounding strangely unfamiliar. She supposed that was the exhaustion talking.

“Date?”

Though she was bewildered by the question, she rattled that off too, twisting her hands together in front of her anxiously.

There was a screeching, groaning noise, so loud it filled her head and made her chest vibrate. The whole room shifted, shaking from beneath her, very nearly knocking her off her feet. Grasping onto the railing to try and stay upright, Hartley yelped as it shook once more before coming to a sudden stop.

“There we are!” the Doctor announced brightly. “Back to where you belong,” he grinned, the expression appearing in great contrast to how she felt inside. She didn't move, something that seemed to confuse the Doctor greatly. “Go on, then,” he prompted her with a wave towards the two doors off to the left. “Back to your regular, mundane, average life.”

Hartley didn't know what to do, but she got the feeling she wasn't welcome aboard any longer, so what choice did she really have? She said nothing as she walked towards the door, hands shoved in her pockets so they didn't hang awkwardly at her sides. She didn't want to say goodbye – besides, what was the point if it was all just a scenario she'd cooked up in her head? Hallucinations didn't require heartfelt farewells, after all.

Steeling herself, Hartley squared her shoulders and forced herself forwards, trying to prove a point to herself. The doors opened with ease, and she tripped out into her bedroom, the familiar feel of the shag carpet beneath her feet was comforting, and she sighed, turning back to look at the ship, only to see a blue box sitting in front of her, which made no sense at all.

The ship had been huge, the main room was bigger than maybe her entire flat, and then there were the hallways and other rooms inside too! Though, she supposed, how else was it meant to fit in her bedroom? It didn't move for a long moment, and she gently pressed against the doors again, slipping her head back inside the ship.

“What?” the Doctor grumbled, distracted as he pumped at a lever on the console.

“It's bigger on the inside,” she said simply, the delight on her face undeniable.

The alien within turned, and for maybe the first time there was a genuine smile on his face, making his blue eyes come alight with life. “Yes, Hartley,” he replied brightly, “she most certainly is.” Unable to help herself, she grinned back, the moment long and lingering, before she finally ducked back out from the box. The doors shut after her, and she stepped away.

POLICE PUBLIC CALL BOX, it read along the top, and she stared at it in sheer bemusement as it began to make that groaning sound again, fading before her very eyes. Hartley watched, frozen in shock, staring until it finally dematerialised completely, leaving nothing but a small indent on the carpet to prove it had ever been there at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hope you guys enjoyed. I know her entrance into the Doctor's life seems a little familiar – Donna, anyone? – I assure you, it's completely different circumstances that have her beaming aboard the TARDIS. The reasons, however, won't be revealed for quite a while yet.
> 
> As I said before, this is going to be a long, long journey...
> 
> Leave me a review and let me know your thoughts! xx


	3. Cosmically Magnetised

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hey guys, this chapter involves a few tiny Stargate references. Don't worry if you haven't seen it, but for those who have, I think you'll enjoy it!

“ _The hardest thing in this world is to live in it_.”

Buffy Summers

* * *

Life went on.

This was a lesson Hartley had learnt a long, long time ago, but never so much as over the next couple weeks.

She woke up, went to get coffee and meet her editor, then she ate, went to the park and got a few hours of writing done before it was back inside for more meetings leading up to the release of her new book, and then _finally_ she was home, having dinner and getting into bed. Life was the same as it always was, except now she had to live with the weight of the knowledge that there was life beyond Earth, and how much she _desperately_ wanted another taste of it.

On the eve of the second week's passing, Hartley was wrapped up in blankets on the couch, staring unseeingly at the television screen, watching as it flashed a plethora of colours, the shapes meaningless to her distracted brain.

The movement came to a halt, Emma having pressed pause on the film. “Are you even paying attention?” she asked with a huff, tossing a handful of popcorn at her flatmate for good measure.

Sighing, Hartley reached up to pull the pieces of food from her strawberry-blonde hair. “I'm just distracted,” she replied, her voice small as she halfheartedly tossed the pieces of popcorn back at her friend.

“But you love this movie,” Emma said in a tone of great importance, as though she needed reminding.

“As I said: I'm distracted,” she muttered, sinking down deeper into the folds of their comfortable couch. It was vague at best, but it wasn't like she could explain what it was that was distracting her. Emma would have her committed if she started talking about space travel and bigger-on-the-inside boxes. Even as a writer, her imagination had to have some limits.

“Distracted by what?” Emma pressed with unrelenting curiosity, tossing a piece of popcorn in the air and attempting to catch it on her tongue. She missed and it hit her on the nose. When Hartley didn't answer, she drew her own conclusions. “Is it a boy?” she asked hopefully. Emma always had been one for gossip.

“I'm twenty-five years old,” Hartley reminded her dryly. “ _Boy_ is hardly the correct term.”

Emma snorted like she'd made a joke. “In some cases it can be.”

Sighing, Hartley took another handful of popcorn. She chewed on it for a full minute before finally admitting that, “it _may_ be about a guy.”

Emma gasped in excitement. “Tell me everything. What's his name? How did you meet? What does he do?”

Her enthusiastic response immediately made Hartley regret saying anything. She knew she had to tell Emma _something_ , and she wanted to stick to something as close to the truth as she could manage. There _was_ a guy – the Doctor was male, after all – but it just didn't involve the sort of relationship that Emma was hoping to hear about.

“I met him a couple of weeks ago,” she said, continuing to stick to the truth as much as she could. “I don't think he likes me very much.”

Emma gave a loud, dubious scoff. “Of _course_ he likes you,” she said immediately, as though a world where a guy didn't like Hartley Daniels just wasn't possible.

Hartley sincerely doubted this to be true, but she knew better than to argue with high school debating champion Emma Longview. Instead she pursed her lips, eyes darting to the television screen where it was frozen on a sweet scene between Westley and Buttercup – who were, in her humble opinion, one of the greatest literary romances of their time.

“If you had the chance to just … run away,” Hartley began quietly, the sound of her voice gentle as she propped her temple up on her fist, gazing wistfully at the screen, “would you take it?”

“Hell yeah,” Emma answered her without so much as a beat of hesitation. Hartley glanced over and saw the conviction in her friend's eyes. She really meant it. But then, she supposed, everyone dreamt of escaping their lives in one way or another. “In a heartbeat,” she added eagerly, as though her first words hadn't been honest enough.

Hartley paused, the next words heavy on her tongue, but needing to be said all the same. Because if there had to be someone she was going to use as a soundboard, it was going to be Emma. “What if it was with an alien?” she asked, the words muted and hesitant.

This time Emma didn't immediately reply, and at the silence Hartley turned to look at her. She had one eyebrow cocked, staring at her in befuddlement. Hartley understood the question was somewhat left-field, if one didn't understand the context.

“Emma?” she prompted her, wondering if she'd somehow short-circuited her friend.

“Are we talking Ronon Dex or Todd the Wraith?” Emma finally asked, her green eyes narrowed in contemplation.

Hartley blinked in surprise. “...Why is _that_ the scale?” she finally asked, bemused by the response.

“Just answer the question, Hart.”

“Uh, Jonas Quinn,” she answered hesitantly, feeling kind of weird about doing so. She got the feeling that the Doctor wasn't someone easily compared when it came to figures in pop-culture.

Emma nodded in contemplation. “Nice,” she said with a lift of her shoulders. There was a large pause in which they both munched on their popcorn. “You're not actually going to run away with an alien, right?” Emma asked after a moment, voice coated with playful amusement. She didn't realise how close to the truth her innocent question was brushing.

Hartley hesitated for longer than she probably should have, but Emma didn't seem to notice. “No,” she finally said, the first outright lie she'd told that night.

Emma turned back to the movie, and Hartley was once again left to the sinkhole of her thoughts.

So, it was to say, that Hartley she was more delighted than anything else when she got home after a particularly long day of work to an empty house and walked into her kitchen to fetch some food, only to feel a startlingly familiar tug at her waist. With a gasp she spun around to see a bright, glittering whirlpool of light appear in the air above the microwave.

Hartley's eyes went wide, trying to understand what was happening. She knew her encounter with the alien called the Doctor the fortnight before had been anything but a hallucination, but this, this was _proof._

She weighed her options – to jump or not to jump – but she knew, ultimately, she didn't _actually_ have a choice. Fate, or what have you, seemed determined to bring she and the enigmatic Doctor together.

The fall through the vortex was just as dizzying as it had been before. Sounds flew by her ears, images she didn't understand flashing before her eyes. Her stomach rolled as she screamed, feeling like she were on the most violent, intoxicating rollercoaster known to mankind.

And then, just like last time, she was unceremoniously spat out the other end. Landing arse-first on the grating of the Doctor's spaceship, Hartley groaned, resting her head between her legs for a moment as she recovered from the brutal journey.

“Oh, s'you again,” came the Doctor's accented voice. Hartley looked up from the floor to frown at the alien, waiting for the room to stop spinning before she grasped onto the edge of the console and slowly pulled herself to her feet.

“You could sound a _little_ more pleased to see me,” she quipped as she shakily brushed imaginary dirt from her jeans.

“Why in Rassilon's name do you keep appearing in the TARDIS while she's in flight?” he questioned, but the way he spoke made her feel like he was asking himself rather than her.

“TARDIS?” she repeated, the word foreign and unfamiliar on her tongue.

“It's what she's called,” he told her distractedly, taking a brief moment to reach out and stroke the console of his ship affectionately. “Time-And-Relative-Dimension-In-Space,” he added as though it were meant to explain everything.

“...Okay.”

“But it doesn't make any sense,” he continued on without pause, reaching down to type away at his keyboard determinedly. “I was in the Wheelbarrow Cluster – over a hundred thousand lightyears from Earth! There's no possible way you could have been beamed aboard.” He stopped typing to look at her, eyes narrowed as though if he stared hard enough, the answers might miraculously appear. “It's like we're...cosmically magnetised,” he said, bemusement colouring his face, making his blue eyes seem to glow in the low light of the ship.

Hartley was quiet for a moment, chewing on his words, considering them carefully. Cosmically magnetised – it had a sort of poetic ring to it. If only she knew what it _meant_.

“Are you going to take me home now?” she asked, knowing he probably would, but also secretly hoping he wouldn't. Maybe he could take her to Mars – just for a _quick_ trip, just to see what it was like.

“I don't think it would do any good,” the alien admitted, a sour sort of frown sitting on his thin, pale lips. “No matter where I drop you off, I think you're just going to get spat back out here again sooner or later.”

Hartley was quiet a moment, digesting this information at her own pace. What did this mean for her? For her life? Was there a way to reverse it? Did she _want_ it reversed?

The Doctor whipped out his little blue device again, and its buzzing filled the room as he scanned her thoroughly, a look of concentration on his face.

“There's absolutely _nothing_ physically connecting you to the TARDIS – or to me,” he muttered, voice laced with frustration. “So then _why_ do you keep appearing?”

He seemed more intrigued by the mystery she presented than the logistics of her stay with him. “So what's the plan, exactly?” she asked, gently sitting down on the jump seat behind her, crossing one leg over the other. It was spongey underneath her, surprisingly comfortable. “I can't just stay with you forever, Doc – I have a job, a family; people will coming looking for me.”

“The TARDIS doesn't just travel in space,” the Doctor told her hurriedly, clearly wanting to move on. “It travels in time, too. I can get you back to the exact moment you left. Nobody will even know you've been gone.”

“Great,” she said again, sounding oddly winded from shock – because of _course_ the spaceship she'd been reluctantly beamed aboard could also travel in time; why stop at aliens? Surely time travel only _added_ to the fun.

“Are you going to start hyperventilating?” the Doctor asked suddenly, staring at her cautiously, like he was half expecting her to pass out on the spot. She wondered if someone else had had that reaction in the past. She wouldn't have been surprised. “Do you need a paper bag or something?” he added warily.

Swallowing around the lump of panic in her throat, Hartley told herself to keep cool. She was good in a crisis, even an extraterrestrial one. Another thought occurred to her, and she whirled around to pin the alien with an excited expression. “Can you take me to see the Beatles live in concert?” she asked him hopefully.

The Doctor looked as though he'd been stunned with a cattle prod, her abrupt mood swing almost giving the poor bloke whiplash. “Uh,” he muttered, his heavy brows pulled into a deep frown. He got ahold of himself quickly, mouth moving into an even deeper frown, and this time it was riddled with annoyance. “I'm not an intergalactic, space-time taxi service, you know,” he told her scathingly.

“But, if you wanted go back and see them, you could, right?” she pressed, edged with stubborn curiosity. Suddenly all the possibilities were spread out before her – it was a machine that could travel in _time_ and _space._ It could go, quite literally, anywhere.

“Of course I could,” the Doctor answered her sharply, as though the mere question had offended him. She got the sense he was a tad more prideful than he let on.

“Then why don't you?” she asked, a perfectly reasonable question.

“I already have, more times than you can count,” he huffed. “Who do you think taught Ringo how to keep a beat?”

Gobsmacked, Hartley could do no more than gape at the Doctor, who looked more than smug at her reaction. Made annoyed by his superior smirk, Hartley wiped her expression clear and sat up straight.

“How do I know you're _really_ an alien, and that we're _really_ in space?” she asked critically. “We could be in a weapons testing facility in Russia for all I know, and this is all just one big scam.”

The Doctor rolled his eyes, turning and marching directly for the doors. Startled, Hartley all but tripped over herself in her haste to follow him. He paused for dramatic effect, and she stared at him carefully until he smirked again, tossing open both doors with a self-satisfied grin. The gasp that left Hartley's mouth was loud and unrestrained, and she just about collapsed backwards in her shock.

Stretching out before her were millions upon billions of glittering stars. Constellations she'd never before seen were dotted for as far as she could see, and she felt like she were hovering among them, just another star in a sea of stars, twinkling peacefully in the night sky. She felt like she couldn't breathe, but not from panic, instead from the kind of awe that filled your every cell, seeping from your pores to saturate you in its brilliance.

Her legs felt shaky beneath her, and she slowly lowered herself to the floor. Peeking over the edge of the entrance, she saw nothing stretching below her for millions upon millions upon _billions_ of lightyears. Shaking but filled with wonderment, she carefully let her jean-clad legs drop over the lip of the ship until they were dangling out in the empty sea of space. She was struck suddenly with the humbling knowledge that there was no concept of up or down in space, that there was no ground to stop the progress of movements, that it just kept _going_ in every direction… She took a deep, shaky breath.

“Believe me now?” the Doctor asked from behind her, startling her, as she'd honestly forgotten he was even there.

“Okay, so it's all real,” she murmured, grasping tightly at the lip of the entrance, making sure she wasn't going to fall. “Where are we, exactly?”

“Floating in the Astone System,” he answered her gently, voice quiet and lilting with his Northern accent, the cadence of it slowly growing familiar. “See that big star over there?” he asked, and she glanced up to see him pointing at the large star to the left, much bigger than all the rest. “That's its sun.”

Exhaling shakily once more, she stared, unable to even process the intense feeling of peace that was encompassing her. “How're we breathing?” she asked softly, almost too softly to hear, but space was nothing except silence, and the Doctor heard her perfectly.

“The TARDIS creates an atmospheric bubble. She keeps us alive,” he told her evenly. Hartley nodded, because of _course_ it did. The pair sat in more silence for a long few minutes, Hartley watching the stars, and the Doctor watching her.

She had so many questions swirling around inside her head. She didn't even know where to begin; despite this, her mouth picked somewhere anyway. “What kind of alien are you?” she asked, then desperately hoped it wasn't considered to be some kind of racially insensitive question to aliens everywhere.

The Doctor didn't seem offended, however, for which she was relieved. “I'm a Time Lord,” he answered her easily, and when she looked up, he was staring out at the cosmos with a hint of wistful yearning in his baby blue eyes. “From the planet Gallifrey,” he added as though it made any difference to her.

“If you take me there, maybe they can run more tests and we can figure this whole thing out,” she suggested quickly, but the immediate stab of pain to his expression had her back-pedalling. “I mean, it's just an idea.”

The Doctor was quiet, and she stared up at him closely, taking in his sad expression and wondering what she'd said wrong. “We can't,” he finally told her, and the pain rattling in his voice was unmistakeable. “They're gone.”

There was more to the story, but she knew unbearable loss when she saw it, and wasn't about to push the guy – alien – more than necessary. “Sorry,” she apologised sincerely, although curiosity was eating her alive inside. What had happened to his people? Did that mean he was the only one left? How was it he was still standing if everyone else was gone?

“Besides, I can do all the tests I need to, right here,” he said in a merry voice that might have been believable, had she not gotten a good look at the sheer pain in his eyes just a moment before. Hartley leant her temple against the doorjamb of his ship, suddenly feeling exhaustion creep over her like a fog.

She yawned, blinking sleepily at the stars, thinking brazenly that she'd never seen anything more wondrous.

“So, what's the plan, Doc?” she asked tiredly, eyes tracing over a deep purple nebula that hung off to the right, like a watercolour painting done by the hand of God. “Gonna drop me back home and let me kill another two weeks before I'm falling headfirst down another rabbit hole leading to your TARDIS, and we start this whole thing all over again?”

There was a pregnant pause, and she knew the Doctor was contemplating his options. “Go get some sleep,” he finally said, sounding just about as resigned as she felt.

“And where do you propose I do that?”

“The TARDIS is infinite,” he responded, and she look up to see him patting the blue wood of his box fondly. “She'll lead you to a room eventually.”

“You're talking about it like it's alive,” she said wryly.

“She is.”

Hartley paused, considering this information. “Because why not?” she muttered to herself, grasping onto the handle of the doors and reluctantly hauling herself to her feet once again. “So, I go to sleep now – what do we do in the morning?” she asked thickly, running her hands down the sleeves of her blazer.

“We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, hm?” he replied, and she got the feeling the conversation was over with. Too tired to bother arguing, Hartley nodded and cast one final, awestruck look at the stars hovering around her, then she turned back into the TARDIS, letting the doors close shut on the beautiful scene before her. “Just through there,” the Doctor instructed her, pointing her through the same door they'd taken last time she'd popped up. “You'll know it when you see it,” he assured her, and she turned to ask what he meant, only to find him fully focused on his monitor, typing away without a care in the world.

  
She had a terrible feeling that it was something she was going to have to get used to.

* * *

The first thing Hartley noticed then she woke up was that her surroundings were entirely unfamiliar. She wondered whether she'd had some kind of a one-night stand – but that was something she couldn't _ever_ recall doing before, so it seemed unlikely.

She seemed to be in some kind of loft, half of the room being exposed brick, while the other half was plaster. It was sparsely furnished, with a beautifully carved wood desk by the wall, and shelves built into the wall that were all currently empty, no nicknacks of any sort in any corner of the room. It looked homey but not lived in, and to top it off there weren't any windows, the only light source coming from the warm lightbulbs hanging from the dipped ceiling.

Where was she? What had she done yesterday? All she knew was that she'd had the strangest dream...

It took her a few moments to piece together the night before, and when she finally did she gasped in shock, realising it was all real. She was on an _alien_ spaceship with an _actual alien_ , who was... _cosmically magnetised_ to her...whatever that meant, exactly.

Either she was going completely and utterly insane, or she'd begun on a journey greater than even she could have ever imagined.

A dressing gown that she hadn't noticed before was hanging by the spacious, extremely comfortable bed she was sprawled on, and she reached for it, wrapping the satin material around her form and tying the sash tightly.

Her feet were bare but the carpet seemed to be heated as she hurried across to the door, pulling it open and staring out into the open hallway. Nobody was out there, just stretching corridors of that same coral material from the console room. “Hello?” she called, not quite as loudly as she could have. “Doctor?”

There was no answer, and Hartley could only just begin to fathom that it was real, and she turned back into her room, only to stop as she caught sight of the glistening nameplate on the door.

_~Hartley~_ it read in the most beautiful script she'd ever seen, and again she couldn't help but reach out to stroke her fingers over the glossy silver plate. The TARDIS itself was beyond belief, but at the same time, it was almost like greeting a very old, very magical, friend. Though that _was_ the dilemma, wasn't it?

Was this all real, or was it simply her wild imagination running rampant?

Not quite sure how to process this information, Hartley slammed the door shut in her own face, staring at the smooth wood blankly. She knew she couldn't hide forever, she knew she only had so long before the Doctor came to find her and drag her from the room himself – probably to conduct more of his tests.

She sighed, spinning around and peering at the room again, now more alert than she had been before. There were two more doors leading out of the room, both with intricately carved plaques telling her where they led.

_Bathroom_ , one read in elegant cursive, and she hurried in, relieved when the door closed behind her and she peered at herself in the mirror. Her long strawberry-blonde hair hung from her head in disorderly tangles and she had makeup smeared under her eyes. She was still wearing her clothes from the day before, the satin robe tied over them haphazardly.

She set to work, first washing her face of makeup then running the supplied brush through her messy head of hair. Once she looked somewhat more presentable, she stepped back into the room, heading straight for the door that read, _Wardrobe_.

Dresses hung from hangers on all sides, and below them were drawers and drawers of shirts and jeans, and off to the side were more shoes than she could wear in a year. There were plenty of selections, all of which in her size. She remembered with a start that the TARDIS was sentient, and at the realisation she brought her hand to her temple as though she'd be able to touch the ship's presence in her head.

Now that she thought about it, there was a sort of distant hum in the back of her mind that she'd felt since she'd woken up. It was like music playing in the background of her brain, but instead of being annoying, it was actually rather soothing. Deciding not to worry about it, Hartley instead smiled to herself as she reached out and ran her fingers over the soft material of the clothes in her wardrobe, each piece more beautiful and carefully designed than anything she owned at home.

She jolted herself from her vain daze, grabbing securely onto a hanging aqua coloured dress and yanking it from the hanger. She fished some comfortable looking black tights from a drawer before finally grabbing a pair of sturdy but simple-looking buckled boots, knowing from all her books that there was little room in a real adventure for high heels.

She showered quickly, the scents from the luscious products in the massive shower were swimming around her head, so delicious they nearly made her dizzy. The water pressure was heavenly, and idly Hartley wondered where the TARDIS' water supply came from. She supposed since the space within it was infinite, there would be a reservoir somewhere in its depths. She dressed quickly before applying some makeup, finishing off with a pair of wine red lips until she finally deemed herself ready for an adventure.

Before she headed out the door, she spotted a black scarf hanging from the coat rack beside it. It hadn't been there before, but Hartley wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth – a saying she realised was probably going to have to become her new motto – and wrapped it around her neck before heading from the room.

Unhappy thoughts wriggled their way into her brain, ones that made her feel light-headed and unsure of reality. What if she was in a coma, stuck in some hospital somewhere with only life support machines for company? What if _that_ was the sound she was hearing in her head, instead of the wonderful, mystical TARDIS?

Hartley exhaled loudly, coming to a stop in one of the many identical hallways and resting a hand against the warm, glowing wall. What should she do? She could try to herself wake up, that was always a possibility. Or, the more selfish part of her brain chimed, she could go with it and enjoy her time with this mysterious Doctor while she could.

Because, again: why look a gift horse in the mouth?

She didn't want to spend her time melancholy and pensive, that simply wasn't a part of her personality. She'd always held a sunny disposition, and she wasn't about to let this new reality beat that out of her. She took another deep, rejuvenating breath in, filling her lungs with cool air, letting it out with a sigh.

She was in space, on the adventure of a lifetime. She was doing something millions upon millions of people on Earth could only _dream_ of doing, could only fantasise on and write about. She should be counting her lucky stars – no pun intended.

From here, things could only go up. _Right_?

“Good morning!” Hartley chirped happily as she _finally_ found her way into the control room, a skip in her step as she spied the Doctor kneeling by the console, some kind of dull silver tool in his grip. She was determined to stay positive – besides, if what the Doctor said was true, they could take as long as they wanted to figure it out, and she'd still be back home before anyone knew they were gone. She relaxed onto the jump seat against the railing, feeling settled in her plans, watching the Doctor in an excited kind of curiosity. “What're you up to?”

“Oh, you're still here,” the Time Lord murmured, sounding less than enthusiastic. He didn't even glance up at her, and somehow that was worse than a dirty look. She made a conscious decision not to let herself be brought down by it, and fixed a naturally cheery grin onto her face. “I'm tweaking the temperature gauge,” he eventually told her, most likely prompted by the patient stare she was fixing onto his back. “It's been off by a few degrees for weeks.”

“Sounds exciting,” she commented politely, and he grunted back grouchily. “What's the plan for today?” she finally asked, unable to rein in her excitement. “I've been making a mental list, but really, I'd be happy with anywhere – although I _have_ always been interested in Pompeii, as long as we avoid Volcano Day,” she joked with a grin. Her father's awful humour had rubbed off on her.

“ _I'm_ going to go about my daily business,” he told her like it were an afterthought, continuing to twist at the dials for the heat gauge. “ _You're_ just going to happen to be there, too.”

That made the whole thing sound a bit less fun, but she wasn't going to bicker with him about it. “So, what does your daily business consist of?” she asked curiously, curling her legs up underneath her. The Doctor sighed like she were the most annoying thing on the face of the earth, but she refused to let it bother her, sitting back and patiently waiting for the adventure to begin.

* * *

“Did you know that if a giraffe drank a cup of hot coffee, it would be cold by the time it reached the bottom of its throat?”

“Fascinating.”

Hartley huffed, pulling the book away from her face to narrow her eyes at the Doctor from where she hung upside down on one of the sofas supplied in the library. The Time Lord was busy scribbling something down on some scrap paper, eyes shifting between his work and the book he was reading from.

“You couldn't sound any less fascinated if you tried,” she all but whined, beginning to feel woozy from her position. She could hear her own pulse thumping in her ears, so she decided to give it a rest, popping back upright before she blacked out.

“Probably because I'm not,” he told her dryly.

She rolled her eyes, bringing a hand up to smooth down her messy, reddish hair. “Can we go somewhere today?” she asked, voice a lot meeker than she'd planned. She grimaced at the sad little sound, but thankfully the Doctor looked too distracted to bother noticing. She hated to impose, or be in any way an inconvenience, but it had been three days since she'd come aboard, and the most they'd done was float aimlessly in what the Doctor called the 'Time-Vortex'.

She wanted to experience the universe. She wanted to see stars and supernovas and black holes. She wanted to visit new planets and talk different languages and buy pointless souvenirs. She wanted to meet heroes and villains and ordinary yet _extraordinary_ people from every single corner of every single planet of every single galaxy. She wanted _everything_ this life had to offer.

But all the Doctor wanted to do was tinker with his ship and shoot her suspicious, distrusting glances from the corner of his eye.

“Well, where d'you wanna go?” he asked her shortly, and she paused, not having thought she'd get far enough to be asked that question.

“Anywhere,” she replied quickly. She just wanted to see something – _anything_!

The Doctor seemed to consider this request for a long moment before finally shaking his head negatively, crushing her more than he knew. “Nah,” he said uncaringly, shrugging off the idea like a coat he'd decided didn't look good. “I've got things to do around here.”

She wanted to yell, wanted to tell him he was being mean and cruel, keeping her locked up like a prisoner; but that just wasn't who Hartley was. She didn't yell. She didn't get angry. She accepted hits as they were thrown to her, telling herself that one day, just maybe, if she hoped and wished hard enough, it might all change.

Even though, right now, she didn't have much in the way of hope.

“Okay,” she murmured with a sad little nod, turning to leave, deciding she may as well spend some time in the rec room or pool, but something in her voice made the Doctor pause.

“Wait,” he called, and she froze on the spot, turning around slowly to look at the Time Lord in surprise. He sighed heavily, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose like something she'd done had given him a headache. “Do you wanna get something to eat?”

Hartley didn't know what to say. She tilted her head at him, patiently waiting for him to elaborate.

“Anywhere you want,” he told her, caving under pressure she wasn't even creating. He just couldn't stand seeing that sad, defeated expression spread cross her features because of him. He was already a terrible enough person without kicking a lost girl when she was down. “Do you like banana waffles?”

Hartley perked up, interest lighting up her eyes as her stomach gave a muted grumble at the words. “Yeah,” she nodded quickly, barely daring to hope. “I love banana waffles.”

He nodded, unsurprised; everyone liked banana waffles.

“I know a place,” he told her offhandedly, returning his gaze to the ball of multicoloured wires he was toying with, and Hartley watched him eagerly, chest thumping faster, hoping he was saying what she thought he was saying. “If you get ready, we could go get some,” he said casually, like it was of no great consequence to him at all, like he wasn't offering her what felt like the biggest olive branch in all of history.

She would have taken absolutely anything at this point, and latched onto the offer like a starving girl in the desert. “I'll be less than two minutes,” she assured him, hoping she didn't spook him with how eager she sounded. He may have turned to look at her, but she didn't know, because she'd already fled the control room, flying through the corridors practically at warp speed in her haste to make it to her room.

She threw on the first clothes she touched; holey jeans and a simple creamy teeshirt, ducking down to catch her reflection in her mirror, running her fingers through her hair, the mass of strawberry-blonde locks falling down her back in messy waves that she decided would have to do. She took the time to spray herself with the simple bottle of deodorant she'd found in one of her endless drawers, shoving her feet into her shoes without bothering with socks, and then rushing out the door for all she was worth, making it back to the control room in a little over two minutes.

“You're late,” he said curtly, as though he'd actually been timing her. Despite his snappy tone she smiled, realising he was standing by the doors, impatiently waiting for her to arrive. He was serious – they were really going to go out and do something together – something more than float listlessly in space bickering about giraffes that drank coffee!

“Where are we?” she asked brightly as she stepped down the ramp, coming to a stop beside him.

“We're on Callisto,” he responded, pausing to look at her.

“The second largest moon of Jupiter?” she questioned eagerly, blinking her unsettlingly blue eyes up at him owlishly.

His eyes narrowed, surprised by her knowledge. “How'd you know that?” he questioned, recovering quickly.

Hartley flushed ever so slightly pink, reaching up to adjust glasses that weren't there. She hadn't been wearing them when she'd come aboard the TARDIS, so she didn't have them now, having to do without – but old habits die hard, as they say.

“I was an astronomy nerd,” she admitted through a tiny, slightly embarrassed grin, scratching at her temple self-consciously.

“Anyway,” the Doctor said abruptly, cutting off that conversation before it could begin. He didn't want her getting any ideas about them _bonding_ or any other such ridiculous nonsense. Soon he'd find a way to get her back to her own time and figure out how to make her _stay there._ Until then he just had to put up with her and not get at all attached. Surely he could manage _that._ “Humans colonised here around the thirty-fifth century. It's the Solar System's go-to shopping destination,” he spoke like he was a tour guide, pushing open the door and letting Hartley see what was beyond.

It looked a lot like Earth, really. It was a massive shopping centre, a long hall that stretched as far as she could see, packed to the brim with shops and shoppers, people bustling around, bumping into one another every other step.

She caught sight of a lady walking by with bright green, scaly skin – like a crocodile – and once she'd noticed her, aliens were suddenly all she was able to see. A rainbow of people, some with three eyes, some with metre-long necks, some with four arms and nails that changed colours.

“Wow,” she whispered. The Doctor didn't think it was all that impressive. They were just on a shopping moon, and the aliens gathered were tame by any standards. She'd barely seen anything at all, but she still looked at everything like she were a fallen angel, experiencing every little thing for the very first time, expression splashed with childlike wonder and awe.

Hartley couldn't get over what she was looking at, what she was experiencing. She was giddy on it all, for being allowed out of the TARDIS, for being on an adventure – however small – with the Doctor. She was living out something from a book, something out of one of her _own_ books. It was the secret wish of every novelist on planet Earth, and she _living it_.

“Come on,” the Time Lord tutted impatiently, stepping forwards, beginning to lead her through the thick crowd. “We've got some banana waffles to find.”

She wanted to stop and explore each and every store they passed, but she was too scared to ask the Doctor for permission, so she kept her mouth shut, hoping that one day, when he was more used to her being around, he'd bring her back to enjoy herself.

An unpleasant voice in the back of her head sharply reminded her that he probably wouldn't get a chance to grow used to her – she'd be gone and out of his life before then; she wouldn't be his problem anymore. The thought made her sad.

He stopped abruptly beside a large, two-storey cafe, opening the door and impatiently waving her inside. She pushed her disheartening thoughts aside and hurried through, smoothing her hands down her holey jeans and hoping her lack of effort wouldn't make anyone look down on them.

The Doctor led her to a table near the window, and Hartley collapsed into her seat, practically pressing her face against the glass in order to stare at the scene beyond.

There was a large expanse of water, a hot spring of some kind. She could see the steam rising off it in swirling, puffy clouds. The water was a deep purple, rolling like the waves of the ocean, as though it had its own kind of natural current. It was a stunning sight, and she stared at it in rapture.

“We'll have two stacks of the banana waffles,” the Doctor was already ordering from behind her, but she didn't mind, too absorbed by the beautiful scenery outside. “Hartley, what do you want to drink?” he asked quickly, and Hartley pulled her focus from the water long enough to glance at the menu and order what she hoped was a lemonade.

The pink, short and spiky alien nodded, finishing writing the order with a flourish of a glowing pen before hobbling off back through the bustling café to the kitchens.

“This is amazing,” Hartley gushed, bracing her forearms on the table and leaning forwards, eyes sparkling with happiness that surprised the Doctor. All he did was bring her to a café; he glanced around the room just to be sure there wasn't anything to be _that_ excited about.

“We're just in a cafe,” he stated, in case she wasn't aware.

“On one of Jupiter's _moons_ ,” she replied in a hushed voice, ensuring the older couple sitting to their left wouldn't overhear and become suspicious. Maybe there wasn't any reason to stay under the radar – clearly interplanetary travel was commonplace in this time, but she still felt self-conscious about it, like somebody might discover how out of place she was, and demand the Doctor take her away.

She continued to grin, turning her eyes back to the natural hot spring on the other side of the glass. The Doctor found her wonderment irritating; too pure, too naïve.

“Yes, well, don't get used to it,” he said curtly, looking away from her and out the window, absently trying to find the beauty _she_ had so clearly seen, but that seemed to lay out of reach for him. “I'll have this cosmic-magnet puzzle solved soon enough, then you'll be back to your beans-on-toast life.”

Hartley deflated slightly; the thought of going back home was nice – being able to see her dad whenever she wanted, able to call up her friends for a drink if she felt the urge – yet the thought of being in this situation, having the entirety of space and time at her fingertips, without having really _experienced_ it, made her chest hurt. “As opposed to this bananas-on-waffles one,” she quipped back smoothly, a tiny smile on her lips.

The Doctor grunted back, reaching forwards to pick up his napkin, idly beginning to fold it this way and that. Hartley watched him fiddle for a long few moments, taking in the tense way he was holding his shoulders and the unhappy scowl that sat on his lips.

She wondered what had happened to him to make him so bitter, and whether it had anything to do with what had happened to his planet and his people.

“Are you okay, Doc?” she finally asked, contemplating reaching out to touch his hands, only to decide against it, not wanting to face the humiliation of being shrugged off.

“Why wouldn't I be?” he asked, eyes focused on his task, whatever that may have been.

She very seriously considered the question, and her answer. What it came down to was, she was sick of sitting by and reading and wasting time doing nothing, when she _could_ have been talking with this wonderful alien who sat at the very edge of the universe, watching it all happen before him like a never-ending performance he had all-access tickets to.

“I guess I just see this look in your eyes sometimes, when you think I'm not looking,” she told him honestly, and he tensed like he were preparing for a physical blow. What had happened to him? “It's like something's haunting you, like there's a ghost hanging over your bed at night, keeping you awake.” The Doctor was scowling now. “I know loss when I see it,” she told him gently.

“You know _nothing_ about loss,” he spat wrathfully, like her words disgusted him. Hurt, Hartley flinched back, eyes dropping to her hands, tangled together over her napkin. She opened her mouth to apologise, although for what she wasn't sure, but just then a waitress appeared beside them, a different one from before. This girl was standing tall in dangerously high stilettos, pale pink skin and soft orange hair, a tray full of waffles and lemonade in her hand.

Hartley shot her a thankful smile which she returned, while the Doctor remained stoic and glaring. The waitress disappeared back into the kitchen, and Hartley made sure none of the surrounding tables were eavesdropping before she picked up her silver utensils and began to speak again.

“I have a question,” she began softly, deciding it would be wiser to change the subject. She kept her blue gaze on her full plate as she slowly began to cut her waffles into bitesized pieces, more for something to do with her hands than anything else. The Doctor was silent, and she took this as her cue to continue. “How come everyone here speaks English?”

From her peripheral vision she watched the Time Lord slowly relax his tense muscles, beginning to eat his own food, lathering his waffles with some kind of green syrup. “Nobody's speaking English,” he finally answered her, taking a sip of his own lemonade. “It's the TARDIS. She has what's called a Translation Circuit.” Hartley's confused stare prompted him onwards. “It's a telepathic field, gets into your brain, instantaneously translates almost every single language in the universe.”

“Almost?” she asked lightly.

“There are a few exceptions,” he allowed with a frown, stuffing his mouth full of banana. Hartley nodded like this made perfect sense, slowly chewing on her food as she considered what this meant.

“So, the TARDIS is in my head?” she asked once she'd finished her mouthful, and he nodded his head absently, pouring more of the green stuff onto his waffles. “Is that why I can hear her?”

The Doctor's hands froze in the air, bottle of sauce hovering over his plate. “What do you mean?” he asked seriously, slowly putting down the syrup and folding his hands in front of him, leaning forwards to stare at her seriously. “You can _hear_ the TARDIS?”

“Yeah...” she said carefully, confused by the reaction. “In the back of my head, like...like a song, kind of.” The Doctor was gazing at her through narrowed eyes. “Is that not normal?” she asked, growing concerned.

“No,” he answered her stoically. “No, it isn't.”

Swallowing rather loudly, Hartley put down her knife and fork, her delicate brow furrowed in concern. “Is it bad?” she pressed cautiously, not so sure she wanted to know the answer. Was there something wrong with her? Was she some kind of freak by space-travel standards?

Abruptly the seriousness dropped from the Doctor's face, and he was suddenly grinning, tucking back into his meal with gusto. “Nah,” he said with a casual shrug, like it didn't matter. “Probably nothing. I'll run some tests when we get back. Who knows, maybe she's just fond of you.”

For some reason this didn't calm her racing heart, and she watched him warily as he continued to eat. It was _too_ perfect, so perfect the reaction could only be false. There wasn't anything she could do, however, and was resigned to eating her meal in silence, trying not to focus on the unknown and instead watching the array of multicoloured aliens wandering in and out of the space cafe, simply going about their day to day lives.

It was absolutely mind-boggling to Hartley that this was these people's _normal._ They were in no way impressed by the astounding world around them. To them it was any other day on Callisto, Jupiter's moon, getting some last-minute shopping in before work the next day.

Hartley was a small woman of only a little over five foot, and as such had a small stomach. She got through roughly half of her large stack, wiping her mouth and sipping quietly on her lemonade that tasted weirdly of ginger, until finally she couldn't take the silence anymore and simply _had_ to make conversation.

“So, how does the TARDIS work, exactly?” she asked, stabbing at her leftover food with the prongs of her fork. “How does it travel in time?”

“By way of a concept far too complicated for your tiny little ape brain to understand,” he told her curtly, and she frowned at him for the thinly-veiled insult, the look scolding and unimpressed by his callous dismissal.

“Try me,” she insisted stubbornly.

The Time Lord sighed and said, “maybe later,” in a voice much like that of an adult trying to placate a child. She didn't appreciate it, but wasn't in the mood for an argument.

“Thanks for bringing me here,” she told him instead, and he looked up from his meal with raised eyebrows, as though doubting her sincerity. “Really, it's absolutely amazing.”

Again he surveyed the room with a critical eye, but still failed to see the wonder she so apparently did. “Don't mention it,” he said rather than press for an explanation, lifting a hand and waving the waitress over. He pulled a little stick from his pocket, waving it over the pad she held out until it beeped, then stood to his feet. “Come on, then,” he added, gesturing for her to join him. “Let's get going.”

She climbed to her feet, following the Doctor on the journey back to the TARDIS. Although she'd have loved to stay and explore, she got the feeling the Doctor had had enough social interaction for one day, and didn't complain as he weaved his way back through the crowd to where they'd parked.

Next thing she knew the Doctor was pushing open the TARDIS door, stepping inside and holding it open for her impatiently. The doors clicked shut behind them, abruptly cutting off the noise from the shopping centre, and she wandered up towards the console where the Doctor was fiddling with that glowing blue stick again, its buzzing filling the room.

“Can I ask another question?” she asked gingerly, and the alien sighed as he started up the engine, dematerialising with that familiar wheezing.

“Are you ever gonna stop with the questions?” he groaned, the sound hidden by the noise of the time machine around them.

“What is that thing?” she asked rather than acknowledge the complaint.

“Sonic screwdriver,” he answered her briskly, waving it in the air for her to see.

“And what does it do?”

“It's a _screwdriver_ ,” he said slowly, as though she were the biggest idiot in the universe, which was most unappreciated, “but _sonic._ ”

“Right,” she nodded, frowning but not wanting to properly admit that she was still confused.

The Doctor sighed, loud and frustrated, then tossed the small instrument at her. Yelping in surprise, she caught it with her fingertips, holding it in a tight grip. The last thing she needed was to break the thing, then he'd never trust her with anything ever again.

“There's not a whole lot it _can't_ do,” he told her, sounding slightly less irritated than before. “Unlock doors, scan for molecular structures and DNA samples. It can fry circuitry, hack computers, detonate objects. It possesses minor healing capabilities and can create a sonic blast powerful enough to make an enemy's ears bleed.”

Hartley stared at him, slowly processing the onslaught of information.

“Doesn't work on deadlock seals or objects made of wood – which I really should get around to fixing,” he added offhandedly, watching as Hartley turned the device over in her hands, running her fingers along the cool metal, feeling its weight in her palm and wondering if you had to be a Time Lord for it to work.

“Why doesn't it work on wood?” she asked innocently.

“It's difficult to explain...to you, anyway.” She wanted to be offended, but she was too tired to bother. Her eyes drooped closed, and she sank further into the seat, propping her head up in her hand. “No, no, no,” the Doctor chastised her, snapping his fingers in her face in an effort to rouse her as he snatched back his sonic screwdriver before she could drop it. “No sleeping in the control room. Go on, off to bed.”

Hartley didn't feel like walking all the way back to her room, but the last thing she wanted was to irritate the Doctor, so she forced her heavy lids open and slowly but surely climbed to her feet. “Can we do something fun when I wake up?” she asked through a yawn.

“We'll see,” he replied shortly, but that was enough for her. She shot him a dopey smile before shuffling from the control room and back through the halls, intent on burrowing into her luxurious bed and not resurfacing until she was well and truly rested.

* * *

The next day dawned (figuratively speaking – there didn't seem to be any true sense of time on board the TARDIS – there weren't even any clocks) and Hartley felt better as she slowly awoke. She spent a long few minutes blinking up at the ceiling. She tried not to think about home, about Earth, but it was impossible not to. She wondered how long it would take the Doctor to figure out this strange connection they had. Would it be days? Weeks? _Months_?

She might be able to return to he exact moment she'd left, but would she return the same person? Who knew how time and space might change her? Would she even be able to continue on with her regular, boring old life after experiencing all of _this_?

Meetings with her editor, dinners of day-old Chinese food, and reruns of old sitcoms on television _paled_ in comparison to shopping malls on moons, bigger on the inside boxes and aliens with hot-pink skin.

Hartley hefted herself upright with a reluctant sigh. Part of her wanted to stay curled up under her covers, safe from the harsh universe's cruel touch, but that just wasn't her. She needed to keep moving, too afraid that if she stopped for even a moment, she might never start up again.

So she did the only thing she thought she could do. She pasted a smile onto her face, looking at her path ahead with optimism rather than negativity.

Yes, this brave new world was big and scary and impossible, but it also seemed wonderful and exciting and beyond fascinating. What kind of writer would she be if she didn't at least attempt to satisfy the curiosity bubbling in her bones? She could treat it like hands-on research, a chance to find inspiration for her work.

She got ready, showering and dressing comfortably for the day ahead. Finally she appeared in the control room with a smile, spying the Doctor sitting on the ground by the jump seat, tinkering with what looked like a high-tech frisbee.

“Where to today, Doc?” she asked in lieu of a proper greeting, leaning up against the railing and pulling the sleeves of her woolly jumper down over her hands.

The Time Lord was still grumpy, not in the mood for adventures, so he did no more than grunt back at her instead of formulating a proper response. Hartley had the urge to say something wry, something that might snap him out of the funk he was in, maybe even get him to smile. The man sitting below her now was anything but the stuff of legend, an ill-tempered look on his face as he struggled to get a small hatch open on his device.

“Come on,” she prompted him, feeling like she was bursting with energy. With a bottomless list of things to see and do, how could he possibly want to remain still? “Where's your sense of adventure?” she asked coyly. He didn't answer, not even bothering to glance up from his task. Her grin faded, replaced by an undercurrent of concern. “What's wrong?” she asked him quietly.

“Why would something be wrong?” he countered, fishing the sonic from his pocket and aiming it at the frisbee gadget. A buzzing filled the room until the hatch he was working on popped open with a low click.

“Because you're not yourself right now,” she said, the words plain and factual.

“And exactly how would _you_ know _that_?” he challenged, looking away from his work to fix her with that suspicious stare she was beginning to grow accustomed to seeing.

He had a point, even she had to admit. She'd only known him a few short weeks, and that whole time he'd been something of a grumpy jerk towards her. She couldn't say how, or why, but somehow she _knew_ that that just wasn't who he really was. She knew there was more to him – she'd caught short glimpses of it during her stay on the ship, gotten brief glances at what lay beneath that tough exterior of his.

She wanted to learn what made the Doctor tick, she wanted to become his _friend._ And, in all honesty, it was beginning to get rather lonely aboard the TARDIS with nobody but a grumpy, crotchety, antisocial old Time Lord for company.

She looked up from the Doctor's hunched form, eyes scanning the room as she searched for something to say, something to do, to break the Doctor out of his funk. An idea came to her, and something of a wicked grin spread across her lips. The Time Lord was distracted again, mumbling something to himself about memory circuits as he used a wrench-like tool to dig around inside the device he was tinkering with.

She stepped over him and his work with intentional callousness. “Oi!” he cried as she very nearly stepped on the pile of tools sitting beside him.

“If you won't take me somewhere,” she began casually, striding up to the console with a righteous, impish confidence, “then I'll just have to take myself.”

She reached out and grasped the closest important looking lever, pushing with all her might so it was facing the opposite direction.

“Oi!” he said again, scrambling to his feet with all the grace of a baby goat trying to walk for the first time. “What do you think you're doing?!”

“That's just the thing!” she called back cheerfully, scurrying out of his reach and beginning to slam her hands down on every button she could reach, intent on simply causing as much mayhem as humanly possible. “I honestly haven't a clue!”

She danced out of the way of the Doctor as he moved to grab her, keeping just out of reach as she twisted every knob and flicked every switch in sight.

“Wonder what this one does?” she mused playfully, leaning to the top of the console and violently pushing down on a large red button. A groaning sound filled the control room, but not the usual one that the ship made. This one was far less comforting.

“Okay, okay!” the Doctor finally caught up to her, wrapping one of his large hands around both of her wrists, effectively stopping her from doing any further damage. “Just _stop,_ before you make her sick.”

He let her go once he was sure she was going to stop mucking about, reaching over to begin correcting whatever damage she'd done.

_Sorry_ , Hartley thought to the TARDIS, glancing up in the direction of the ceiling apologetically. There was no response, but she hadn't expected one in the first place.

She turned to look up at the Doctor. He was stood beside her, blue eyes intently focused on what he was doing. The frustration from before was gone, replaced by a deep kind of hollow sadness that made Hartley's chest ache.

“You shouldn't punish yourself like this,” she murmured without meaning to. Then it was out there, and there was no use in pretending it hadn't been said. The Doctor's hands paused over the keyboard, freezing for one drawn out moment before he went back to what he was doing like she hadn't spoken at all. “Sulking away in your ship, brooding and being miserable, you're not doing yourself any favours. You're not doing the _universe_ any favours.”

She may not have known what exactly was making him act this way, but she knew that what she was saying was true. It was made obvious by the sight of his haunted blue eyes glinting with pain.

“Great chat, but I think we'll skip the motivational speech for today, thank you,” he said abruptly, his voice snide. But she didn't take it to heart, she knew he was only reacting out of hurt and fear. Something awful had happened to him, and now she was sure it was to do with why he was alone.

“ _The hardest thing in this world is to live in it_ , Doctor,” she told him, her soft, gentle voice the only sound filling the control room. She reached out, tentatively laying a hand on his leather-clad arm, a silent show of support. “But what you're doing right now? It's not living. It's _hiding_.”

“Maybe I need time,” he argued without looking at her, busying himself with tapping away at the keys on the console. She wasn't sure what he needed time _from_ , but she knew it had to be true, if he were saying it in that flat, tormented voice.

“Maybe,” she conceded quietly. “But right now, all you're doing is making yourself _more_ miserable.” He was silent, acting as though he hadn't even heard her speak, too prideful to react. “Besides, I think the _universe_ misses _you_ , just as much as _you_ miss the _universe_.”

“How do you know I miss it?” he challenged with fire, spinning around to glare at her suspiciously, like he was sure she was somehow seeing inside his head. She wasn't, she'd just always been startlingly good at reading people, and for all the mystery the Doctor presented, he was, at the same time, something of an open book.

She smiled calmly, squeezing his arm once before pulling away and leaning casually against the console. “Because I think we're the same, you and I,” she admitted simply, finding that the words came easy, as they always did. He looked ready to argue, so she hurried on. “I've always wanted to travel the world, more than anything else. And the fact that I couldn't, that I was stuck in my one little corner of the planet – it killed me.”

The Doctor was silent, still not looking at her, but she knew he was listening by the way his body was angled ever so slightly towards her.

“Now I have virtually the whole universe at my fingertips, and yet somehow I'm _still_ _stuck,_ ” she admitted quietly, the words a confession, a glimpse deeper into her psyche than he realised. The Time Lord was frowning at the console, still pretending to be preoccupied with the various knobs and dials. “I think you're stuck too. But you know the best way to get unstuck, Doctor?”

He said nothing, and she bravely stepped closer, gently placing her small hand over his, squeezing reassuringly. He was like a storm, she found; dark clouds with chaos brewing just out of sight, threatening to destroy everything in its path. But she wasn't going to let that happen. Some things were far too beautiful to destroy, and the Doctor was one of them.

“You just have to _start_ _running_.”

He said nothing, finally looking away from his distraction to frown down at her with narrowed, calculating eyes. She smiled back encouragingly, even as she waited for him to either yell or mumble an excuse to escape and go back to his pointless tinkering.

Nobody was more surprised than her when he did none of those things.

“Well then, Hartley Daniels,” he said bracingly, pulling his hand from hers only to cross his arms over his chest and mirror her stance against the console. She could see the storm of confusion warring behind his eyes, and all she could do was wait for it to end, wait for him to come to a decision – to _hide_ or to _run._

Then he smiled, the expression excited and eager in a way she'd yet to see, as though he wasn't in agony beneath all the bravado. But that was the secret to getting better, wasn't it? Pretending you were okay until one day, hopefully, it suddenly became true.

“All of time and space at our fingertips,” he told her enthusiastically, the smile on his face melting into something slightly more genuine, making her skin prickle with the happiness of a hundred million possibilities, “where do you want to start?”


	4. Tethered Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, just to clarify – this story will only be covering Nine-Ten's run, so seasons 1 through 4 of New Who. I will be uploading a sequel that will cover 11's run, but that's still a long ways off.
> 
> Let me know your thoughts!

**TETHERED TOGETHER**

“ _A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies..._

 _The man who never reads lives only one._ ”

George R.R. Martin

* * *

“The Library?” the Doctor asked incredulously. Hartley hid a wide smile, adjusting the sweater on her shoulders and watching as he reluctantly keyed in the coordinates. “I give you the entirety of the universe as a playground, and you choose the _Library_?”

“Don't pretend you don't love it there too,” she scolded him playfully. She liked to think she knew him well enough by now to know he was plenty at home in a library.

“Well yeah, but not for an _adventure,_ ” he complained, and though he was facing away, she could just tell he was rolling his eyes in exasperation. “How'd you even know about it, anyway?” he asked suddenly, an upsetting suspicion to his voice, as though this whole time had been one big lie, and she was actually conducting some sort of trick against him.

“Read about it in one of the pamphlets in the media room,” she explained, brushing off her downtrodden feelings and instead bouncing on the balls of her feet in excitement. Nothing ever made her feel better than a trip to the library. “A whole _planet_ full of _every_ book _ever_ written!” she gushed, ignoring his chagrin. “Do they let you hire books out?”

“If you've got a library card, yeah. Though most people just read while they're there.”

“Can I get one?” she asked eagerly. “A library card of my own?”

The Doctor rolled his eyes again, though the action was decidedly less annoyed then usual – maybe he really _was_ warming up to her. With a beautiful metallic groan, the TARDIS landed on the planet, and then the Doctor was heading for the doors, leather jacket crinkling as he moved.

“Come on, then,” he muttered as though he was above this whole thing. “Before I die of old age,” there was a hint of amusement in his words, like they were somehow an inside joke she wasn't yet privy to. Hartley burst out into the Library, and was immediately encompassed by the beautiful, familiar scent of dusty old books.

The room they'd landed in was full of people, however the noise was low, filled with the kind of humming quiet that only a library could ever achieve. Nobody so much as blinked an eye at the sudden appearance of the TARDIS in the room. Hartley supposed that, on a planet made entirely of books in a very distant future, a materialising blue police box was probably bordering on old hat.

“Alright, what'd you wanna look at first?” the Doctor stepped up beside her, already appearing to be bored by the whole expedition. She vaguely wondered exactly how many times he'd been here before.

“Fiction,” she told him with all of her usual enthusiasm, keeping her voice low out of courtesy to the readers surrounding her. He sighed like she were asking him something terribly tiresome, but still licked his finger and held it up to the air before nodding to himself like a scientist having an important theory confirmed.

“The border for the fiction section is only a short ride away,” he told her, already setting off into the towering stacks of books. Scurrying after him, Hartley darted around the people milling about, slipping past them with as much care as she could manage, struggling to match the Doctor's long, sure strides.

He led her down a long, seemingly endless hall. It felt like they walked miles, Hartley's legs beginning to ache.

“I thought you said it was only a short ride?” she asked once she finally couldn't keep her mouth shut any longer, her breath coming out in pants. She didn't want to sound like she was complaining, even though that was exactly what it was, and they both knew it.

“ _Ride_ ,” he repeated with exaggerated slowness. “I said it was a short _ride_. I didn't say anything about how long it would take to _get_ to the ride.”

“I see you're a fan of technicalities,” she puffed, wincing at the stitch beginning to stab at her gut.

The Doctor didn't answer, but thankfully not a full sixty seconds had passed before he abruptly turned left, pushing open a door and waving her impatiently through. Before her was a craft of some kind, large and silver, seeming to hover in the air, emitting the soft, humming sound of a futuristic engine.

“A shuttle,” the Doctor explained lazily, already walking towards it. “Thousands of them all over the planet. They're automated, on a rotation – like a bus service.”

“Are they free?” she asked curiously.

The Doctor shot her a look of utter exasperation. “It's a library,” he reminded her dryly. “Everything's free.”

“What about late fees?”

His exasperation seemed to only grow, so she wisely sealed her lips shut tight as she followed him onto the shuttle. It was small but roomy inside, the layout reminding her of one of the capsules on the London Eye. The only difference was instead of the walls being made of glass, it was the floor.

She realised as she stepped onto the craft that the entire surface beneath her feet was see-through. She gasped, the sound echoing across the shuttle. The other three people inside turned to look at her with frowns, as though wondering why she'd made such a sound. Hartley didn't care, she just stared down at the view below, feeling her stomach swoop as she realised how very high up they were.

“We have to be at least a thousand metres high right now,” she hissed at the Doctor, squinting as she tried to make out the tiny, tiny little shapes on the ground so very far below.

“About one thousand, two hundred and fifty three, to be exact,” he said primly, adjusting his leather jacket then leaning against the wall, unaffected by the thin sheet of glass separating them and what would be one hell of a fall.

She only continued to stare, stifling another gasp when the craft left the platform it was hovering near, beginning to swoop through the sky with a surprising amount of grace.

“Not so good with flying?” asked the Doctor after a long minute of her gaping at the planet below her in shock. There was a nonchalance to his voice, like he knew the polite thing to do was make conversation, and only did so out of obligation.

“Wouldn't know,” she replied, her voice distracted. “Never been on a plane before.”

“That so?”

“Never even been out of London,” she admitted with a shrug, mind drifting to the sheer irony of a homebody such as herself running away with an alien on a mission to explore the entire universe, one planet at a time.

The Doctor fell quiet, but Hartley didn't mind, gripping onto the railing and continuing to stare down through the glass floor, eyes wide with wonderment. She thought she rather liked flying. She enjoyed the swoop of her stomach and the rush of adrenaline it brought.

The ride ended too soon for Hartley's liking, the shuttle pulling onto another platform. The door opened with a suctioning sound once the craft had stopped, and the others onboard began to depart, taking their things and stepping onto the platform like it were any everyday train station.

The Doctor waved her forwards impatiently, and she hurried to follow him off. This building looked almost identical to the one they'd just left, but she'd been in enough libraries to know not to judge them by their interior design.

“Go on, then,” said the Doctor as he led them into a large room off the main hall, “have at it.”

He swept his arms at the towering shelves filled with hard cover editions of hundreds of thousands of books. Hartley didn't so much as hesitate, speeding up and darting into the forest of stacks climbing up towards the rounded, cathedral style ceiling, holding all the same majesty as the oaks and firs which made up the nature reserve on the edge of the city.

Her father used to take her there sometimes, whenever she claimed to be suffering writers block. He always said that all she needed was some fresh air and a change of scenery; he was usually right.

But this was even better than the forest, better than anything nature could provide. She was in a library, so as far as she was concerned, she was home. She moved through the stacks like an otter in the water, her eyes narrowed as she eagerly read the spines of the thousands of books she'd never even heard of.

“What happens if I pick something that is from my future?” she asked, a genuine query as her hand hovered over a thick tome with expensive gold binding. The Doctor was trailing behind her, looking bored with his surroundings, but otherwise not complaining, for which she was grateful.

“Tell me what you want to read, and I'll tell you whether or not you can see it,” he answered her evenly. She heard the sound of plastic crinkling and turned to raise an eyebrow at the Time Lord, watching as he stuck a lollypop into his mouth and stuffed the wrapper into his pocket. She didn't agree with eating in a library, but she wasn't about to say anything.

“Can I go find the final Harry Potter book?” she asked eagerly.

“What year are you from?” he countered instantly.

“2005.”

“Then no.”

She pouted but otherwise didn't argue, knowing it wouldn't have been well received. Instead she turned back to the rows upon rows of endless, wonderful novels, breathing in the scent of dusty parchment that she desperately wished she could bottle and use as a perfume.

“Why books?” the Doctor asked abruptly after a long few minutes of easy silence. The sound of his voice took her attention from the perusal of books stacked from floor to ceiling before her.

“Hm?” she hummed distractedly, busy running her fingertips over the colourful spines of the books before her, marvelling over the beautiful array of intricate binding.

“I gave you all of time and space, and you chose _books_ ,” he elaborated, and she glanced back to see a look of complete and utter bemusement spread across his lined features. “And all you ever want to do on the TARDIS is read. I've got millions of films to choose from, an arcade and a swimming pool, but all you ever do is skulk around in my library.” She didn't appreciate the use of the word 'skulk', but she put that aside for the moment, focusing on his confusion. He was acting as though this was the most mysterious thing about her, when in reality, it was actually rather simple.

“I'm a writer,” she told him with a shrug, going back to tracing over the calligraphed writing on the books before her. She recognised none of them, and she knew she'd have been content to stay in that library for the rest of her days, reading book after book, her appetite for words never satiated.

“I know,” he said shortly, and she took the time to frown back at him in confusion. She hadn't told him that yet, how could he possibly know? “I looked you up,” he explained, and she blinked.

“On what database?” she exclaimed, struggling to keep her voice low in the surprise. A tall woman with long, platinum blonde hair at the end of the aisle turned to shoot her a scolding look.

The Doctor, unperturbed, gave a shrug and easily admitted, “all of them.”

Swallowing around the ball of irritation in her throat, Hartley turned back to the books without really seeing any of them. “And what did you find out?” she asked, voice carefully measured.

“That you're a writer. Your mum's name is Penelope, she's a publisher. Your dad's name is Jacob, and he's a retired firefighter. Your sister is Lucy Richards – different fathers – and you live in central London with a friend. You have two unpaid parking tickets and one time when you were twelve you got caught shoplifting a copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ from a bookstore.”

Hartley nodded along, listening to the dirt he'd dug up on her with a calm that surprised her. When he was done, she cleared her throat, considering her response carefully. “And why didn't you just ask me?” she asked him, tone miraculously lacking any hint of accusation. “I have nothing to hide, I would have told you everything.”

“Even the shoplifting?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“Even the shoplifting.”

The Doctor was quiet, and she slipped a book from the shelf and cracked it open, trailing her fingers over the crisp paper within, halfheartedly reading the blurb inside the cover. “You didn't answer my question,” he said and she looked up to frown at him. “Why books?”

“I already told you; I'm a writer.”

“That's not an answer,” he argued.

“Yes, it is,” she insisted, but he only continued to frown.

“Why would you stow away with an alien in a box only to go to _another_ planet full of the very thing you already do for a living?” he demanded in discontent, his crisp Northern accent even more pronounced than usual. Hartley got the feeling he was always vexed by what he couldn't understand.

“First of all, I didn't _stow away_ anywhere,” she corrected him primly, shutting the book with a snap and gently sliding it back into its place, “you _kidnapped_ me.”

“I did not-”

“ _But––_ ” she interrupted his defence, and when he fell silent like a trained dog, she continued with an echo of a smile, “––I suppose the answer is a little bit more complex than that.” The Doctor watched her as she strolled along the shelves, fingers trailing over the slightly dusty wood. He followed her, probably having been to the Library a thousand times before, and therefore losing interest quickly. “My mum's a publisher, as you already know. She raised me on books. We didn't have a TV in my house, just walls and walls of books.”

“I love reading as much as the next Time Lord,” the Doctor interjected. “But don't you ever get _sick_ of it?”

“No,” she answered honestly, the smile on her lips becoming more concrete. “Before I learnt to read myself, my dad would wrap me up under a blanket fort and he'd read to me. Literally book after book, and I'd always keep asking for more. He was a champ, though, and never complained, just read and read until his voice went hoarse.”

“So, it's a sentimental thing,” the Doctor assumed with a nod.

“Yes, and no,” she replied, stopping by a series of purple books and stroking the covers thoughtfully. “I live and _breathe_ literature, I always have. Maybe it was my mother's influence, or my dad's dedication, but at the end of the day, it's also just _me_. It's as much a part of my identity as my blue eyes or my strawberry-blonde hair.”

“So...books are your home,” he summarised with a satisfied nod to himself, like he'd finally solved the puzzle that had been vexing him. She found that a nice way to put it.

“You could say so, yeah,” she agreed with an easy smile. “Maybe it's also a bit of an attempt at immortality,” she added thoughtfully.

“Immortality?” he echoed, that look of frustration making a reappearance.

“ _A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies... The man who never reads lives only one._ ”

“George R.R. Martin?” he asked, and she was pleasantly surprised he'd been right.

“It's apt, wouldn't you say?”

The Doctor said nothing for a few moments, pondering her answer. “You want immortality?” he finally asked, a disapproval in his voice that didn't go unnoticed.

“Not necessarily,” she replied, calm and even, meeting his icy blue eyes in the low lighting of the aisle. “I just don't want to die.”

“It's the same thing.”

Hartley's lips quirked upwards in the tiniest hint of a smile. “Is it?” He didn't seem to understand. “One is born from a lust for power,” she explained patiently. “The other from fear.”

“That doesn't make it any better though, does it?” he snapped, strangely defensive.

She just barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes. “I'm not saying my mission in life is to become immortal,” she said with a low, unladylike snort that made a passing man in a fancy suit scowl at her. “It was a metaphor that artists use sometimes, as a reason for why they create or enjoy art,” she paused, taking the time to shoot the Doctor a narrow-eyed look of contemplation. “Do you always take things so literally?”

He appeared less than pleased with the playful jab.

“If we're talking about literal immortality...” she added thoughtfully, turning back to the books, once more running the tips of her fingers over the spines. Some were covered in velvet, a subtle detail that made her smile with aesthetically-driven satisfaction. “It's the last thing I want.”

“Is that so?” he asked, picking out a book at random and cracking it open, running his fingers down the page for lack of anything better to do with them.

“Of course. While the concept of dying might not sound too pretty, the idea of outliving everyone I love sounds far, far worse,” she muttered thoughtlessly, already busy looking for the perfect book to sit down and read – assuming the Doctor would allow her the time.

She suddenly realised he was suspiciously silent from his place behind her, but she didn't turn to look. She'd come to know his silences either meant he was sulking or thinking, and she knew by now to let him work through it himself.

“I'm 900 years old,” he eventually said, his voice even and unemotional, purely matter-of-fact. It was as if the information didn't matter, as if it were nothing. But Hartley knew better, and slowly she turned, grip on the books she'd been browsing uncomfortably tight. She had to consciously keep her jaw from dropping open to gape at him in shock.

He was staring – glaring – down at the book in his grasp, looking without really seeing, just somewhere to keep his eyes other than on her.

“I completely just put my foot in my mouth, didn't I?” she asked with a sinking horror. There she was, prattling on about how awful immortality must have been while the Doctor was standing right beside her, he himself being _nine centuries_ old. “I really did. My foot is so far down my throat, I think I'm choking on it,” she muttered to herself, struggling to fight the urge to slap herself in the face with one of the thick tomes she held.

But the Doctor surprised her by chuckling, the sound stunning her into silence. He smiled at her, no hint of bitterness or sarcasm in sight, just pure amusement. “You're rather funny for an ape,” he told her blithely.

“Oi,” she cried, blindly shoving one of the books back onto the shelf so she had a free hand to jab at his chest. “Who're you calling an ape?”

He chuckled again, utterly at ease as he slid the book his was holding onto the shelf behind him. “That's what you are,” he told her matter-of-factly.

She wanted to be offended, but it was difficult when he was smiling at her genuinely for the first time since they'd been unceremoniously thrown together all those weeks ago. “You're immortal, then,” she said as casually as she could manage, peeking down at the book in her hand.

_The Adventures of Walter Piggybaton, Edna Vicehard, and Piccolie Strangia._

It sounded interesting but it was about as thick as her torso, and she doubted the Doctor would wait long enough for her to read the whole thing.

“Not immortal,” he replied as she slid it back into place, continuing her stroll through the long, unending aisle. “Just got a longer lifespan, is all.”

“How long?” she enquired curiously.

He didn't answer, and she found herself disappointed. She shouldn't have been surprised, really. He wasn't the most forthcoming when it came to trivia about himself or his people and planet. She wasn't sure why she'd expected that to change. Sometimes she felt like with every step forward in their just-barely-a-friendship, they only took two massive ones back.

“Found something to hire yet?” he asked, wandering over to a large collection of blue books and eyeing them curiously.

“I can hire something?”

“I'm not the Gestapo, Hartley,” he told her dryly, and she got the impression she'd done something to annoy him again. “Of course you can hire something out.”

She nodded but decided saying thank you would make it worse, so she returned to her search for a book, eager to find something worth reading in this brave new world. She saw a promising collection of novels in the next aisle, so told the Doctor she'd find him soon. He nodded back, absorbed in some thick blue book titled, _A Man of Little Else_.

“Okay,” she said once she'd finally come up for air, having been up to her elbows in dusty books – exactly where she most belonged. The Doctor started, apparently having lost track of time in his own reading material. “Got something,” she told him, holding up the small, hard-cover novel with the words, _Lost Girl and the Time Machine_ written on the front in pretty golden script.

The Doctor cocked a single eyebrow, looking wholly unimpressed. “Really?” he asked dryly, icy eyes flickering between her and her chosen novel.

“I could classify it as research,” she chirped, unbothered by his malevolence.

He gave a deep sigh, but shut his book with a snap, turning back the way they'd initially come. She hurried after him, eager to dive into her new book, but knowing from experience that walking and reading didn't mix well.

“How long do I get to borrow it for?” she asked conversationally, and though her voice was calm and collected, her excitement was given away by the way she bounced as they walked, like a child on their way to get ice cream.

“A month, typically,” he replied over his shoulder, doing his best to ignore her enthusiasm. “Most people don't bother though, because it takes them about that long to get to and from here and wherever they're staying.”

The lady at the counter was tall and stern-looking, with horn-rimmed glasses perched low on her nose and an unfriendly scowl sitting on her lips. “Library card?” she asked them around her large, horse-like teeth.

“New member,” the Doctor replied cheerfully, grinning at her like she'd just complimented his jacket. “Signing her up today.”

“Name?” she droned, utterly uninterested.

Hartley turned to the Doctor, expression conflicted. Was it safe to tell people her name? What if this librarian looked her up on some kind of database and found out she was really from 2005? Would they get in trouble? Was it breaking some kind of space rule for her to be there?

But the Doctor only nodded his head for her to continue, looking unconcerned, so Hartley told her in a clear voice that shook just the tiniest bit, “Hartley Daniels.”

There was a pause filled with a sharp clacking of a keyboard. “Address?” the librarian asked in the same, droning voice. Hartley got the feeling she'd have rathered be anywhere other than there, like she had better things to be doing in that moment.

She paused again, glancing to the Doctor, a question in her eyes. He nodded his head again, and she figured telling the truth would just have to do – she'd never been much of a liar anyhow. “42 Prescott Street, Westminster, London,” she said as confidently as she could.

The mean looking librarian lady didn't so much as bat an eyelid. She held out a small device – it kind of looked like one of those things that took your pulse in the hospital. She stared at Hartley like she was already supposed to know what to do with it. Awkward and unsure, Hartley glanced once more to the Doctor.

“You prick your finger,” he told her in a low voice, and with a grimace she reached out, letting the woman prick her thumb, smear the droplet of blood onto the device, then slip it into a machine behind her. “Biometrical cataloguing system,” the Doctor explained as the woman typed a little more on her computer. “They use it in place of photo ID.”

“And you're done,” said the lady briskly, the abruptly spun her chair away, ending the transaction.

“That's it?” Hartley asked, bringing her thumb to her lips and gently sucking at the prick on its pad.

“That's it,” the Doctor confirmed. “Ready to head back to the TARDIS now?”

Truthfully she wanted to stay longer, explore the Library a little more, spend some time in the squishy armchairs that dotted the place like islands, just calling out to be laid upon. But she knew the Doctor was getting restless, and she figured she'd pushed him enough for one day.

“Sure,” she said, holding her books against her chest and letting him lead the way back to the shuttle that would take them to the TARDIS.

The ride back on the shuttle was a quiet one, and Hartley spent it people watching. She'd eye the people opposite her and wonder what their stories were, wonder whether they were here to study for a midterm, or do research for their job, or simply for pleasure, like herself.

They made it back to the TARDIS in record time, and Hartley sighed as the doors creaked shut after her, sealing the Library away. The Doctor moved up to the console, beginning to pilot them away.

Hartley leant against the railing surrounding the console, newly borrowed book held close to her chest. She considered what she wanted to do next. Her stomach gave a low grumble, and she became aware of the ache in her gut that told her she needed to eat. She considered asking the Doctor to take her somewhere for food, but instead an idea struck her, and she lit up with excitement.

“Do you think you could take me to a farmers' market?” she asked the Doctor impulsively. The Time Lord looked up from the monitor, leaning around the time rotor to pin her with a befuddled look.

“A farmers' market?” he echoed. “Why would you wanna go to a farmers' market?”

“Because I feel like doing a bit of cooking, and I want fresh ingredients to work with,” she told him, before glancing curiously towards the door at the other end of the console room, where the rest of the rooms in the TARDIS awaited. “Unless you've got some kind of farm already on board. You did say it was infinite...” she trailed off thoughtfully.

The Doctor looked like he very much wanted to roll his eyes, but was holding back the urge. “Nope, no farm,” he said shortly. “Which farmers' market?” he continued in the same breath, already moving back to the console to begin piloting the ship in the right direction.

“I don't mind,” she told him, and he sent her an impatient look. She thought she understood – all of time and space, his sheer array of options must have been somewhat overwhelming. “Earth, mid 2000s,” she narrowed it down, but she could tell he wanted more. “Uh, I dunno, England?” she suggested uncertainly.

“An entire planet of farmers' markets at your fingertips, and you pick _England_?” he asked, unfairly derisive, though she didn't point it out. It would be starting more trouble than it was worth.

“Why, what country would _you_ choose?” she countered.

“Depends on what kind of food do you want,” he said, hurrying over to the other side of the console when it began to spark.

“Fruit,” she told him with a nod. The look he shot her told her to be more specific. “Plums,” she said, exasperated.

The Doctor nodded once, sending the TARDIS into flight, the floor rattling beneath their feet. “Italy it is,” he proclaimed, and before she knew it they were landing. “Go on, go fetch your plums,” he said, waving a hand towards the door.

Hartley didn't argue, stepping out into their new location. It was the very early hours of the morning, the sun only just beginning to rise over the horizon, and the wind whipping by with thunderous speed, making the hem of her sweater flutter in the breeze. They'd landed in some nondescript street full of market stalls overflowing with various fruits and flowers. The scent carried of the wind was floral too, and she breathed it in, feeling it relax her very bones.

She'd never been to Italy before, and despite being nearly desperate to take her time soaking it in, she didn't want to keep the Doctor waiting too long. She made her way quickly down the street, dodging the people beginning to rapidly fill the small marketplace as she scanned the stalls, searching for the magnificent plums the Doctor was so sure she'd find there.

She found them at last, nestled between succulent peaches and little bags of cherries. Hartley picked one up, feeling it on her fingertips, testing how ripe it was. She bought five, then on her way back to the TARDIS spied a honey stall. Thanking the stars, she picked up a jar of organic honey as well.

By the time she got back inside the TARDIS, she was shivering from the cold, the chill of the wind soaking down to her very bones. But she was smiling happily, content with the experience. The Doctor looked up from the console as she shut the door behind her.

“Why d'you wanna cook, anyhow?” he asked as though it were unfathomable. “We've got every restaurant in the universe to choose from,” he reminded her – as though she could forget.

“There's nothing quite like a home-cooked meal,” she told him simply, the little plastic bag with her purchases singing by her side as she made her way up the ramp and around the console, heading for the door leading through to the rest of the ship. “Besides, I like cooking,” she added, pausing in the doorway. “It can be fun.”

“How…domestic of you,” he said with a curl of his lip.

Hartley ignored him with an ease that was beginning to become second nature by this point. “I'm making a plate for you, too,” she told him over her shoulder. He didn't argue as she turned to leave, which she figured was some kind of progress.

The kitchen was also attached to the dining room, and in the corner was a large, retro jukebox, its colours glimmering in the low, ambient lighting of the two rooms. Hartley was quick to set the music that would play while she cooked. She picked things she could sing along to, and the lights got a little bit brighter at her happier song choices. She marvelled again at the sentience of the ship as she set about making their snack.

Growing up, there had been a time when she'd considered being a chef. This was nothing but the musings of a child who liked food a little too much, and nothing ever came from it except an array of experimental dishes that nobody but her dad ever ate.

She never got the chance to cook anymore. At first it was because she'd been getting her Masters in Literature from Cambridge University – she'd barely had time to make herself a bowl of cereal, let alone cook a three-course meal. She'd thought that once she graduated she'd have all this free time – but that was hardly the case.

Writing a book was hard work, and what was even harder was getting it published. She didn't like to rely on her parents for anything, so to keep the money coming in she wrote another, and another, until she had meetings and readings and editing sessions coming out of her ears. And in it all, she'd completely forgotten how much she'd once enjoyed cooking.

But there was something about being aboard the TARDIS that reminded her. The brilliant, wonderful, impossible ship inspired her in a way she hadn't anticipated. She suddenly had so much _time_ on her hands – literally – and she could go anywhere, and do anything, and that little girl from long ago, buried deep in her subconscious, was whispering excitedly about chocolate chip cookies and blueberry muffins and homemade ice cream, and she found it impossible to ignore.

If she could go get plums from _Italy_ , then was there no limit to what she could work with? Sushi from Japan, croissants from France, mangoes from Australia – it was endless and exciting and beyond anything she could have possibly imagined.

Softened plums was something she'd been making since she was allowed to use the oven. She'd found the recipe in a cookbook of her dad's, and she'd become addicted.

Although it had been years since she'd last made them, she found the movements came easy as she worked to the beat of old Nirvana records, combining butter and honey in a large skillet, cooking until the butter melted. She added the plums to the pan, cut sides down, then hummed along to the music as she gently prodded at them, waiting for them to become lightly brown and tender.

Once they were ready she divided them evenly onto two plates, then moved onto cooking the orange juice until it was thickened, drizzling it over the plums when they were ready and adding yogurt, a sprinkle of granola and the juice.

Satisfied with her meal, she moved over to the door, leaning out into the hall and calling out, “Doc?! Food's ready!”

She set the table, pouring them both two glasses of some kind of fizzy drink that sat in the fridge and smelt like limes. The music drifting from the jukebox was nice, calming and ambient, and Hartley took her seat at the table, waiting patiently for the Doctor.

A long few minutes passed, and she began to worry. Would the Doctor not come? Did he think her tendency for domesticity so pathetic that he wouldn't even eat lunch with her? She began to feel kind of stupid. What was she doing, trying to be friends with this alien? He didn't even want her here – she was nothing but an inconvenience, a thorn in his side that he was stuck with for the foreseeable future.

She was just beginning to spiral into a sinkhole of self-loathing when the Doctor suddenly appeared in the doorway, dusting his hands off on his pants and making a beeline for the table she'd set.

Although flooded with relief that he'd come, she said nothing as he took his seat. “What are we having?” he asked, picking up his knife and fork, only to frown down at his meal in befuddlement.

His words broke some of the ice, and Hartley relaxed a fraction in her seat. “Softened plums in an orange juice sauce,” she told him, picking up her own utensils and beginning to cut into her food. The tender flesh of the plum on her plate parted easily, and when she tasted it she very nearly moaned aloud in pure pleasure.

It was even better than she remembered, made all the more better by the top notch ingredients she'd gotten from the marketplace.

The Doctor said nothing as he ate, not even mentioning whether or not he liked it. He just brought forkfuls, one after the other, to his lips, almost robotic in his movements. Despite the brilliance of her food, Hartley felt the tension between them like a stench, and she found she couldn't enjoy it as much, stuck focusing on the Doctor's hunched shoulders and discontented frown.

Hartley put down her knife and fork, the sound of the metal clinking against the ceramic plate loud even over the sound of the music floating from the speakers behind them. The Doctor looked up at the sound, shaking his head a little, as if coming from a deep train of thought.

“You don't like me,” she stated, blunt and matter-of-fact.

The Doctor blinked in bafflement, and she could understand that the words might have seemed to have come from nowhere. “What?” he asked once he'd found his voice.

“It's obvious that you don't like me, and I don't want to dance around the issue,” she said, chin tilted upwards in an attempt to produce some sense of bravery. Not for the first time, she wished she were a courageous Gryffindor, instead of a mild-mannered Hufflepuff. “I know I can be a bit intense at times,” she confessed, dropping her eyes to her plate in embarrassment. “I can get a little overexcited, and I think it's been making you uncomfortable.”

She stopped, not knowing where to go from there. She picked up her glass of fizzy drink, taking a sip that she barely tasted around her anxiety. The Doctor was disconcertingly silent from his spot across the table, and she swallowed around the lump in her throat.

“I know you're stuck with me, and I'm sorry if I've been making it harder than it needs to be,” she told him quietly, tracing her fingertip along the edge of her glass.

Opposite her, the Doctor sighed. “You don't need to apologise, Hartley,” he said, and she looked up in surprise. His blue eyes were sincere, and more timid than she'd yet seen them. “You haven't done anything wrong.”

It certainly felt like she had, she wanted to say, but didn't.

“I don't mean to make you feel unwelcome,” he told her, and there was suddenly a sadness to him, one that went bone-deep. She couldn't help but think it was because of her.

“I know you want me to leave as soon as possible,” she began quickly, eyes stinging with the prickle of tears.

“That's not true,” said the Doctor before she could continue, and she looked up at him in surprise. “I've been alone a long time now,” he told her, the words a confession, the magnitude of which she could barely even see. “Having you here, on the TARDIS, it helps me not to feel so lonely,” he said, but the words were slow and reluctant, like she were wrenching them forcibly from his lips. To her, it lessened their sincerity, but there was also no glint of dishonesty to his icy blue eyes.

Chewing on her next words carefully, Hartley took her time before speaking. “Do you consider us to be friends?” she asked, hesitant and wary, wondering vaguely what she might do if he said no.

The Doctor didn't _quite_ wince, but it was certainly close. “I don't have any friends,” he said, and it didn't escape her notice that it wasn't a real answer.

“I think I'd like to be your friend,” she told him, chin tilted upwards in a stubborn move that told him it was very much her intention to become one, whether he wanted it or not. “Although you don't make it very easy,” she added, while a little playful, still sincere.

But the Doctor didn't smile, that haunted look returning to his eyes. Her sheepish smile faded, replaced by a frown of concern.

“What happened?” she asked him gently, and her meaning was clear.

She could sense that he wanted to clam up, that he wanted to change the subject and move on; and if he did, she'd probably let him. But as she stared back at him, patient and full of a weighty compassion that was rare for her species, he felt his resolve waver.

“There was a war,” he told her quietly, pain glittering in his eyes. “I'm the last of my kind. All the others died.”

Hartley was silent, processing the magnitude of what he'd just told her.

The last of his kind – the only living Time Lord in existence. And it hadn't been famine, or disease, or global warming that had destroyed his people – there had been a _war,_ the likes of which she was sure she could barely even begin to imagine. She could barely conceive what he was feeling, what it must be like to be the very, very last of an entire race.

But he had a time machine, she thought suddenly. Why not go fix everything? Why not save someone; _anyone_?

“Can't you just go back?” she quickly asked, frown pulling at her face as she struggled to understand. “Change the fate of the war? Save someone, so you're not the last?”

But the Doctor was already shaking his head. “The whole war's been time-locked,” he told her. She didn't understand, but nodded like she did. “And even if I could...” he trailed off, not seeming to know where the sentence was going. He didn't bother to finish, looking down at the softened plums on his plate, the crease between his brows deep.

Before she could talk herself out of it, Hartley reached out, touching her fingers to the back of the Doctor's hand, which lay idle on the tabletop. His head snapped up in surprise, staring at her with a frown, like she were a riddle he couldn't quite figure out.

“I'm sorry,” she told him, but the words were weak, not nearly enough to convey the sorrow she felt on his behalf.

“Yeah,” he replied, just as soft.

Hartley decided a change of tone would do a world of good. “I know that the fact I'm here with you wasn't something either of us asked for, or chose,” she began, steady and slowly growing in confidence. “But I'm trying to make the most of it. Help me do that.”

The Doctor didn't look convinced, frowning at her pensively. “How?” he asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion, as though thinking she might have had some kind of an agenda.

“Maybe start by trying not to push me away,” she said simply, a small smile growing on her face. “Trying to let me be your _friend_.”

The Doctor seemed to process her words, weighing them carefully before replying. “Been a while since I had one of those,” he finally admitted.

“Not to sound arrogant, but I think I'm probably a good place to start,” she told him gently.

To her surprise, the Doctor smiled. “And how d'you suppose we begin this new friendship?” he asked curiously, eyes a few shades lighter than they had been only moments before.

“Well, you could start by telling me how much you like my food,” she suggested playfully, picking her knife and fork back up and nodding for him to do the same.

“It's good,” he told her before taking another bite. “Nine hundred years of time and space, and I've never tried softened plums before.”

A thought came across her mind, and she spoke it aloud before giving it any real thought. “You're an alien,” she said bluntly.

The Doctor looked up from his plate to shoot her the most dry look she'd ever received. “Just figuring it out now, are you?” he deadpanned, and an amused smile flickered at her lips.

“What I meant was, does your body work the same way as a human's?” she asked conversationally. “Do you need food to survive?”

“Yeah, but not as often as you do,” he said. “I only need about a quarter of your recommended daily intake to function. Personally, however, I do tend to eat a little more than the average Time Lord.”

“Why?” she pressed, curiosity gnawing at her gut. Maybe it was the writer in her, but there was just still so much she didn't know about the Doctor – he was still one great, big, giant mystery.

He shot her a perplexed sort of a look, as though she'd just asked a stupid question. “Because it's fun,” he said, and she smiled at the honest simplicity of his answer. “I usually go out to restaurants – no point in cooking for just yourself – and it's like I said earlier, I have every restaurant in the universe to choose from.”

She was beginning to understand him the more they talked, like everything he said had an element of universal truth to it. He was letting her in, slowly but surely, and she smiled at him with all the brilliance of a newborn sun.

“Well, I've always wanted to cook more, but I've never really found the time,” she admitted.

“Nothing _but_ time, aboard the TARDIS,” he replied. Hartley smiled. “Speaking of the TARDIS,” he began, and she looked up from her plate with curiosity. “I have some more tests I'd like to run – to see if I can figure out how you got here in the first place.”

“And how to get me back home?” she finished the unspoken part softly, putting down her fork, suddenly not so hungry.

“Even if you don't _actually_ go back home, wouldn't it be nice just to know you _could_?” he countered, and she had to admit he had a point.

“All right,” she agreed, trying not to sigh as she forced herself to finish her softened plums, finding them not quite as delicious as they had been only moments ago.

They finished their food in companionable quiet, only the music coming from the jukebox playing in the air between them. When they finished, Hartley put the dishes in the dishwasher and followed the Doctor through the halls, back towards the infirmary.

“I've been running tests on your blood this whole time, or rather, the TARDIS has,” he explained as she took a seat on the bed in the corner, exactly where she'd sat last time. “It hasn't shown anything out of the ordinary – apart from a slight iron deficiency, but that's really nothing to be concerned about,” he added quickly.

“What are you hoping to find?” Hartley asked him carefully.

“Dunno,” he replied. “I know literally _nothing_ that would be able to cause this. Nothing at all.” He paused, eyeing the monitor showing the results of her tests with a critical eye. “There is something else I thought I'd try, however,” he said, already beginning to pull out a bunch of thin circles attached to wires that he quickly began to apply across the curve of her forehead.

“What's this do?” she asked as he pressed the sticky little circles against her skin.

“Measures and records higher brain activity,” he told her succinctly, finally pressing two slightly large circles to either of her temples, then hurrying over to a large device that the wires were all connected to.

“And what'll it tell you?”

“If there's some kind of a psychic link you've managed to create,” he said, tapping away at the machine, which abruptly began to give a series of loud beeps. “Your right parahippocampal gyrus is unusually active, but that's not alarming,” he muttered to himself. “Think about the colour yellow,” he ordered her suddenly.

Bewildered by the request, Hartley hurriedly pictured sunflowers and bananas and sunshine, the most yellow things she could think of. The Doctor continued to tap away at his machine.

“You've got an extra synaptic engram, but that's nothing that should affect you without an evolutionary jumpstart – incredibly rare, so don't think on it,” he told her blithely. Hartley could only blink back at him, utterly uncomprehending. It all seemed like pure gibberish to her – she was great with words until they became scientific in nature, then she started to feel like an eight year old at a board meeting; lost, confused and out of place.

“So, what you're saying is, you don't have a clue what's causing our whole … cosmic-magnet situation,” she said plainly.

The Doctor didn't answer, tapping away for another few moments before rocking back on his heels and sighing. “I have no clue,” he begrudgingly admitted.

“Do you think we'll ever know?” she asked softly.

The Doctor sighed. “I just don't know.”

They were quiet for a few long, patient moments.

“I could still drop you home,” he offered, and she glanced up in sharp surprise.

“But wouldn't I just get dragged back here?”

“Eventually yes,” he nodded. “But you don't have to stay stuck here if you don't want to. You can try going home; see how long it lasts.”

Hartley frowned, considering what he was saying. She thought of her friend and roommate, Emma, and how she'd miss her snorting laughter and orders of copious amounts of Chinese food. She thought of her editor, and the book she'd been halfway through publishing. She thought of her mum, who honestly probably wouldn't even notice her missing, and her dad, who definitely would.

But then she thought of what the TARDIS was, what it represented; the kind of adventure most people only ever got to daydream about – and here she was, _living_ it! She was presented with the kind of opportunity that people wrote poems and songs and novels about. She'd been handed this on a silver platter by the universe itself, and who was she to argue with the universe?

“I want to stay,” she told the Doctor.

“Are you sure?” he asked slowly, as though bewildered by the decision.

She'd never been more sure of anything in her life, but she couldn't tell him that. “Yes,” she nodded, absolutely certain. “But, do you think I could have a chance to just tell someone I might be gone awhile?” she asked.

The Doctor shrugged as though it made no difference to him. “S'pose so,” he said as he began to peel off the little stickers on her forehead. She winced as they pulled at the fine hairs on her face. “You do know I can get you back the same day – the same hour – that you left, right? No matter how long you stay aboard?”

“I know,” she said. “But I just feel like I need to do this.”

To his credit, the Doctor seemed to understand, even when she herself wasn't sure she did. “Back to your flat?” he asked once she was free of the sticky little dots, climbing happily to her feet.

“Yeah,” she confirmed, and they made their way through the halls back towards the console room. “April 19th, please. The street outside my building,” she added as the Doctor began to do his thing around the console. The Doctor nodded, and they landed with a wheeze. She pulled her jacket tighter around her body, and glanced over at the Doctor, suddenly a little scared to leave the TARDIS.

The Doctor seemed to read her mind. “I'm not going anywhere,” he assured her with a roll of his eyes that seemed to say ' _silly ape...'._

Hartley smiled back before stepping from the TARDIS. She was back on the street she lived, the world around her utterly ignoring the giant blue police box sat on the curb beside her building. Hartley pulled her coat tighter again against the slight chill of the wind, and began to make her way up the flight of stairs that led to her flat.

“Hart?!” came Emma's voice as she opened the door to the flat they shared. “That you?!”

“Yeah!” Hartley called back. “It's me.”

Emma was in the kitchen, eating something straight out of a pot, and Hartley grinned at the familiar scene.

“Where've you been?” her friend asked around a mouthful of noodles. “You've been gone all day. Your mum's called about a dozen times, something about missing your brunch appointment.”

Hartley smiled, the expression a little rueful. “I'm just here to get a few things,” Hartley told her. “I'm actually going away for awhile.”

Emma blinked in surprise. “Away for awhile?” she echoed dubiously. “Away where?”

“Travelling,” Hartley told her, the honest truth.

Emma stared back at her in bewilderment. “Hart, you've never even been outside of London,” she reminded her slowly. Hartley grinned at the words, thinking of how false they were, and how much _more_ false they were going to get. “You've got your book coming out in a few weeks,” Emma added, putting down her pot of noddles to look at her friend a little closer. “Are you sure this is such a good time to be going somewhere? Are you feeling all right?”

“Never better,” Hartley told her surely, turning away so Emma wouldn't see the turmoil in her eyes as she stepped into her bedroom, picking up the few things she didn't want to be without. Emma followed her into her room, watching as she gathered her things. “I just need to get away. Not sure how long I'll be gone. Could be a day; could be a few months.”

Emma was staring at her like she was suspicious this might be some kind of body-swap con, and the person in front of her wasn't Hartley Daniels at all, but rather a convincing imposter, or clone of some kind.

“Are you in some kinda trouble?” she finally asked, watching as Hartley put her phone, her favourite lipstick and a small selection of precious jewellery in a bag, then took the purple quilt her grandmother had made for her when she was little and wrapped it securely around her shoulders.

“Nope,” Hartley told her gently. “No trouble.”

“Melia's going to kill you if you just skip town,” Emma reminded her of her agent and editor, who was stern as could be, but still a good person.

“She'll live.”

“Is this about a guy?”

Hartley paused. She didn't want to lie. “There is a guy,” she confessed. “But it's not what you think.”

Emma smirked. “I think it most definitely _is_ what I think,” she teased giddily. “You're running off with a guy!”

“Maybe I am,” Hartley shrugged. She didn't bother trying to explain that it wasn't like that between her and the Doctor at all. Emma wouldn't understand. “Would that be such a bad thing?” she asked quickly.

Emma's expression evened out into something more sincere. “Hart, it's a _wonderful_ thing,” she said honestly. “You deserve to do something spontaneous for a change.”

Hartley smiled, overcome with warmth for her friend. She glanced out the window, seeing the sun begin to set. She was getting antsy – she didn't think the Doctor would leave without her _per se,_ but the knowledge that he _could_ sat big and heavy in her brain. “I should get going,” she said reluctantly. “He's waiting for me.”

“At least give me a name,” Emma begged her as they made their way back towards the door.

“The Doctor,” Hartley told her without hesitating.

“I said a _name_ , not what he _does_ ,” Emma complained. Hartley smiled to herself, a secretive little twitch of her lips. “Will you at least call and check in?” she continued, moving from one thing to the next. Hartley thought – not for the first time – that if Emma were an animal, she'd be a hummingbird. “Let me know you're okay and not dead in a ditch.”

“Promise,” Hartley told her, pausing at the door.

“Do your parents know?”

Hartley froze, the question one she'd been hoping to avoid. She didn't care much about telling her mother – they weren't on good terms, and hadn't been for a long time; it didn't matter to her what she thought – but her dad, well, the thought of leaving him without a word was almost enough to split her heart into two. But at the same time, she knew that saying goodbye would be impossible.

But it wasn't goodbye, she reminded herself, she'd be back before he knew she was gone.

“Nah,” she said aloud, and Emma's eyebrows went high in surprise. “When mum rings back again, tell her I'm out of the country.”

Emma's eyebrows rose up even higher. “But you don't even have a passport.”

Hartley laughed, a deep, full, lively laugh that came from deep in her belly. Emma was taken aback by the force of it. “I love you, Emma,” she told her roommate affectionately.

Confused, Emma could only blink back before she finally found her voice. “Love you too, Hart,” she said, brow furrowed as she tried to keep up with everything happening. “You're sure you're okay?” she checked again.

“Like I said; never better,” she promised, and it was the absolute truth. “I'll see you soon,” she said, leaning forwards to peck her soundly on the cheek before turning and slipping through the door.

The Doctor looked up from the monitor when she stepped back into the TARDIS, eyebrows raised at the handmade quilt held around her shoulders like a fashionista might wear an expensive shawl. It was certainly as precious to Hartley as if it were.

“All done?” he asked simply.

“All done,” she confirmed, and with a small smile the Doctor sent them off into the vortex, leaving her friend, her life, and her world behind.


	5. Floss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hey guys! This is the last original chapter before series 1 begins. I'll be posting Rose tonight as well, so you'll have both to read. Just a reminder, I won't be doing every episode of the show, only the ones that have important information about the story I'm trying to tell – Hartley's story.
> 
> Just a quick note: I know in some countries they call fairy-floss by other names (the most common being cotton-candy), but I'm from Australia, and here we call it fairy-floss. Besides, it rolls off the tongue a little easier, don't you think?
> 
> Enjoy!

**FLOSS**

“ _By blood a king, in heart a clown.”_

Alfred Lord Tennyson

* * *

The Cloister Bell began to ring, the sound echoing throughout the control room, serving as a warning.

They had been lounging around the console, Hartley quizzing the Doctor about all the wonders he'd seen in his time, all the people he'd met. He'd been replying, however she could tell his attention was on tinkering with the console rather than answering her barrage of rambling, overeager questions. She couldn't help her interest – it was all just so fascinating, and she wanted to soak up as much as she possibly could while she had the chance.

At the sound of the cloister bell, however, her inquisition came to an end, and she turned her head up to look at the time rotor warily. “What's wrong?” she asked, worried something was wrong with the beautiful ship the Doctor called home, and worried they were about to land themselves – quite literally – in a whole _world_ of trouble.

“Gravity funnel,” the Doctor told her succinctly, frantically slamming his hands down on the different buttons covering the console, the pattern seemingly random but working all the same as the tilt of the ship evened out again for a moment.

Hartley had limited knowledge of gravity funnels, but they sounded rather self explanatory. “How did a gravity funnel get us in that vortex-thingy?” she asked, all the while hoping she didn't sound like a complete idiot. She knew how the Doctor despised idiots.

“We weren't _in_ the vortex,” he wasn't looking at her, so she couldn't say for sure if he rolled his eyes, but she wouldn't have put it past him. “We were in orbit around Gahrradagh-X91.”

“Gah-what?”

“A planet located in what your species call the Andromeda Galaxy,” he told her, typing away furiously, blue eyes flying over the information displayed on the monitor. When he spoke the words rolled off his tongue, like he were a humanoid encyclopaedia. “It's a human colonisation founded roughly a hundred thousand years in your future.”

The TARDIS jolted roughly, sending Hartley crashing to the floor. The Doctor, used to travelling in the marvellous blue box, merely rocked with the movement of the ship, having no problem staying on his feet. “Are we safe?” she asked from the metal grating below them, rubbing at her now-sore knee and unsteadily climbing to her feet, this time keeping a strong grip on the console.

“Relatively.”

“That's comforting,” she muttered in response, shooting him a sour look that went completely unnoticed. There was another violent jolt, then everything went still, the room filled only with the ringing of the Cloister Bell. “Have we landed?” she asked softly, as though whatever was outside the doors would be able to hear them if she dared speak any louder.

“Yes,” he replied, eyes focused intently on the monitor.

“Where?”

“In a storeroom of some kind.”

“ _Where_?” she repeated as patiently as she could manage.

Without looking, he continued to type away at the keyboard, his fingers moving confidently, eyes scanning the readings displayed on the monitor. His head popped up suddenly, but instead of seeing an eager gleam for adventure, she saw a flat kind of stare, like he were tired already – and they'd yet to even step foot from the TARDIS.

“We're on Chorion-42,” he told her, pushing the monitor away and beginning to pump the lever on the console.

“What's Chorion-42?” she asked eagerly. “A planet?”

“It's Gahrradagh-X91's moon,” he corrected succinctly, launching into a series of manoeuvres at the console that told her he was trying to take off again.

“What are you doing?” she asked anyway, stepping forwards and reaching out to gently slap his hands away from the controls.

He shot her his most irritated look, reminding her of exactly how much of a nuisance she seemed to be to him. “Going back into the vortex,” he replied sharply, blue eyes like little chips of ice. “That alright with you?” he sneered sarcastically.

“You don't want to go investigate the cause of the gravity funnel?” she questioned, hoping to tempt him. She hadn't really expected it to work, but he seemed to pause for a moment, giving her a flare of hope. “What if someone's in danger?” she said, stepping closer and tilting her head up to see him.

He hesitated again, eyes flickering towards the doors.

Hartley said nothing, continuing to stare up at him, her lips tipped upwards in an impish grin. The Doctor was silent, and she let her words dig at his consciousness before finally he caved, shooting her his most irritated glower. She smiled back at him, perfectly sunny, and with a huff he stepped away from the console, tugging his leather jacket tighter around his body and heading somewhat reluctantly for the doors.

“Just long enough to get answers,” he said sternly, scowling in displeasure as she danced along after him, radiating satisfaction.

“Whatever you say, Doc,” she chirped, and he grimaced at both the sound and the unsanctioned nickname.

Without care, he threw the doors open, only to find they were completely and utterly alone in the storeroom they'd landed in. “Huh,” he hummed, curiosity getting the better of him as he slowly stepped out into the small space, running his eyes over the various cleaning products stacked on shelves around the room.

The Doctor reached out, grabbing the handle to the only door in the room and turning it, pushing it open in one smooth movement. Like a wave, blinding light and deafening sound hit her, and she winced at the impact, ducking back down behind the Doctor for a moment to regain her bearings.

Once the pain from the sudden onslaught of light had disappeared and her sensitive ears had gotten used to the noises accosting her, she realised that was exactly what she was seeing.

In front of them was a massive, imposing rollercoaster. Twisted orange metal climbed high into the sky, and every few moments a cart would fly by, carrying a small army of delighted, screaming passengers. They were in some kind of a theme park.

People of all kinds walked along the footpath beside the towering structure, almost all carrying large sticks of fairy floss in their hands; children screeching at their parents for one thing or another; groups of young teens laughing boisterously; babies crying out loudly from their prams.

“Are gravity funnels a common thing to find at theme parks like this?” she asked over the blaring noise of activity.

“Not typically, no,” he replied dryly.

They were still another few moments, then he gave a heaving sigh, stepping out into the flowing crowd. Hartley heard the door to the storeroom creak shut, making both their decisions for them.

She had a sudden flare of doubt. What if there was real, actual danger waiting for them? What if they were walking into some kind of convoluted trap? She wasn't sure what the purpose of this might be, but the threat was there, looming at the edge of her mind.

Another cart passed by on the rollercoaster, a group of kids screaming at the top of her lungs, and her hesitance drained away.

She didn't want to spend her life in fear, she'd never been like that. She had the opportunity to explore a _theme park_ on a _moon_ in a different _galaxy,_ for Christ sake, so why was she trying to talk herself out of experiencing it to its full extent?

“Can we go on the rollercoaster first?” she asked eagerly, watching as the little purple cart carrying the screaming kids twisted up higher and higher into the sky. It was giant compared to anything they had on Earth – it looked to be the same height as a skyscraper. She was both terrified and eager, the two emotions combining in a mess of butterflies inside her stomach.

“Have you forgotten about the gravity funnel already?” the Doctor asked her as they began to walk, moving in the same direction as the crowd. Hartley was quick to latch onto him, threading her arm through his to keep them together, lest she get swept away by the horde of theme park patrons. The last thing she needed was to get lost. The Doctor would never let her live it down.

“Right, of course,” she agreed quickly, raising her voice to be heard over he wailing of a passing infant and her mother. “We'll look into it, for sure... But we _will_ be going on the rides at some point, right?”

“Sure, Hartley,” he told her without conviction, but she knew that if she found _just_ the right balance between insistent and annoying, she'd get to ride that monster rollercoaster in no time.

“I am getting kinda hungry, though,” she admitted, pressing a hand over her stomach as she felt it rumble, glad the noise of the crowd drowned it out. “Think we can stop for food?”

He said nothing, simply turned in another direction, beginning to drag her towards a small handful of kiosks. Seeing the advertised foods, she began to dig around in her jeans, searching fruitlessly for the extra cash she usually kept tucked away. It took her a moment to realise she hadn't been carrying money lately – there was no reason to, on the TARDIS – but even if she did she highly doubted the vendors on this alien moon would accept her British money.

“You got any money on you, Spacewalker?” she asked hopefully.

“Nope,” he said, voice surprisingly cheerful. “I've got something better.”

She'd admit that sentence was more than a little confusing, but knew asking would do no good.

“What'll you have?” he asked once they finally escaped the flow of the crowd, coming to a stop beside the kiosk, which was selling everything from lollypops to sandwiches.

“I recommend the fairy floss,” said the vendor, gesturing to the most colourful display. Rows and rows of brightly coloured fairy floss were set up along the side. Hartley could smell the spun sugar from where she was standing, and her stomach gave another hungry rumble. Despite how wonderful they smelt, Hartley needed something that would fuel her for the adventure to come.

“Got anything a little more filling?” she asked the boy politely.

“Are you sure you wouldn't rather the floss?” the boy pressed.

Surprised by his pushiness, Hartley could only give a stale, perfunctory smile. “I think I'll pass,” she said sweetly. “What're these?” she asked instead, pointing at a small display of food.

“Do you like honeysuckle bread?” he questioned, hands disappearing for a moment beneath the counter.

“Honeysuckle bread?” she echoed dubiously, turning to look at the Doctor, unsure. He nodded his eyes, one hand reaching up to block the sunlight from his eyes. “Er, yeah, sure,” she said, nodding back at the vendor with a smile.

He handed over a small, clear box full what looked like miniature baguettes. “That'll be three credits,” said the vendor cheerfully, smiling at her brightly.

She smiled back politely, cracking open the container and picking out one of the sticks. It was soft and buttery under her fingertips, and she took a bite. It was delicious, almost exactly like they'd mixed liberal amounts of honey and sugar into the bread, small oats kneaded into the dough.

She turned to express her newfound love of honeysuckle bread to the Doctor, only to find him fishing a small piece of paper from his pocket distractedly. Once he grabbed ahold of it, he held it out for the vendor to see.

“Official park taste testers,” the Doctor announced proudly, and the vendor blinked at the piece of paper in surprise.

“Er, right,” he said, gripping the end of his hat and tugging at it awkwardly. Just then, a woman and her young son walked forwards, arguing about which flavour fairy-floss to get. He seemed relieved for the distraction, but Hartley had already moved on, using her free hand to grasp the paper the Doctor was attempting to slip back into his pocket.

“What's this then?” she asked curiously, peering down at the sheet of paper proclaiming they were the _'Official, Park Employed Taste Testers'_. “You had this made?” she questioned as she blinked at it in shock. It looked surprisingly legitimate – it even had some kind of forged signature on the bottom, from some guy named _Almus Trent III –_ and despite knowing it was a lie, she found herself almost _believing_ the whole thing.

“I didn't have it made,” the Doctor said primly, snatching it back from her sticky fingers. “It's slightly psychic paper,” he explained, wiping it off on his shirt.

“Slightly psychic paper?” she echoed, incredulous.

Huffing, the alien held it out for her to read. When she looked down at it this time, it no longer some kind of forged official document. Instead it read ' _they see what they need to see'_ in blocky, unfamiliar penmanship.

“Slightly psychic paper, huh?” she asked, happily biting off another chunk of her snack. “Y'know, you're kind of like Batman,” she told him brightly.

The Doctor seemed somewhat affronted by the comparison. “How am I even _slightly_ like Batman?” he asked, voice thick with exasperation.

“All the cool gadgets,” she explained around her mouthful. “You already have the tall, brooding, all-black ensemble thing going for you. All you need now is the utility belt,” she teased, poking him playfully in the gut. He flinched away, pouting like a child, and her grin grew.

“Superheroes aren't real,” he told her with something like disdain, as though the very idea of superheroes offended him. Hartley wasn't so sure she agreed, lately she'd seen plenty of evidence to the contrary, but she decided not to mention that. She knew the Doctor well enough by now to know he didn't care much for sentimentality.

“I liked comics when I was younger,” she told him instead. “Especially Marvel ones. I started reading them as a sort of rebellion against my mother, but I grew to really like them.”

“You're going to love the 2010's,” he said, surprising her.

“Why's that?”

“Marvel starts making movies. It's one of the biggest franchises in history,” he told her flippantly. Hartley spun on the spot, staring up at him imploringly.

“Can you take me to see them?” she asked, all but bouncing on her toes with eagerness.

“What, all of them?” She just smiled, wide and hopeful, and the Doctor looked pointedly away. “How about we tackle one thing at a time?” he suggested. “First let's figure out why we were pulled here. _Then,_ perhaps, I'll take you to the movies.”

Hartley grinned, but she was distracted by a loud scream from somewhere nearby. It was a theme park, so they were surrounded by people screaming on rides, and children screaming at their parents for one reason or another – but this wasn't a normal scream of excitement or petulance.

This was full of heart-stopping, hair-raising, blood-curdling terror.

The Doctor whipped around as well, and the two travelling companions watched as a young man, no older than twelve or thirteen, flew past them, screaming at the top of his lungs. It took a moment for Hartley to realise that it was because something was chasing him.

The crowd parted and a figure darted through the gap. It was tall person, dressed up as the creepiest clown Hartley had ever seen. Its hair was a deep red, its face a pasty white and a grotesque, unnatural smile painted across its mouth, lips curled back to reveal rows of pointed teeth. Hartley was reminded of the time she made the mistake of reading Stephen King's _IT_ at the young age of twelve. She hadn't liked it on the page then, and she liked it even less right now.

“What was that?” she asked the Doctor in alarm, but when there was no answer, she turned to see him gone, rushing after the boy and the creepy clown like someone's like depended on it. She wondered, suddenly, if it did.

Muttering a curse under her breath, Hartley gripped her container of snacks and broke into a sprint, racing after the Doctor and the others.

“Doctor!” she shouted over the hum of activity around the park, but the Doctor didn't slow down. He made an abrupt right, and Hartley hurried to follow, bumping into a small group of girls with cameras around their necks. “Sorry!” she called back to them, darting into the alleyway after the others.

She came to an abrupt stop, finding it to be a dead end. The Doctor was there, the boy and the clown, too. The unnamed boy was pressed up against a brick wall, terror on his youthful face. The clown was hovering nearby, an ugly, hungry snarl on its menacing face. The Doctor stood at the mouth of the alley, hands held up in surrender, trying to keep things calm.

“What's going on?” Hartley demanded nervously, but nobody answered her.

“What are you, then?” the Doctor was asking the clown, edging ever closer to the creepy figure, wariness and undeniable curiosity on his face. “Some kind of drone?” He whipped out the sonic screwdriver, aiming it at the creature, but nothing happened. “Nope, flesh and blood, just like everybody else,” he said as he processed its readings. He sounded almost disappointed by the results.

“Please!” cried the boy, who was still cowering against the wall, tears pouring down his cheeks. “You can't let it get me!”

“Nobody's letting it get you,” the Doctor assured him patiently.

The clown snarled like some kind of rabid animal, fingers curled into talon-like positions. Hartley felt her heart in her throat, and she stared at the scene with wide eyes.

“What's your name?” the Doctor asked the boy gently.

“John,” whimpered the boy, trembling where he stood.

“John,” echoed the Doctor softly. “Nice to meet you, John.”

“I'm going to die,” cried John tearfully.

“No you're not, John,” said the Doctor, slowly but surely edging closer to the clown. The thing's beady, hungry little eyes flickered from John, to Hartley, the Doctor and back again. Hartley could tell it was trying to figure out what to do with itself. It was like a caged animal, and she wondered when it would bite. “Why're you still here?” the Doctor asked the clown simply. “You've been seen. You've been caught. So why haven't you run for it? Unless you need him for something,” he continued on confidently.

The clown pulled its cracked, painted lips back to reveal rows of yellow, pointed teeth. “ _We must feed,_ ” it snarled in the kind of voice that gave one chills of fear.

“Right, okay,” said the Doctor easily. “Feed on what?”

But the clown didn't reply. Too quick for the Doctor or Hartley to react, the thing leapt to the left, gripping the boy by the throat, and then both of them disappeared in a flash of blue light.

“No!” shouted the Doctor, racing to the wall where the boy had just been. He was gone.

“Where'd they go?” Hartley asked, still shaking from the ordeal.

“Short range teleport,” he replied, the buzz of his sonic filling the small, dead end alleyway. “I can't lock onto the signal, there's too much interference,” he said, the words rough with frustration.

“What happened?” she demanded. “What was that thing? Is that kid okay?”

“Don't know, don't know, and don't know,” the Doctor answered her questions with the usual amount of sass, which Hartley thought to be highly inappropriate considering the circumstances. “But you're asking the wrong questions,” he said, pocketing his sonic and spinning to face her.

There was no grief on his face, just a grim determination. He was going to get answers, of that much they were both certain.

“Then what's the _right_ question?” she asked quickly, grip on her container of honeysuckle bread so tight that her knuckles were turning white.

“Why didn't anybody else notice?” he said, walking to the edge of alley and peering out into the sea of people milling passed. It was busy, the noise of the crowd loud but not overbearing.

Hartley realised he was right. The boy, John, had been screaming his head off as he'd run from that terrifying thing. It wasn't possible that they'd been the only ones to notice, surely somebody else would have heard. “Why?” she asked, finding herself just a little afraid of the answer.

“Don't know,” said the Doctor again, and she withheld an exasperated sigh.

“Do you think maybe it's something that happens often?” she suggested. “Maybe it's normal around here?”

“Why would _that_ be considered normal?” he countered.

“It's an alien planet,” she reminded him. “I'm not exactly sure what constitutes as _normal_ around here. For all we know, it could be.”

“Nah,” said the Doctor. He was staring out at the crowd, and she could practically see the questions and theories bubbling just beneath the surface. “You in the mood for something sweet?” he asked suddenly, and Hartley blinked in surprise.

“Er, no thanks,” she said, holding up her container of honeysuckle bread. “I've still got this to finish.”

“Come on,” he said, ignoring her words. “You're at a theme park, you've got to at least _try_ the fairy-floss.”

She got the feeling that arguing was pointless, so she followed the Doctor back through the crowd to the kiosk they'd gotten her bread from.

“Hullo, us again,” he greeted the vendor cheerfully. “One purple fairy-floss.”

“You got it,” said the man, moving over to the machine of spun sugar, beginning to make the treat.

“You noticed anything odd around here?” the Doctor asked him casually. Hartley looked away, watching as an older couple wandered past, holding hands and sharing a stick of bright yellow fairy-floss.

“Odd, sir?” asked the vendor.

“Any clowns, maybe?”

The vendor suddenly laughed, and Hartley glanced back over to see him grinning widely. “Very funny, sir,” he said mirthfully. The Doctor didn't smile back, and the man's expression sobered. “Well, there would be clowns, wouldn't there?” he said. “There's a reason it's called Circus-Town.”

“This theme park is circus-themed?” Hartley asked, surprised.

The man shot her a strange look. “What, you missed the fifty-foot sign on the way in?” he asked teasingly.

“Er, yeah,” she replied, not sure what else she could say, “must have.”

“One purple fairy-floss,” said the vendor, handing it over with a charming smile.

The Doctor took it, handing it over to Hartley without so much as looking. She rolled her eyes, taking it and bringing it to her mouth, but the Doctor suddenly exclaimed, “no, don't eat it!”

“What?” she asked exasperatedly, pulling back from the cloud of spun sugar to stare at him dubiously. “I thought you bought it for me to eat?”

“No, just to look after,” he replied, making no sense at all, but she didn't bother arguing. “You,” he said, looking straight at the vendor, who Hartley just now realised was dressed as some kind of a cartoonish Ringmaster, complete with a red coat and a top hat. “What's your name?”

“Wyatt,” the vendor answered abruptly, like the Doctor had dragged the name from his lips. “Wyatt Divine.”

“Good name,” said the Doctor brightly. “Now, answer me this,” he continued. “While working here, have you ever felt like there's something just behind you, making the hair on the back of your neck stand on end; but when you turn around, nothing's ever there?”

Wyatt blinked in surprise, seeming to pale by several shades. “H—how did you know that?” he stammered, nerves coating his tone.

“Lucky guess,” said the Doctor flippantly, giving a cheerful grin before turning on his heel and going back the way they'd come. “Coming, Hartley?” he called back to her when she didn't move.

“Uh, thanks, Wyatt,” Hartley told the vendor, who was still gaping like he'd just seen a ghost. “See you later.”

The Doctor was heading back in the direction of the storeroom he'd landed the TARDIS into, and Hartley had to quicken her steps to keep pace with his long legs.

“Why're we heading back to the TARDIS?” she asked, trying not to pant as she spoke.

“Need to runs some tests on that fairy-floss,” he told her as he opened the door, slipping inside without waiting for her to follow. By the time she'd joined him in the TARDIS, he was already typing away at the console.

“Why the fairy-floss?” she asked as he plucked the stick of purple spun sugar from her hand, tearing off a chunk and placing it onto a tray up near the time rotor.

“Didn't you notice?” he replied. “Everyone was eating it.”

“Well, yeah,” she said slowly. “But it's a theme park. Eating fairy-floss is what people _do_.”

“But it was _everyone_ ,” he argued. “Every man, woman and child was eating this stuff––except that boy, John.”

Hartley was beginning to understand. “So you think the fairy-floss has something to do with what's wrong with the clowns?”

“I think the fairy-floss has something to do with why people aren't _noticing_ what's wrong with the clowns,” he told her primly. The console beeped, and the Doctor yanked at the monitor, reading the results with a heavy frown.

“What's it saying?” she asked. The information on the screen was all written in circular Gallifreyan – the only thing the TARDIS wouldn't translate.

“Wow,” murmured the Doctor, eyeing the monitor with something like respect. “That's fascinating.”

“What is?” Hartley pressed, growing anxious and confused.

“I've never seen this before,” he told her distractedly. “ _Me_. Over nine hundred years old and this is brand new technology,” he said, almost giddy with his discovery.

“Doctor,” she said, growing steadily impatient. He didn't look up, and with a huff she kicked him in the shin.

“Ouch,” he winced, stepping back and eyeing her with displeasure.

“Use your words,” she told him, just a little condescending. He scowled at her, but still complied.

“It's an edible perception filter,” he said, that same wonderment returning to his voice.

“And what's that?”

“A perception filter – it's like a magnetic field, shifts your perception just a tiny bit. Makes you harder to notice, allows things to hide in plain sight. But this, this is stronger than that. It works in the opposite to how they usually do. Instead of placing it _on_ anything, it's _in_ the people, working in a sort of reverse. They've somehow harnessed the perceptive properties of a filter and made it … well, digestible. It's in the sugar – it's in everyone here,” he said, torn between being worried and impressed. “The ultimate blend of biology, physics and psychic energy. It's … well, it's beautiful.”

“I don't get it, though,” Hartley began as she set down her container of honeysuckle bread, knowing she didn't want to carry it around anymore. The Doctor sent her an annoyed expression for her words. “No, I get what a perception filter thing _is_ now, what I mean is that I don't get why they _need_ one.”

The Doctor paused. “That's a good question,” he said, and she smiled back. “Okay, we need to find out exactly what these edible filters are keeping people from noticing.”

“You don't know?” she asked.

“I have a theory,” he told her softly. “I just hope I'm wrong.”

He turned, stalking from the TARDIS, leaving Hartley to once again scurry after him like a lost puppy. Stepping back out into the sunshine, Hartley watched as the Doctor made his way up to a tall man and a shorter woman, both of whom holding the hand of a young child.

“Hullo,” he greeted them happily. They turned to look at him with smiles that they angled to Hartley when she joined them. “Just a quick question – how long has your family been here?”

It was a rather straightforward question, in Hartley's opinion. But instead to answering, the two parents suddenly frowned like they honestly didn't know the answer. “Oh, uh...” the father trailed off in confusion. “Well, I'm, I'm not quite sure...”

“Thank you,” said the Doctor briskly, giving a vague smile before turning away and stopping a small group of teenagers all heading for the line to the rollercoaster. “Hey kids, how many hours have you been here?!” he asked them loudly, ensuring they would all hear.

The kids all looked between one another in confusion. Again, none of them could answer.

“Do you get it yet?” the Doctor asked Hartley once they'd scurried away. She didn't answer, frowning deeply as she struggled to see what was happening. But before the Doctor could answer, there was a loud scream. Both travellers whipped around just in time to see another horrific clown pounce on a girl, both of them disappearing in a flash of blinding light.

Nobody around them so much as blinked an eyelid at the sight, as if they hadn't seen it happen at all, hadn't heard the girl's terrified shrieks.

“The fairy-floss is keeping them from seeing,” Hartley said, hands reaching up to grasp at her own neck, feeling herself swallow with nerves.

“Not only that, it's keeping them from _leaving_ ,” he replied, spinning in a circle. Hartley didn't doubt that he was on the lookout for the next target. “I think that's what the gravity funnel was for,” he explained further, distracted as he searched the crowd. “Suck people in, get them to eat the food, then they're stuck here, unknowingly enjoying what are their last days at a theme park.”

“But how do we know the people they take are dead?” Hartley asked him, gripping her neck tighter, feeling her nails scrape against her skin. “How do we know they're not just transporting them somewhere else?”

“Why would they do that?” he countered. “Why go through all this trouble just to transport them somewhere else and _not_ do something to them?”

Hartley was stumped. “Er, I dunno,” she muttered helplessly.

“Clearly they need them for something,” he finished matter-of-factly. Hartley wasn't sure what to say, she nodded her head, internally wondering what a bunch of creepy clowns could possibly want with these innocent people. “What was that kid's name?” the Doctor asked abruptly.

Hartley blinked in surprise. “You mean the vendor? Wyatt?”

“That's the one,” the Doctor nodded, spinning in a circle, searching for the food stall they'd gotten the fairy-floss from. Wyatt was still there, smiling kindly at a little girl as he handed off a stick of purple fairy-floss.

Without a word, the Doctor set off towards him, leaving Hartley scrambling to follow.

“Wyatt, was it?” he said to the boy in place of a proper greeting.

Wyatt looked up from his cash register, eyes narrowed warily. “What now?” he asked, not quite a whine, but certainly far from happy.

“I had some questions about the fairy-floss,” the Doctor continued without pause. Wyatt stared back at him as though beginning to seriously question his sanity. “Are its ingredients made here in the park, or shipped from off-world?”

“Uh, they're made here in the park,” Wyatt told them steadily, brow furrowed like he couldn't wrap his head around why the Doctor was so obsessed with the fairy-floss.

“Where?”

Wyatt's frown grew even deeper. “Why do you need to know?” he countered slowly.

“Just answer the question, Wyatt,” said the Doctor irritably. Wyatt looked hardly pleased with the reply.

Hartley stepped forwards, pasting a kind smile on her face. “We're trying to help,” she promised him gently. “It's really important that you tell us. Believe me when I say, it's life-or-death.”

Wyatt still looked unsure, but also a whole lot less resistant than he had when the Doctor had asked. “It's a factory on the edge of the park,” he revealed. “I've never been there before – no one has. The sugar just gets delivered to my cart twice a day.”

The Doctor shifted his weight, and suddenly Hartley knew exactly what was coming next.

“Can you take us?”

Wyatt's eyes went round in shock. “Why?” he spluttered.

“You ask a lot of questions,” said the Doctor.

“So do you!”

Hartley knew then that she had to intervene. “You know what he said about that feeling? Like you're being watched, but nothing's there?” she asked, voice low and soothing, stepping closer to the younger boy as she spoke. Wyatt nodded his head. “We're trying to fix that,” she told him. “We're trying to put things right. But to do that, we need help. _Your_ help.”

Wyatt stared back at her, torn between skepticism and agreement. Hartley widened her smile, staring back imploringly, and finally Wyatt caved. “Okay,” he whispered, like somebody might be listening in. Like he thought he might get in trouble for helping them. “Okay, I can take you to the factory. My shift doesn't end until nine––”

“Killer clowns are kidnapping innocent people, and you're concerned with finishing your shift?” asked the Doctor critically.

Wyatt looked affronted. “I could get fired,” he argued.

“You could also die,” the Doctor replied. “Which one's worse?”

For a moment, Wyatt didn't seem confident of the answer. Hartley pursed her lips to hide her smile.

“Okay,” said Wyatt finally, shoulders slumping as he gave in to the pressure. He yanked off his top hat, putting it under the stand and running his hands through her flat, brownish hair. He looked left and right, as though worried his manager might appear from thin air and fire him on the spot, then he drew himself up to his full height – which honestly wasn't that impressive – and nodded in the direction of the rollercoaster towering high above them. “It's this way.”

They set off at a brisk pace, winding their way through the horde of hypnotised park-goers and making their way towards the factory that would hopefully answer their many questions.

Wyatt led the way, Hartley walking beside him and the Doctor bringing up the rear. After a few minutes of silence, Wyatt suddenly turned to her, curiosity in his eyes. “I don't even know your names,” he said, abruptly realising the fact.

“I'm Hartley,” she told him with a small smile. “That's the Doctor.”

“The Doctor?” Wyatt pressed. “Doesn't he have a name?”

“His name's the Doctor,” she shrugged as though it made any sense to her.

“But that's not a proper name,” he argued.

“Proper? What's proper?” asked the Doctor from behind them, a hint of irritation in his voice. “Who cares about _proper_?”

“He can get a little sensitive,” Hartley stage-whispered to Wyatt, but the boy didn't smile, just staring back at her like he thought they were absolute crazies. Getting the strong sense that he didn't want to talk, Hartley fell silent, letting the quiet between them drag as they wound their way through families and friends alike, all of them munching obliviously on a variety of coloured fairy-floss.

The factory Wyatt was leading them to stood tall on the edge of the park – rather an eyesore in Hartley's opinion. It was made of curved metal sheets, the silver glittering in the overhead sunshine.

“Good lad,” said the Doctor curtly. “Now run along. Get off-world, if you can. You'll thank me for it.”

“No way,” argued Wyatt. “You said you'd give me answers.”

“I said no such thing.”

“You've got to let me come. I _need_ to know.”

“Know what?” the Doctor asked quickly.

“What's wrong with this park!” he shouted, a crazed look to his youthful eyes. Hartley imagined a long enough time in this place would make even the most level-headed of folk go a little mad.

The Doctor eyed Wyatt critically, and Hartley could practically hear the questions whirring away behind his icy blue eyes. “How long've you worked here?” he finally asked. Wyatt looked annoyed that he was asking questions, rather than answering them, but even he was smart enough to know when not to argue with the Doctor.

“Six months,” Wyatt told them evenly.

“You go home at night, or d'you live on the planet?”

“I live here, in the staff units.”

“Alone?”

“I have a roommate – Terry. He works in the gift shop.”

“And your family isn't here with you?”

Looking bewildered by the question, Wyatt frowned. “No. They're back home, on the planet Agewa.”

“And when's the last time you spoke to them?” the Doctor pressed. Hartley began to see where he was going with this.

Wyatt opened his mouth to answer, only to suddenly freeze, eyes narrowing into slits of confusion. “Er – I don't...” he trailed off, blinking as though trying to force a memory to the surface, but not quite being able to do it. “I dunno,” he finally said, a little dazed from the revelation. “I don't remember the last time I spoke to them. My own parents...”

“You been eating the fairy-floss?” asked the Doctor.

Wyatt nodded. “The staff get it free.” The Doctor's expression was grim. “Why?” asked Wyatt tensely. “Why'd you make me bring you here? What's wrong with the fairy-floss?”

Before he could reply, there was a loud creaking sound from across the road, and a panel in the metal of the factory's wall was pushed open, revealing itself to be a hidden door. Two figures wearing what looked like hazmat suits stepped out into the light of day.

“Down,” hissed the Doctor, abruptly crouching down behind a wall of decorative shrubbery. Hartley dropped down, but Wyatt remained standing. Hartley reached up, gripping his arm and forcefully yanking him down to her level, hidden behind the shrubs.

They watched through the carefully trimmed leaves as the suited people turned and began to walk in the opposite direction, chatting amicably between themselves, oblivious to the fact they were being watched.

“Come on,” whispered the Doctor once he was sure they were far enough away. He stood back up and began to jog across the small service road towards the looming, silvery building before them.

“We're going _inside_?” hissed Wyatt in something of a panic.

“Trust me, you learn to stop being so surprised,” Hartley assured him before taking off after the Doctor, one eye on the two figures still visible, walking lazily down the road, both still covered head to toe in their protective gear.

The Doctor had come to a stop by the place the door had been, now sunken back into the wall, not so much as a seam to tell them it was still there. Wyatt joined them a moment later, with beads of sweat lining his brow, breathing heavily in his panic.

“How're we meant to get in?” Wyatt asked in a barely-there whisper, not daring to speak any louder, in case they were found out.

The Doctor answered by producing his sonic screwdriver, wiggling it in Wyatt's face before aiming it at the place the door had been. Its end lit up blue and buzzed sharply before there was that creaking sound again, and the door reappeared as if by magic.

“Shall we?” asked the Doctor pleasantly, pulling the door open wider and sauntering inside.

Hartley smiled, unable to help herself, and hurried in after him. A moment later Wyatt followed, and the door creaked shut once more after him, sealing them inside the factory's walls.

Only it wasn't a factory at all – it was a greenhouse.

Before them stood hundreds upon hundreds of rows of bright green plants. They looked familiar to Hartley, but in a foreign sort of way. Something she knew about, but had never seen herself.

“Oh, that's new,” hummed the Doctor, wandering forwards until he was stood next to the closest row of plants. He leant down, inhaling sharply through his nose.

“What is it?” Hartley asked, her voice barely a whisper, too scared they might be discovered if she spoke any louder.

“It's sugar cane,” he replied simply, that bright smile on his face, the same one he got whenever he was presented with something brand new.

“This is where they're getting the sugar from?” she asked, leaning forwards to quickly sniff the plant. It smelt strongly of sugar, sweet and natural, and her mouth watered at the intoxicating scent. “They're growing it themselves?” The Doctor nodded happily. “How're they lacing it with that perception filter thing?”

“I don't know,” he told her. “But I intend to find out.” He glanced over the tops of the sugar cane, pushing himself up onto his toes to see, as the tips were already at his eye-line. “We need to find their computer, or at the very least, some kind of records room,” he said. Hartley tried to see what he was seeing, but she was too short, and gave up quickly. “Come on – this way looks promising.”

The Doctor turned and began to walk the long way around the rows and rows of plants. Hartley glanced at Wyatt, who was looking a little more pale than before, and nodded for him to follow. The Doctor led them to the edge of the warehouse, then along the wall. Every time they came to a new row of sugar cane, he paused and glanced around it, just to be sure nobody was there to catch them where they weren't supposed to be.

Finally they reached a door, and the Doctor used the sonic on it as well. It popped open without pause, and he gave a small, self-satisfied smile, ducking inside. The other two were helpless to do anything but follow.

Inside was the rather anticlimactic reveal of an office. It looked like any office from Earth, with a big desk covered in photo frames and pens, a sleek looking computer, and a big, leathery chair.

The Doctor didn't hesitate in sliding into the chair. “Wyatt, watch the door,” he ordered their new friend, who balked at the unexpected responsibility.

“What do I do if someone comes?” he asked in a hushed whisper, as if the walls themselves had ears.

“Just make up a signal,” the Doctor said distractedly, busy hacking into the computer's mainframe through use of the keyboard and his trusty sonic.

“A signal?” asked Wyatt cluelessly.

“Clear your throat, stomp your foot – something discreet,” Hartley told him. Looking hardly confident, Wyatt reluctantly nodded his head, peeking out the door and diligently keeping watch, like a rather nervous puppy might guard a gate from the mailman.

Hartley leant down beside the Doctor, peering at the screen of the computer he was hacking, keen eyes taking in everything it said. The Doctor had opened some kind of program that showed blueprints to the theme park, but he clicked away from it when it was clear it held no value to them.

“What're we looking for?” Hartley asked him lowly, heart racing in her chest with the fear of getting caught. At any moment someone could find them there, and she doubted having Wyatt stood between them and the enemy was going to be worth a damn.

“Proof of their evil master plan,” he replied, typing away at a mile a minute. Windows popped up and disappeared too quickly for Hartley to read, but the Doctor didn't seem to be having any trouble, keen eyes flickering back and forth across the screen. “Here,” he said abruptly, and the flashing information came to a halt.

This time it wasn't words or a blueprint, instead a small video. It played without sound, but they didn't need words to understand what was happening. Hartley and the Doctor watched in silence as it showed the very same gravity funnel that had drawn them here in the first place.

It pulsated out into space, drawing unsuspecting ships down onto the planet – just as it had them. Below was a small paragraph, and as both of them read it, their hearts – three, in total – began to sink into the ground with horror.

“Oh, my God,” muttered Hartley, gaping at the screen in disgust.

“This is bad,” agreed the Doctor.

“What is it?” asked Wyatt, and the pair of travellers looked up to see the young man standing before them, wringing his hands together anxiously. Neither of them answered him, and he grew even more worried. “Tell me. What's happening here?”

The Doctor looked up from the screen again to frown at the boy warily. “Well, basically, the whole planet's just one giant Venus flytrap,” he explained shortly, his voice low and grim, like a physician revealing one had terminal cancer.

“I don't understand,” said Wyatt slowly. “What's a Venus flytrap?”

“It's type of a carnivorous plant,” the Doctor told him, eyes back on the screen, explaining even as he still read. “What I mean is that this planet's pretty to look at, and it sounds fun on paper, so people come from all around to visit. But once they come, they can't ever, ever leave.”

“Why not?” asked Wyatt in a barely-there whisper, as if almost too scared to learn the answer.

“Because once they're here, they're loaded up with perception-filters and sedatives – the fairy-floss – enough that they turn into oblivious cattle. Someone could be here for years, but as far as their conscious mind is concerned, it'll have only been a matter of hours.”

“But why? What's the point?”

“Hunger,” said the Doctor plainly, and Wyatt gulped. “The planet's native species are the Pierrot.”

“I've never heard of them.”

“Neither have I,” he replied. “But it says here they're a carnivorous psychic race. They push into your mind and change their appearance to fit the situation – like chameleons.”

“The clowns,” breathed Hartley.

“They're blending in with the theme of the park – which they created to draw people of all genders, ages and races in.”

“Why?”

“So they can have one huge, never-ending, all-you-can-eat buffet,” the Doctor said grimly. “Keep them fed and happy and having fun – until it's dinnertime. Then they beam away in a transmat to enjoy their dinner away from prying eyes.”

“Are they humanoid?” Hartley questioned, hating that she had to ask – and also terrified of the answer.

“I don't know,” he replied. “There're no files here that show their true form. For them, appearing as a chameleon-like projection is as natural as breathing. They don't even do it consciously – it's all instinctive.”

“So, what?” asked Wyatt, voice a high, sharp pitch that rang with panic. “They're just _keeping_ us? Like eggs in a refrigerator?”

“Could be worse,” muttered the Doctor thoughtfully. “At least they're having fun.”

Wyatt looked about ready to scream. And Hartley tiled her head when she heard the familiar squeak of leather shoes hitting floor. Something occurred to her then, and her eyes widened, stomach swooping with terror. “Wyatt,” she said, quiet and careful. “Who's watching the door?”

Horror leaked onto Wyatt's face, but before he could respond the door opened with a bang, and he whipped around with a loud yelp of fright. A man stood in the doorway – he was round and plump, wearing an expensive-looking suit, his face utterly caked in clown makeup.

The juxtaposition might have been amusing, had the rows of sharp teeth he was displaying not been so fundamentally terrifying. Hartley let out a small yelp of her own, and the Doctor leapt to his feet, sonic held out like one might brandish a knife. Hartley wondered suddenly, inappropriately, which one was more dangerous.

“Yes, hullo,” said the Doctor, voice cheerful despite his coiled muscles and tense demeanour. “I'm the Doctor – these are my friends, Hartley and Wyatt. We're, er, we're from the Union,” he scrambled for a believable lie.

But clown-face either wasn't listening, or he just didn't care. He curled his lip back further, giving the sort of snarl that haunted children's nightmares. “Guards!” he shouted suddenly, voice gravelly and dark, booming all around them, enhanced by the metal walls.

“Oh, all right, it was worth a try,” muttered the Doctor sullenly. Hartley watched in confusion as he lowered his sonic, slipping it – strangely enough – into his pack pocket, rather than the one in his jacket. “So, how're you getting away with this, then?” he asked, spine straight and ready for action. “How hasn't anyone stopped you yet? Surely the Shadow Proclamation would have stepped in by now.”

Three massive, burly men – all in that horrible, staple clown makeup – appeared in the doorway, snarls on their ugly faces. “Arrest them,” ordered the one in the business suit.

The forced their way into the room, and Hartley yelped as one of them gripped her wrists, holding them tightly behind her back in only one of his giant hands.

“How're you doing it, eh?” the Doctor pressed stubbornly, refusing to let it go. “There's no way the Architect wouldn't step in – unless … no … could there really be? That big?”

“Doctor,” snapped Hartley, struggling her best against the clown's grip. Her hands were beginning to lose circulation, starting to tingle at the fingertips. “Full sentences.”

“It's a perception filter!” the Doctor exclaimed like the only man at trivia night with the correct answer. “The whole planet – it's a _perception filter_!”

“Get rid of them,” ordered the clown in charge, his curly green hair glinting evilly in the light streaming in from the glass ceiling of the warehouse.

“Doctor,” said Hartley reproachfully, waiting desperately for him to pull a miracle from his hat and save them all. From behind her, Wyatt was whimpering like a child younger than he was. But Hartley couldn't really blame him – it was all rather frightening. “Now would be a good time to _do_ something,” she prompted the Doctor when he did nothing.

“This can't go on forever, you know?” he said instead of freeing them, staring directly into the beady eyes of the clown in charge.

The suited alien cocked his head, eyeing the Doctor with something like curiosity. “You may think us evil, but this is simply the natural order of things,” he said in that low, rasping voice, like that of a lifelong smoker. “We're nothing but a mere cog in the ecosystem of the galaxy,” he told them proudly.

“This isn't natural selection,” snapped the Doctor, finally beginning to lose his cool. “This is murder!”

The clown sighed as though this were all so awfully tiresome. “Believe what you will. You won't be alive long enough for it to make a difference,” he said flippantly, giving a lazy wave of his hand. The three grunts holding them began to manhandle them out of the room, and Hartley yelped as the one gripping her nearly shoved her face-first into the wall.

“This is your only chance!” shouted the Doctor as he passed. “Negotiate with me – we can find a better way!”

“Or what?” he sneered back callously.

“Or I'll burn it all to the ground.”

For a moment Hartley thought she saw a glimmer of fear in the clown's beady eyes, but it was gone before she could be sure. “Devour them,” he ordered his men shortly. “Make sure it hurts.”

Wyatt had begun to cry from behind them, and Hartley struggled with renewed vigour, doing her best to get free. This wasn't how they were going to die – it couldn't be! “Doctor,” she cried, trying to kick her captor in the shin, but he was holding her too far away to inflict any damage. “Do something!” she begged.

They were dragged halfway across the room, every step sending her hopes sinking lower and lower, the belief that she was going to be eaten alive growing with each heavy pump of her heart.

Just when tears had begun to prickle at her eyes, there was a familiar, high-pitched buzzing noise, and suddenly the aliens holding the three of them hostage let them go with shouts of pain. Hartley tripped, just barely catching herself on the edge of a nearby platform.

She whipped around to see them clutching their arms in pain. At each of their wrists was a large, gruesome wound, and Hartley looked over at the Doctor to find him pocketing his sonic.

“How did you––?” she tried to ask.

“Their watches!” he shouted over their cries of pain. “Now run!”

He gripped her arm and began to sprint in the other direction. Thrusting out a hand, Hartley clutched Wyatt's shirt in her hand and yanked him after them. He still had tears running down his face, but Hartley couldn't blame him – they were just nearly eaten alive. Above them, alarms began to blare and red lights started to flash.

It took an extra moment for Hartley to realise that they weren't heading in the direction of the doors.

“Doctor?!” she shouted over the noise of the sirens.

“I need to get to the control room!” he shouted back. “I have to turn off the planet's perception filter – it's the only way to stop them!”

“Where's the control room?!” she cried as they took a sharp left, rushing down a long aisle of sugar cane. It reminded her of some kind of horror film, where the good guys ran from the bad guys in a creepy field of corn. The comparison didn't help her much.

“Second level!” he told her, taking another abrupt left.

If there was one thing that same horror movie had taught her, it was that you should _never_ go upstairs when being chased by the villain. That was just a universally-acknowledged bad move. But she knew he was right – if they wanted to stop what these Pierrot things were doing, then they were going to have to shut off that perception filter. It was the only way.

Suddenly the aisle ended, giving way to a rickety set of stairs that led up, up towards the ceiling – to what Hartley assumed could only be the second level control room. “Are you sure this is it?!” she asked the Doctor, pausing at the bottom of the staircase.

“Yes!” he called down to her, already climbing the steps. “Come on!”

Groaning, Hartley followed, tugging a reluctant, terrified Wyatt after her. The stairs creaked under their combined weight, and Hartley wondered whether they wouldn't collapse all together. The door at the top was unlocked, and the Doctor held it open just long enough for Hartley and Wyatt to trip their way inside before slamming it shut and sonicking it after them.

“Will that hold?” she asked quickly, staring at the locked door in concern.

“Not for long,” he confessed, already racing over to the large wall of monitors, typing away at them furiously, the only thing that stood between these aliens and mass murder.

Knowing she would be more help to Wyatt than to the Doctor, Hartley turned to the young boy, who she realised now couldn't have been more than fifteen years old.

“Are you okay?” she asked quietly, doing her best to ignore the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs outside, growing louder and louder the closer they got.

“Who are you people?” Wyatt demanded rather than answer.

“Just travellers,” she replied as there was a series of loud bangs on the door. The wood creaked, but didn't give, and Wyatt flinched at the noise, eyeing the door in terror. “It'll be okay,” she told him, even though she knew she had no business promising any such thing. “We'll get out of this. We all will.”

“How do you know?!” he asked, voice shrill with panic.

And now it was her who didn't have an answer, staring back at him helplessly. “Got it!” shouted the Doctor, and relieved for the distraction, Hartley turned to look at him, finding him grinning back at her goofily.

“You did it?!”

“The perception filter's down,” he confirmed. “Close your eyes for a mo',” he added as he yanked free his sonic, holding it up to the monitors. Understanding instantly what was about to happen, Hartley squeezed her eyes shut tight as the monitors, keyboards and hard drives all gave loud bangs and released a series of blinding sparks. Wyatt yelped, holding his arms over his head just to be safe. “There,” said the Doctor proudly. “That should keep it down – at least long enough for us to get the Shadow Proclamation here.”

There was another series of loud, furious bangs on the door, and Hartley knew their time was running out. “Time to go,” she declared.

“Where?!” asked Wyatt shrilly, and he had a point. There were no other doors in the room, the only exit being the one currently bashed in by the Pierrot's. The only other exit point was a window, and Hartley didn't consider it an option until the Doctor pushed open the glass and stuck his head out into the sunshine.

“Come on. We've got to jump!” he announced.

“What?” shrieked Wyatt. “We'll die!”

“It's only about twenty feet,” the Doctor insisted. “And look, there're bales of straw down there to break our fall,” he added cheerfully.

“No way, I'm not jumping out of a _window_!” Wyatt insisted shrilly.

“Suit yourself,” shrugged the Doctor. “If you'd rather get eaten alive by a bunch of evil clowns, be my guest,” he said with a sunny smile before stepping over the edge of the window, letting his feet dangle in midair, then dropping to the ground.

“Doctor!” Hartley shouted, stepping away from Wyatt and racing to the window, barely able to believe the Doctor had _actually_ _jumped._ Sticking her head out into the air, she peered down at the ground to find her alien friend climbing to his feet, brushing stalks of straw from his clothes. “You okay?!” she shouted down to him.

“Come on, Hartley!” he called back in answer. “Jump, or get eaten for dinner!”

Hartley cast a look back at Wyatt, who seemed rooted to his spot in fear. She thought suddenly that they really should have forced him to go back when he'd had the chance. “Come on, Wyatt,” she hissed at him. “You've got to jump.”

“I can't,” he insisted.

“You can. You _have_ to.”

She reached out, grasping his forcefully by the arm and manhandling him towards the window. “Hartley!” the Doctor impatiently called up from the ground below.

“Wyatt, we have to go _now_ ,” she shouted at Wyatt as she heard the door beginning to give way behind her. “You can do this! Just _jump_!”

The door gave way with a crash, and Wyatt threw himself out the window with a cry of fright. Hartley followed, just missing getting caught by the skin of her teeth. The fall made her insides roll, but it seemed like she blinked and she was crashing to a stack of straw bales, landing at an odd angle that made her arms protest loudly.

But there was no time to focus on the pain, the Doctor was gripping her hand and dragging her forcefully away, his other hand wrapped firmly around a sickly-looking Wyatt's arm.

Hartley's shoulders seemed to have taken the brunt of the fall, thankfully leaving her legs unharmed. She held her arms awkwardly against her side as she sprinted away from the warehouse of sugar cane, back across the road towards the theme park.

She didn't look back to see if they were being followed – she was sure they were – she just barrelled through the crowd at breakneck speeds. None of the park goers seemed to bat an eyelid at their sprinting, or the terror on their faces, all too doped up on the fairy-floss to notice.

The crowd grew thicker the deeper into the park they ran, and Hartley was glad for the extra cover, making it harder for the killer clowns to find them. In a silent but unanimous decision between the pair of travellers, they headed directly for the storeroom they'd landed the TARDIS in.

Wyatt followed along blindly, struggling to keep up with their pace.

Finally they burst into the storeroom holding the TARDIS, and the Doctor already had his key out, shoving open the door to his beautiful time machine and barrelling inside. He charged up to the console, and Hartley yanked Wyatt in after her, the kid so stunned by everything that happened, he didn't even seem to take notice of the mystical proportions of the ship.

As soon as the doors shut behind them, Wyatt sank to the grating below, curling up in a ball as he recovered from their sprint.

“Where're we going?” Hartley asked, leaning against the railing and taking a moment to catch her breath.

“Shadow Proclamation,” he told her succinctly. “We've got to hurry – before the Pierrot get the planet's perception filter back online.”

The TARDIS juddered around them, and before Hartley could say anything more they landed and the Doctor was moving back towards the doors. “I'll only be a mo',” he said, cheerful in great contrast to what they'd just experienced. “Watch him,” he added with a nod at Wyatt.

Hartley nodded obediently, watching as he left the TARDIS with all of his usual confidence. Hartley looked down at Wyatt, who seemed to be struggling to breathe. She turned, racing out through the door leading deeper into the TARDIS.

The beautiful ship was in a cooperative mood, placing the kitchen only a corridor away. Hartley darted inside, pulling open the fridge and fishing out a bottle of water before turning and legging it back towards the console room.

Wyatt still hadn't moved, and Hartley took a moment to catch her breath before kneeling down beside the boy. He had his arms wrapped around his head, and Hartley waited patiently until he looked up at her, eyes wet with lingering panic.

“Drink this,” she told him gently, offering out the bottle. He took it without question, unscrewing the lid and chugging it down in deep gulps. When the bottle was half empty, Wyatt looked up at her with more composure than he'd had a moment ago.

“Thanks,” he said, voice raw from the run.

“How do you feel?” she asked him quietly, leaning back on the grating, staying down at his level.

“Shaken,” he answered honestly.

“Not everyone can handle this sort of thing,” she told him. “And that's okay. We're all built differently.”

“You do this sort of thing a lot, then?” he asked, lifting the bottle and taking another deep drink of the water within.

Hartley frowned, the question catching her off guard. “No, actually,” she confessed, surprised by her own answer. “This is a first for me.”

Wyatt stared at her like she were crazy. “You're good at it,” he said. “I guess you _are_ 'built for it',” he added, just a little wry. She smiled at his weak attempt at a joke.

She was shocked by her own reaction. Somehow it felt like this sort of thing was commonplace. She got the sense that this was what life with the Doctor was more often about – and things had just been in something of a lull during her time aboard. She wondered, suddenly, which kind of life she'd choose, given the choice. But she didn't have to wonder long – she already knew what kind of way of life she preferred.

Something told her that, now that she'd had a taste for real adventure, it wasn't going to go away any time soon.

“Feeling better?” she asked Wyatt in an attempt to keep him calm and herself distracted.

“Yeah,” he nodded, giving a weak smile. “I'd say I wanna go home – but I suddenly don't know where that is, anymore,” he admitted around a frown of confusion.

She understood – he couldn't go back to the Venus flytrap of a planet, but he had nowhere else to go.

“Are we in orbit around the planet now?” he continued, probably just to keep the focus off his sudden homelessness. Hartley clicked her tongue, wondering how she was supposed to explain the TARDIS to him without _actually_ knowing how it worked.

Then the door creaked open, and the Doctor sauntered back into the room. “How'd it go?” she asked him quickly, climbing back to her feet and dusting off her jeans.

“Placed an urgent, anonymous tip. They'll be at the planet within the hour,” he told her with a satisfied little grin that Hartley found herself matching.

“And what'll happen to them all?”

“The humans will be escorted back to their homes, and the Pierrots will be incarcerated for their crimes,” he said simply.

“They won't...” she trailed off, unsure how to ask.

“Execute them?” he finished casually, and she winced at the not-so pretty picture it painted. “Nah, the Proclamation knows they weren't doing it with malicious intent – they were doing what nature had designed them to do.”

“There's an awful lot of grey to the issue, don't you think?” Hartley murmured, glancing up at the time rotor thoughtfully.

“There usually is,” he replied. “The universe, like anything else, is hardly black and white.”

Hartley smiled, a perfunctory purse of her lips, and turned to look at Wyatt, who had slowly climbed to his feet, holding himself steady with the railing.

“Now, onto our last piece of business,” said the Doctor, turning towards the console, beginning to send them back into the vortex. “Where to, Wyatt? And _when_ to, I suppose?”

“When to?” Wyatt parroted in confusion.

“I didn't look at the date when we landed that first time,” the Doctor said, more to Hartley than to Wyatt. “You'll have to give me a date and time, unless you want me to just guess,” he added, like he kind of hoped Wyatt would do just that.

Wyatt didn't fully understand, but he got the feeling they were offering to take him home. “Uh, I don't know where to...” he trailed off, a little helpless.

“Do you have family you can stay with?” Hartley jumped in, smiling at him kindly.

“Well, I mean, who knows how long I've been at the park?” he asked around a frown. “They might think I'm dead, or something.”

“Nah,” said the Doctor. “What date did you leave, and from where?”

Wyatt had never looked more perplexed, but he was slowly beginning to learn when to just go with the flow. “Uh, I'm from Tallow,” he told the Doctor. “It's in the eighty-fifth quadrant near the––”

“I know where it is,” said the Doctor cheerfully. “What date?”

“July 24, 4101,” he answered dazedly.

“And what address?”

Wyatt rattled off a foreign, unfamiliar address like he were answering questions at the transport department – which, Hartley supposed, wasn't too far off the mark.

The TARDIS shook around them, the floor vibrating under their feet. Wyatt gripped onto the railing to help keep himself upright. The room filled with that wonderful wheeze-groan, and then everything went still.

“There we are,” said the Doctor proudly. “Back only a day after you left.”

“What?” asked Wyatt, stunned.

“Didn't I mention? It's a time machine, too.”

Wyatt didn't seem to know what to say. “So, if I walk out those doors, I'll be––”

“Right back where you started, as though your time on Chorion-42 never even happened. The slate wiped clean,” the Doctor told him cheerfully. Wyatt stared at the doors like they might grow fangs and bite.

“Wow,” he whispered, stunned beyond words. He swallowed, swaying on the spot before turning to look at the enigmatic travellers in bewilderment. “Uh, I guess this is goodbye, then,” he said, unmistakeably sad.

“Guess it is,” agreed the Doctor.

Hartley smiled, stepping forwards and wrapping her arms around the younger boy, pulling him into a tight, warm embrace. “Nice meeting you, Wyatt Divine,” she said into his ear, pulling back and patting him on both his shoulders. “Still such a cool name,” she grinned happily.

Wyatt laughed, a little unsteady from the day, but still lighthearted. “Thank you,” he said, eyes flickering between her and the Doctor. “If you hadn't come...” he didn't need to finish the thought. They all knew exactly what he was saying.

“But we did,” Hartley reminded him. “And now, like the Doctor said, you've got a clean slate. Use it to be brilliant.”

Wyatt grinned, stepping back and making for the doors. He paused, fingers wrapped around the handle. “Who knows? Maybe I'll open a fairy-floss company,” he joked, and Hartley laughed, bright and happy. “Too soon?” he asked playfully. The Doctor grinned. “Bye, then.”

“Bye, Wyatt,” Hartley waved, and then he was gone, the TARDIS door creaking shut after him.

The Doctor immediately sent them back into flight, and Hartley gripped the railing as the ship juddered beneath her feet.

“Where to now?” she asked quickly.

“To see the fruits of our labour,” he replied, landing them with a low, resounding bong of the time rotor. He sauntered to the doors, throwing them open and slipping out. Hartley followed warily.

They were landed on a random street of some futuristic city. Flying cars whizzed by above their heads, and Hartley smiled at the sight of aliens and humans alike wandering arm-in-arm down the pavement, chatting to each other happily, not a care in the world.

“Here we are,” said the Doctor's voice, and she turned away from the aliens to see him perched at a large, deluxe magazine stand. In his hands was a large newspaper, and she hurried to peek over his shoulder, getting a good look at the front page.

_Planet of the Theme Parks is No More. Human-Factory Conspiracy Discovered on Chorion-42. Details inside..._

“We did it,” said Hartley, not convinced that they'd have made a difference until that exact moment. “We saved them!”

“So we did,” said the Doctor, appearing nonchalant, but she could see the glimmer of pleasure to his warm blue eyes.

The Doctor put down the newspaper, turning back to the TARDIS, pushing open the door and waving Hartley in first. The doors shut after them, sealing the busy alien city away, leaving only the hum of the time machine around them.

“Doctor,” Hartley said, something occurring to her.

“Hm?” he hummed, half distracted by the console as he took them back into the vortex.

“Be honest and tell me,” she said, coming to a stop beside him at the console, “is it always like this?”

The Doctor grinned a big, wide, toothy smile, and she knew she had her answer. “Still in for the ride?” he asked, half playful, half serious.

“Oh, you can bet on it, Doc,” she beamed, and she knew, in her very bones, that she was exactly where she was supposed to be.


	6. Rose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, we begin episode rewrites here, with my own original chapters mixed through. Hope you enjoy!

**ROSE**

“ _Kindness is the language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see.”_

Mark Twain

* * *

“Autons.”

Hartley looked up from the book she was devouring, staring across the room at the Doctor with raised eyebrows. “What about them?” she asked, moving her feet from the comfy couch cushion they were rested on and crossing them in front of her gently.

The Doctor clicked his tongue impatiently, rolling his eyes at the girl and sending her a halfhearted frown from the doorway to the TARDIS' impressive library. “There's an invasion in London. I figure we can either sit around here reading––” he paused, blue eyes flickering down to the title of the book in her grasp, “–– _Time Travel for Dummies_ ,” he didn't even attempt to hide his grimace at her reading material and she snatched the book against her chest protectively, “or we could go save some lives and actually be of some use to the universe.”

Excited at the prospect of an adventure, Hartley nearly fell off of the lounge in her haste to stand up.

“What're Autons?” she asked eagerly.

“Creatures of living plastic,” the Doctor told her. “Now come on,” he tutted, waving her from the room without bothering to tell her more. “We have work to do.”

Hartley suggested stopping for chips on the way, but the Doctor was adamant they got straight to the source of the trouble. Easy for him to say – he wasn't human, and didn't have to eat as often as she did.

“Why're we at a Henrik's?” she asked after the Doctor had parked his time machine against a curb and led her out into the light breeze of a London evening.

“This is where the TARDIS found to be the main hub of the invasion,” he explained, juggling a small assortment of items in his hands as he led them across the near-empty street and over towards the dimmed lights of the three-storey building. “Or as close to it as her systems could detect. Besides, shop window dummies: perfect hosts for the Nestene Consciousness.”

“Nestene Consciousness?” she echoed dumbly.

“Never mind that,” he said, handing off the items in his hands. She took them clumsily, very nearly dropping a small, clear plastic bag in her haste. The Doctor sonicked the door in the alley, leading into the back of the ground floor, and it clicked open without issue. The store was utterly deserted – which Hartley soon discovered to be a very good thing indeed.

“Sweep the building, just to be sure everybody's out, then meet me on level two once you're done,” he said shortly, accent crisp and so very _Northern_.

“Done what?” she asked cluelessly.

He nodded to the items in her arms. “D'you know how to set charges?”

“Charges?” she repeated in alarm. “As in, bombs?”

“Yes, as in bombs,” he spoke slowly, like she were a child. Scowling at him irritably, Hartley watched as he pulled the medium-sized clear bag full of tiny discs from her hand, cracking it open and tipping a handful into his large palm. “Stick one against the wall near the lift on each floor, then the spread the remaining three out across the roof. Stay away from the relay device.”

“We're blowing it up? Boom?” she asked in surprise.

“That's the plan,” said the Doctor simply.

“All right,” she murmured acceptingly, because what else could she say? “And the relay device?”

“It'll look like a satellite dish.”

“Gotcha.”

“Think you can handle it?” he added quickly.

“Definitely,” she agreed, taking the handful of small discs from him. They were unlike any bombs she'd ever seen or heard of before – but then again, the Doctor was a time travelling alien, it made sense that he'd be getting his equipment from a more advanced time.

“I'll handle the sub levels,” he told her, casting a look over his shoulder. They were in the kitchenwares section of the store, no shop dummies in sight. Hartley wondered what she was meant to do if one attacked her.

“What if I run into any of those...Auton things?” she asked as the Doctor sonicked the back door, cracking it open and impatiently waving her through.

“Run.”

“You said that they're living plastic, right?” she questioned as they stopped at a bay of lifts. “So, what's their weakness?”

“For now, it's what you're holding,” he told her, jabbing at the button to go up. Hartley stepped up to the wall beside the lift, picking up one of the small discs and pressing it against the smooth surface of the wall. Despite not having felt sticky, it stuck to the paint immediately, and when she pulled her finger away it stayed on the wall, little red light on the front blinking every few seconds. “You gonna be okay?” he asked as the lift dinged.

“I can handle sticking a few circles to the wall,” she assured him dryly.

The Doctor rolled his eyes and waved her into the small metal box. “Go on,” he urged her. “And make _sure_ the building's empty.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she physically batted away his concerns as the lift doors rolled shut, sealing her away from him.

It was easy to sweep the building, what with most of lights off, telling her the rooms were empty. It was a relief, making her job a whole lot easier than she'd thought. She couldn't find anyone on any of her designated floors, and she was more than a little relieved not to run into any of these living plastic things either. The Doctor hadn't been very specific on whether or not they would kill her if she was found, but she figured he wouldn't do anything to put her in any _serious_ danger … _right_?

She was stood at the rendezvous point, waiting impatiently for the Doctor to arrive, when she thought she heard something behind her. Spinning sharply on her heel, Hartley thrust out her hands in front of her, as though she had any idea how to disable an attacker, should the need arise. There was nothing there except a faulty light, which flickered ominously as she stared at it.

The lift dinged from behind her, and the sound jolted Hartley abruptly from her thoughts.

“All right?” was the first thing the Doctor asked when he spotted her, darting from the lift and pushing past her in a rush. “You look like you're about to lay an egg!” She opened her mouth to respond, but he didn't give her the opportunity to talk, cutting her off as he barrelled on. “Did you secure the building?”

“Yeah,” she answered with a nod, then she opened her mouth to ask where they went from there, only to cut herself off with a blink.

A young woman was slowly edging her way out of the lift, hazel eyes wide with angry befuddlement as she shuffled out of the way of the closing doors. She was pretty, Hartley found, and staring at her in pure confusion. Hartley wondered where she'd come from. Was she part of the Doctor's plan … whatever exactly that plan may have been?

“All clear,” she confirmed for lack of anything else to say, eyes still wandering over the irritated looking teenage girl.

The Doctor nodded, but the stranger spoke before he could say anything. “And who're you?” the blonde demanded, clearly on edge.

“I'm Hart-” she started to say, but then the Doctor was cutting in.

“Hold on! Mind the arm!” he exclaimed as Rose paused in the doorway.

“Hang on, I've had enough of this now,” she complained, her voice nice, her accent apparent. “Who are you then?” she continued to demand, clearly sick of not getting a straight answer. “Who's that lot down there? I _said_ , who are they?!” she insisted when the alien didn't answer. Hartley looked over at him with a confused frown, silently asking who the girl was, but the question went unanswered in the mess of it all.

“Living plastic creatures,” the Doctor responded in his usual clipped manner. “They're being controlled by a relay device on the roof,” he explained offhandedly as he pushed his way through the plastic blocking the hallway, the two girls following after him like lost puppies. “Which would be a great big problem, _if_ I didn't have _this_ ,” he held up the detonator for the charges she had set, and she rolled her eyes at his dramatics.

He shoved his way through a door, holding it open for a moment as Hartley slipped through the gap between the wood and his body.

“So, we're gonna go upstairs and blow it up, and we might well die in the process, but don't worry about us,” he said, and Hartley felt a spike of fear. He hadn't made it clear that _death_ was on the table, but she supposed that was just another thing she was going to have to get used to. “No, go on and have your lovely beans on toast. Don't tell anyone about this, because if you do you'll get them killed.”

Without further fanfare he slammed the door shut, turning to leave. Two steps later he realised Hartley wasn't following behind him, and he turned around, raising his eyebrows at her pointedly. “Rude,” she told him sternly, gesturing with her head to the door the girl was behind.

He huffed like she'd asked too much of him, but he did as he was told, moving back to the door and swinging it open to glance back in at the bewildered blonde shop girl. “I'm the Doctor by the way, what's your name?” he asked her quickly, shifting over as Hartley popped her head through the gap, smiling kindly at the younger girl, who looked more than a little shellshocked by the whole situation.

“Rose,” she finally answered, her eyes flickering between the strange pair in sheer bemusement.

“Nice to meet you Rose,” he said pleasantly. “Now, run for your life.”

The door was slammed once more before anyone could say any more, but Hartley had the strangest feeling this was only the very, _very_ beginning of Rose's journey. Because she knew better than most that, once you crossed paths with the Doctor – even once – your life was never, ever going to be the same.

* * *

The good news was that they didn't die. They got out before detonating the charges, the relay device was destroyed, and all was well.

Well, not exactly.

The Doctor waited until they were back in the TARDIS before he told her that their job was far from over. “Don't celebrate yet,” he muttered when she held up a hand for a high-five. “That was only one relay device,” he told her shortly. She dropped her hand with a small, defeated sigh.

“What's the next step, then?” she asked evenly, and he began to tap away at his monitor distractedly.

“Dunno,” he shrugged, and she huffed at his casual demeanour. He'd said at the beginning of the whole thing that the fate of the Earth was in the balance, but looking at him, you'd think the fight was for nothing but a petrol station in the suburbs.

It would do nobody any good to get herself worked up – and besides, it just wasn't in her nature.

The TARDIS jolted and Hartley, now incredibly used to the sudden movements of the sentient ship, adjusted her footing to keep her balance. “Now, do something useful and help me scan for Auton energy,” the Doctor muttered in his familiar accent.

Scowling at the not-so subtle dig, she took the device he was brandishing from his hands, peering at the small screen, but all the readings on it looked like pure gibberish. It was all fancy scientific words and numbers. How was she supposed to take any meaning from it? “Don't know how much help I'd be,” she told him with a disappointed frown. “I don't know what any of this means.”

“Fat lot of good, you are,” said the Doctor in his usual brusque manner, but then he took the time to send her a wry sort of smile, taking most of the sting from his words. “Take this,” he said, handing her a small tablet, its frame made of gold material but inside a clear screen that had simple graphs that fluctuated every few moments. “So easy a shop window dummy could understand it,” he joked, attempting to interject some lightheartedness into his tone.

Hartley appreciated the effort.

“You stay here, monitor the feed,” he ordered her quickly, hands almost blurring on the keyboard. “I'm gonna go check it out.”

“You don't need backup?” she asked warily. She didn't like the thought of him out there all alone, these Auton things looming over them like an axe, threatening to strike.

“I'll be fine. This is really just recon,” he assured her. She nodded, silently admitted that, as far as backup was concerned, she wasn't the first person she'd choose either. She'd probably only slow him down. “I'll be back as soon as I can,” he told her cheerfully, spinning around and disappearing from the TARDIS before she could so much as wish him good luck.

Hartley sighed, running a hand down her face. It was hard to say when she'd last slept, it'd been so long, but she was right in the middle of an adventure, and the last thing she was going to do was sleep through it. She fetched a book on Autons from the library and sat down on the jump seat, curling her legs under herself and beginning to read.

She kept the tablet in sight, eyeing the readings. It was showing Auton activity spikes in the area, and all she had to do was make sure there weren't any in the direction the Doctor had gone. She wasn't sure how much help it would be if she saw a spike – with no way to reach the Doctor to warn him – but she supposed it was better than doing nothing at all.

Hartley glanced up at the monitor every few minutes, looking at the display of the street outside, waiting for the Doctor to reappear. It wasn't until nearly a whole half hour had passed that she finally spotted the leather-clad alien and a familiar, messy-haired blonde making their way towards the ship. What the hell was the Rose girl doing with the Doctor? What were the odds they'd just stumbled across one another for a second time?

She discarded her book and wandered over to the doors, pulling them open and sliding out into the sunlight, letting them swing closed behind her. Neither of the duo noticed her, even as they got closer, close enough for Hartley to hear what they were saying.

“Really though Doctor, tell me, who are you?” Rose asked seriously, staring at the big-eared man with unbridled curiosity.

“Do you know what we were saying? About the Earth revolving?” he asked in lieu of an answer. “It's like when you're a kid, the first time they tell you that the world's turning and you just can't quite believe it 'cause everything looks like it's standing still.” He paused, glancing back at the younger girl. “I can feel it.” From where she was leaned against the TARDIS she saw the Doctor grip Rose's hand tight. “The turn of the Earth. The ground beneath our feet is spinning at a thousand miles an hour and the entire planet is hurtling around the sun at sixty-seven thousand miles an hour, and I can feel it. We're falling through space, you and me, clinging to the skin of this tiny little world … and if we let go,” he dropped her hand, and though Hartley was somewhat in awe of his monologue, she still felt exasperated by his theatrics. “That's who I am.”

Rose was silent as the two stared into each other's eyes, then the blonde's gaze darted to the blue box, which Hartley was leant against, arms crossed over her chest and her head cocked delicately to the side.

She offered the young girl a friendly smile, but Rose's brow only furrowed with curiosity, not sure what to make of her. “And her?” Rose asked, clearly recognising her from the night before. “Who is she? She's with you, yeah?”

The Doctor didn't need to glance over his shoulder to know she was talking about Hartley. “In a way,” he replied, the answer vague at best. “Now forget us, Rose Tyler,” he continued stoically, taking the plastic arm from her grip and waving it at her in playful farewell. “Go home.”

He began to head back towards the TARDIS and, by association, towards Hartley. They locked eyes, and she tilted her head, observing the alien closely. The look in his eyes was too hazy, too ancient to understand, so she moved her gaze, once more meeting Rose Tyler's searching gaze.

She let her lips tip up into another smile, but Rose still didn't return it, instead frowning deeply, confusion dripping from her expression before she turned away, heading slowly down the path and away from the pair of time travellers. Hartley could tell from the tension she held in her shoulders that she was forcing herself not to look back, and the thought made her smile.

“Come on,” the Doctor said once he reached Hartley, shoving open the doors to his time machine and waving her inside. “We've got an investigation to conduct,” he said merrily, tossing the plastic arm down by the door and wandering up to the console as the door creaked shut after him.

“Where to first?” Hartley asked, leaning against the closed doors, cocking a single eyebrow at the alien. “There won't happen to be any food involved, will there?” she added hopefully.

“'Fraid not,” he told her pitilessly. “I'm going to set up Auton detectors around the inner city, float in the vortex until we get a hit, then travel to that point in time,” he said simply. “Saves waiting around like a _human_ ,” he spat the word with something sort of like disgust, but Hartley was willing to overlook it.

The two of them travelled around the city, placing tiny little Auton detectors in quiet corners – one device able to pick up Auton activity within miles – until they had the area covered, then the Doctor sent them into the vortex to await an alert. It was easy, and she enjoyed the running, liking the way her muscles ached from the exercise.

It was a lifestyle that quickly became addicting, and Hartley wondered suddenly if the others who had come before her had felt the same. She wished she could maybe meet one of them to ask – because _surely_ there had to have been others. The Doctor couldn't have just been floating through space, utterly alone the last nine-hundred years.

That got her thinking about Rose, and the pure curiosity that had shone in her pretty hazel eyes, the same curiosity Hartley had felt her first time meeting the Doctor, her first time travelling in this wonderful machine.

“So,” she began innocently once they were afloat in the vortex, trailing her hands over the railing, gripping it tightly and pulling her weight forwards in idle boredom. “Rose seems pretty cool, right?”

It wasn't her smoothest segue, and that was probably why the Doctor knew what she was getting at immediately.

“No,” he said without pausing to so much as blink.

Hartley stood back up properly, bewildered by the sharp response as she let go of the railing, frowning at him in annoyance. “No to _what_?” she complained. “I didn't even ask for anything.”

“I don't need another companion,” he told her seriously, barely looking up from the monitor in front of his face. “You're trouble enough,” he added flippantly, and she snorted at the comment.

“Oh, _please_ ,” she rolled her eyes, hopping up onto the jump seat and letting her legs swing freely beneath her. “If either of us is trouble here, it's you,” she reminded him shortly. Something else suddenly occurred to her. “Why'd you call me a _companion_?” she asked quickly. “You said it like it were some kind of official title.”

“What'd you think I'd call you?” he countered, not bothering to look up from his work. “You're certainly not helpful enough to be an assistant of any kind,” he added, only half joking.

Hartley rolled her eyes again. “I was actually hoping you might call me a friend,” she said plainly.

The grumpy Doctor grumbled in reply, only serving to make her laugh. He didn't say anything, attention pointedly focused away from her. The Doctor's brusque attitude didn't affect her, it rolled off of her like water off a duck's back. She was good at that sort of thing; remaining unaffected by the harshness of the world – and now _universe_ – that surrounded her.

_Kindness is the language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see,_ her father had always told her, an old Mark Twain quote that she'd grown up trying to embody. She'd always been of the opinion that kindness led to happiness, because how could it not?

She thought of Rose again, thought of the tired but intrigued look in her eyes. She could remember a time, not so very long ago at all, when she'd probably looked exactly the same.

“I think you should give Rose a chance,” she told the Doctor stubbornly. He looked up from the monitor, one eyebrow cocked in his skepticism.

“I doubt we'll be seeing her again,” he said briskly, and she could tell by the glazed look to his eyes that he was actually calculating the chances of running into the curious blonde girl for a third time. “Statistically, it's nearly impossible,” he declared once he'd finished.

“What if it doesn't come down to statistics, but rather fate?” she countered smartly.

“ _Fate_ ,” he echoed with a small, patronising scoff. “There's no such thing as fate,” he told her shortly.

Hartley wasn't so sure. “I think we'll have to agree to disagree on that one,” she said with a small, innocent smile.

“Hartley, I'm nine hundred years old. I'm from a race known as the _Lords_ of _Time_. I think I'm the closest we can get to an authority on the matter,” he argued logically, and as he cast her a glance, he could see she was unconvinced. “I can scientifically prove to you that fate doesn't exist,” he said importantly.

“The issue is still being hotly debated amongst Earth's scientific community,” she replied in her most innocent voice. “The theory of Newton's Clockwork Universe is being battled with examples such as the random decay of an atom. It's a very contentious set of opposing theories.”

The Doctor eyed her thoughtfully, a gleam of undeniable surprise to his baby blue eyes.

“I did go to university, you know?” she reminded him, amused. “I graduated top of my class.”

“In _Literature,_ ” he argued petulantly. Hartley only grinned. “You just want a friend,” he continued on with their previous conversation, before the brief fate debate had appeared. He was talking about Rose, and the way he said 'friend' surprised her – like it were a dirty word.

“But I already have you,” she replied, utterly cheerful.

The Doctor's only response was to roll his eyes dramatically, and Hartley laughed, leaning back on the jump seat.

Before she could say anything a loud, abrupt beeping spat from the speakers attached to the console. Hartley smiled, sitting back in the chair and waiting for the Doctor to land them in the right time and place.

They landed in an alley, but the Doctor seemed to know where they were going, pushing his way through a large, heavy door and into what looked like a large, industrial kitchen.

“A restaurant?” Hartley asked, bemused by their location for the second time that day as they stepped out into the main eating area of the restaurant. It was full of people, all chattering away, munching on fish and chips. “Why would the TARDIS bring us here? D'you think she knows how hungry I am?”

The Doctor tutted. “We're not here to eat, Hartley,” he said, voice thick with exasperation.

“Just wondering,” she muttered, rolling her eyes as they scanned the sea of hungry patrons. “Why are we here, then?” she asked, not seeming to spot anything out of place. It looked for all the world like a normal, run-of-the-mill eatery.

“My best guess?” the Doctor said, voice dropping into that low, grumpy tone once more. “Her.”

He pointed at the middle of the room, and Hartley followed his line of sight to see Rose herself sitting at a table, chatting merrily with what was _very_ obviously an Auton parading as a human boy. Hartley wondered how the girl could possibly miss it.

“Not very observant, is she?” the Doctor muttered with a critical sigh, scanning the room in an offhanded sort of way, no doubt cooking himself up one of his famous plans. Hartley didn't really know much – or, truthfully, anything – about the Autons, but from what she'd thus far gleaned, their intentions with her planet weren't exactly pure. “She'd be a rubbish companion,” the Doctor added with just the tiniest hint of callous, and Hartley rolled her eyes.

“Don't be so quick to judge,” she scolded him even as a small smile of amusement flickered to life on her lips. She stepped around a passing waiter, following the Doctor over to the bar. They paused there for a moment, and the Doctor leaned against the shiny wood casually, and for that brief moment he successfully passed as a regular, human male. “What now?” Hartley whispered, leaning beside him and trying to appear as innocent as humanly possible. Nothing to see here, just a pair of completely human friends out for a pint after a rough day at work... “What's the plan?” she pressed.

The Doctor didn't answer, simply twisting around, his hand disappearing behind the bar. A short second passed, and then his hand reappeared, long fingers clutched around the neck of a bottle of fancy champagne like a seasoned thief.

Eyes wide, Hartley could only gape at him. “Did you just _lift_ a bottle of champagne from the bar?” she hissed at him, bordering on scandalised.

“They won't even know it's missing,” he replied from the corner of his mouth, utterly unconcerned by his little display of crime.

“Y'know, you're a bad influence on me,” she told him playfully, and the Doctor gave a quiet snort of amusement at the comment before sauntering over to Rose and the Auton like he owned the bloody place, a tactic that she was beginning to learn worked for him pretty much every time.

She wondered whether it were a fact true of everyone in the universe, or whether the Doctor was just special.

“Champagne?” the Doctor offered, holding out the bottle. Hartley stuck close to his side, watching the pair with a frown, wondering what exactly the Auton's plan was. How dangerous was it? Would it attack in a public place such as this one? Did it _care_ about humans that might get caught in the crossfire?

“It isn't ours,” Rose said over her shoulder, turning her attention back to the imposter she was sat with.

“Doesn't anybody want this champagne?” the Doctor asked, and the Auton looked up in annoyance – if it could even experience such a thing – only for a triumphant grin to stretch across its shiny, plastic face.

Nothing happened for a moment, and Hartley began to grow nervous. “Any time now, Doctor,” she prompted him with an elbow to the gut, keeping an eye on all the surrounding patrons, making sure none of them, too, were Autons in disguise. The last thing they needed was to realise, belatedly, that they were outnumbered.

“Don't mind me, I'm just toasting the happy couple,” the Doctor said cheekily, violently shaking the champagne bottle in his hands. “On the house!” he exclaimed just before popping the cork, sending it flying into the imposter's face.

Hartley watched in sinking disgust as it was sucked into the Auton's skin like its body were made from nothing but a kind of liquified rubber.

“Enough with the cheesy one-liners, already,” she complained weakly, trying to remain calm as she watched the Auton spit out the cork like it were nothing but a piece of gum.

The Auton grinned a hollow, plastic grin before morphing its arm into some kind of a weapon and slamming it hard into the table. The wood cracked under the assault, a loud bang echoing throughout the crowded eatery. Hartley's pulse thudded in her ears, and she leapt backwards to avoid getting hurt.

Rose gasped and flew to her feet, and though Hartley was concerned for her own safety, her first instinct was to get herself to Rose's side as the Doctor pounced on the Auton to begin what looked like a rather pathetic attempt at a fight.

She wasn't sure whether they were both trying not to inflict any real damage, or they were just really, _really_ inept at fighting.

“Oh my God,” Rose gasped in mounting horror, watching in shock as the Doctor finally got the upper hand, ripping the Auton's tacky, plastic head from its plastic body. Hartley wrapped an arm around the younger girl's shoulders, squeezing firmly, hoping to offer her some form of comfort. Rose didn't lean into the gesture, but she didn't pull away either.

“Don't think that's gonna stop me,” the decapitated head said from the Doctor's hands, unaffected by the attack.

Hartley wasn't sure what to do. What options did they have? The restaurant was still full of patrons, and all she could think was that these people were in danger – they were going to get _hurt._ Luckily, Rose was on the ball. Her hand slammed into the fire alarm on the wall, and the restaurant was filled with the shrill ringing of alarms. “Everyone out! Out _now_!” she yelled, and the already frightened crowd of people were all too happy to comply.

Rose headed for the door along with everyone else, but Hartley grasped her arm, yanking her in the opposite direction. Considering her apparent knack for trouble, the safest place for her was in the TARDIS, where they could keep an eye on her. Not in a position to argue, Rose followed her lead – she probably seemed like she knew what she was doing, which was certainly a nice change of pace.

They raced through the kitchens, both following the Doctor's hurried footsteps.

“Get the sonic out!” Hartley yelled to the Doctor as they approached the large steel door, all bursting out into the cool evening air. Rose darted across the small alleyway, frantically searching for an exit while the Doctor sonicked the door behind them, locking it and temporarily preventing the Auton from breaking through, buying them precious time.

“Open the gate,” Rose demanded, furiously yanking at the chains locking the doors to the alley together, as though it might help. “Use that tube thing, come _on._ ”

“It's called a sonic screwdriver,” Hartley corrected her easily as the Doctor waved it in the air, both approaching the blue box sitting in the middle of the alley. Hartley felt a warm feeling brush against her mind, and she reached out to press a hand to the smooth wood, smiling up at the blue box fondly.

“Use it!” Rose begged them desperately.

“Nah,” the Doctor shrugged.

Rose looked stunned. “What?”

“Tell you what, let's go in here,” he said casually.

Hartley flashed Rose her most reassuring smile as the Doctor stuck his key into the lock, easily pushing the doors to his box open and stepping inside. “Come along, Rose,” she said merrily, tipping her head towards the TARDIS before disappearing in after him.

“We can't hide inside a wooden box!” Rose shouted from out in the alley. Hartley waited by the doors, leaning against the railing and staring out at the steel door across the alley in concern. That door wouldn't hold the Auton forever, and the last thing Hartley wanted was for Rose to get hurt because she hadn't taken the leap and stepped inside TARDIS.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Rose tripped inside the ship. She paused, struggling to reagin her breath before turning to look at her surroundings. She went completely and utterly still, staring at the bigger-on-the-inside inside with stark shock. Hartley smiled brightly, watching in vague amusement as the blonde staggered back out of the TARDIS in a panic, stumbling around the big blue police box with wide, confused eyes, trying to make sense of what she was seeing.

“That's awfully counter-productive of you!” Hartley called after her, not really expecting an answer.

Rose came hurtling back through the doors, and they slammed shut after her, sealing them all within the safety of the TARDIS. “It's gonna follow us!” she exclaimed breathlessly, quickly getting over the shock that the wonders of the TARDIS brought.

She was smart enough to realise by now that her life was in serious danger, and she was trusting the instincts that were telling her the eccentric pair of strangers were her best bet at getting out of this situation alive.

“The assembled force of Genghis Kahn couldn't get through that door – believe me, they've tried,” the Doctor told her distractedly, busy hurrying around the console and checking the readings on the monitor, totally and completely at ease. He was in his element, that much was clear. “Now, shut up a minute.” Rose fell obediently silent, back to marvelling at the TARDIS' unique interior. “You see, the arm is too simple, but the _head_? It's perfect,” the Doctor was rambling, more to himself than to either of them. “I can use it to trace the signal back to the original source.”

He began attaching wires to the waxen, plastic skin of the severed head, gesturing distractedly for Hartley to come closer.

“Hold this,” he murmured once she reached him, unceremoniously shoving a handful of multicoloured leads into her hand. He then slowly picked them out one by one, sticking each individual cord to the head. “Right,” he said bracingly once his task was complete, turning around to face Rose, who only blinked back uncomprehendingly, “where d'you wanna start?”

“Um...” Rose clearly had no idea where to begin. Her eyes flickered between the composed duo standing before her, each wearing smiles of contrasting brightness. “The inside's bigger than the outside?” she finally spoke up tentatively, her brain was struggling to catch up.

“Yes,” the Doctor confirmed calmly.

“It's alien,” she said, and it wasn't a question.

“Yup.”

“Are _you_ alien?”

The Doctor hesitated only the briefest of moments. “Yes.”

“Is she alien?” asked Rose, hazel eyes darting over to look at Hartley, eyeing her closely, as though half expecting her to suddenly sprout scales or horns or something.

Hartley met her eyes unflinchingly, unable to help feeling the smallest pulse of amusement. She wondered if she had looked the same when she'd first been spat out of that rupture in time and space onto the console room floor, muttering about dreams and new worlds and aliens and making the Doctor more confused than he had been in a long, _long_ while.

“Nope. Just me,” the Doctor told her calmly. “That alright?” Hartley figured there would be time to tell her the specifics later, after this whole Auton business was over and done with. Maybe they could all go get some food – she could really do with a good burger right about now.

“Yeah,” Rose said without so much as a beat of hesitation. Then she paused, seeming to consider something, eyes flickering back to the Doctor's companion – or friend, in her eyes. “Who _are_ you, then?” she asked Hartley, realising she'd barely even been properly introduced to the strange, strawberry-blonde human who travelled with this mysterious alien.

“Hartley Daniels,” she introduced herself with a sincere smile, wanting to move over to give her a welcoming hug, but also not wanting to frighten the already overwhelmed girl. She looked like one loud shout would probably put her into cardiac arrest. “It's lovely to meet you, Rose,” she said gently.

Rose didn't respond, staring back at her like she _was_ an alien.

“It's called the TARDIS, this thing,” the Doctor continued, filling the silence as he glanced around the console room fondly. “T-A-R-D-I-S, that's Time-And-Relative-Dimension-In-Space.”

Rose was silent for a long stretch more, and Hartley understood what was going through her head – she'd been in the same position not so long ago, trying to wrap her mind around aliens and spaceships and bigger-on-the-inside boxes.

Rose abruptly burst into tears, covering her face with her hands as she sobbed into them, overcome with emotion. Hartley rushed forwards. She didn't want to crowd the girl, but moving to comfort her was an instinct. She just wanted to make it clear she was there for her, the only other person in the universe who had even an inkling of what she was going through.

But she wasn't sure how Rose would take her comfort, so she settled against the railing beside her, one hand hovering just over her back, not touching her but still there if she was needed.

“That's okay – culture shock, happens to the best of us,” the Doctor said blithely from his place by the console, and Hartley made sure to send him a stern glare that he took with a grain of salt, lifting a single shoulder at her uncaringly.

“It's alright,” Hartley assured Rose gently, finally dropping her hand onto her back and softly rubbing, a soothing up and down motion that had always calmed her when she was distressed as a kid. “It can be overwhelming at first,” she added understandingly.

“Did they kill him?” Rose asked suddenly, getting ahold of herself once more with a sniffle, lifting her head from her hands to stare at the Doctor with piercing eyes. “Mickey, did they kill him? Is he dead?” she demanded emotionally.

“Oh, I didn't think of that,” the Doctor admitted with a blink.

“ _Doctor,_ ” Hartley hissed at him in reprimand, but the alien remained clueless.

“He's my _boyfriend_ ,” Rose snapped, eyeing the Doctor with blatant distaste. “You pulled off his head – they copied him, and you didn't even _think_?” Hartley caught sight of the melting head on the console, pointing to it with a click of her tongue. Rose's eyes darted to it, and the enraged look on her face grew even sharper. “And now you're just going to let him _melt_?”

The Doctor swung around, eyeing the melting plastic of the head with desperate panic. “Oh no, no, no, no!” he exclaimed, and once Hartley was confident that Rose wasn't about to break down into more tears, she was quick to shuffle up to the console to perch beside the Doctor, peering down at the melted head with a wince.

“What're you doing?” Rose asked as the Doctor leapt into action, rushing around the console, hitting buttons left and right.

“The signal, it's fading,” he muttered to himself angrily, haphazardly flying his blue box from one point to another, like connecting dots on a map. That churning, wheezing sound that Hartley was so beginning to love filled the room, and Rose flinched at the unexpected, jarring noise. The floor beneath them shook violently, and Rose squeaked, grasping onto the railing to hold herself upright. Without so much as a glance at either girl, the Doctor barrelled from the ship the moment it landed, pushing open the doors and stumbling out into their new location.

“You can't go out there, it's not safe!” Rose shouted after him in alarm.

Hartley's approach was much more gentle, and she strolled slowly out after the Doctor, glancing over her shoulder to an anxious, perplexed Rose. “It's okay,” she assured the younger girl with a small, patient smile. “Come and see for yourself,” she said, nodding her head to the doors before slipping out herself, trusting Rose would follow.

She stepped out into the night, glancing up at the dark sky with a serene smile. This was so much of what she had always dreamed of – adventures and making a difference. Sure, she hadn't imagined it would be achieved by way of an alien in a magic box, but still, she was having the time of her life, and she wasn't about to pretend that she wasn't.

“I lost the signal,” the Doctor complained when he saw her approaching. “I got so close,” he muttered defeatedly.

Hartley opened her mouth to assure him that they'd find the consciousness in the end, but before she could say anything, Rose was speaking. “We've moved,” she stated the obvious as she warily stepped from the TARDIS and out onto the street with them, but Hartley couldn't fault her for it. Her face glowed softly in the lights of the nearby city. “Does it fly?” she asked, a perfectly logical assumption.

“Disappears there and reappears here,” the Doctor said impatiently. “You wouldn't understand.”

“She might if you took a breath and explained it for her properly,” Hartley argued, calm but stern, and the Doctor shot her his most irritated look yet.

“If we're somewhere else, what about that headless thing? It's still on the loose,” Rose reminded them worriedly, a crease appearing between her brows, anxious at the thought of it hurting somebody else. Hartley smiled – she knew there was a reason she liked the girl.

“It melted with the head. Are you gonna blather on all night?” the Doctor growled rudely, striding past her, his leather jacket crinkling as he moved.

“I'll have to tell his mother,” Rose murmured, still in shock, and Hartley marvelled at how unaffected she seemed by this Mickey bloke's death. Maybe they hadn't been together for long? Maybe it was a recent thing? If it had been _her_ boyfriend, she'd have been hysterical – but she supposed everybody handled grief differently.

The Doctor glanced over at the blonde in confusion, not seeming to understand what she was talking about, and Hartley reached out to smack him sharply upside the head. He flinched, rubbing his short hair with a wince in her direction.

“ _Mickey,_ ” Rose reminded him tartly. “I'll have to go and tell his mother that he's dead and you just went and forgot him! _Again._ You were right, you _are_ alien,” she spat in disgust.

“Look, if I did forget some kid called Mickey––”

“Yeah, he's not a kid––”

“It's because I'm busy trying to save the life of every stupid ape blundering around on top of this planet. All right?”

“All right?!” she parroted, aghast.

“Yes, it _is_!”

Hartley had had enough. “Oh shut it, the pair of you,” she interjected loudly, before things could get any more heated. They both turned the intensity of their glares onto her, but it didn't affect her as much as they'd probably thought it would. “Rose, take a deep breath. Everything's going to be okay,” she said, even and gentle.

“Everything's going to be okay?” Rose echoed furiously, hazel eyes glinting with fire. “My boyfriend's _dead_.”

Hartley's expression twisted with sympathy. “Yes,” she said quietly. “But everything is still going to be okay,” she repeated, deep blue eyes imploring. Loss was a difficult thing, and something she'd never really experienced herself to the same degree, but Hartley knew things had a way of working themselves out. Everything happened for a reason, of that much she was certain.

Rose sighed, rubbing her hands over her face tiredly. She probably didn't know where to begin, and although Hartley doubted her reassurances had helped, she knew she'd had to at least try.

“If you really are an alien, how come you sound like you're from the North?” Rose finally asked, voice much quieter than before as she aimed the question at the Doctor. A change of topic was probably exactly what they needed, Hartley realised, relieved when the tension began to fade.

“Lots of planets have a North,” the Doctor replied defensively.

Hartley giggled in amusement and Rose turned her frown onto her. “I asked the same thing when we first met,” she revealed with a small smile, but the younger girl couldn't find it in herself to mirror the expression.

Rose floundered, sorting through the questions sitting hot on her tongue, wondering where to begin. “What's a 'police public call box'?” she finally asked, glancing up at the words atop the TARDIS curiously.

“It's a telephone box from the 1960's,” the Doctor told her giddily, reaching out to stroke the wood of the outside of his time machine, his irritation almost forgotten. “It's a disguise.”

Rose laughed lightly at his words, finding the fact he thought of the massive blue box as a disguise to be amusing. Hartley caught her eye and grinned widely, letting her know she saw the humour in it too.

“And this living plastic, what's it got against us?” Rose continued, eager to get some answers now that the ball had been set rolling.

“Nothing, it loves you,” the Doctor said with a bitter smile. “Such a rich planet. So much smoke and oil, toxins and dioxins in the air; perfect, just what the Nestene Consciousness needs. Its food stocks were damaged in the war, all its food planets rotted. So, Earth? Dinner.”

Hartley noticed the wince of concern on Rose's face, and was quick to ease her worries. “But we can stop it,” she assured her, but Rose didn't look terribly convinced. “Show her, Doc,” she urged him, referring to the contingency plan the Doctor had revealed to her before this whole thing had begun.

The Doctor glanced over his shoulder in irritation at the nickname, but continued on without comment. “Anti-plastic,” he announced, pulling a vial of blue liquid from his pocket. “But first I've gotta find it,” he murmured thoughtfully. “How can you hide something that big in a city this small?” he mused, striding away from the girls and letting his blue eyes scan the skyline.

“Hold on, hide what?” Rose asked quickly.

“The transmitter,” he bit back like it was obvious, making Hartley frown disapprovingly. “The Consciousness is controlling every single piece of plastic, so we need the transmitter to boost the signal.”

“What's it look like?”

“Like a transmitter – round and massive, somewhere slap-bang in the middle of London. A huge metal circular structure, like a dish, or a wheel – close to where we're standing. It must be completely invisible.”

Hartley let out a quiet laugh as she watched the Doctor stand obliviously in front of the London Eye. She glanced over at Rose, snickering softly in amusement. The blonde realised in the same instant what was happening and giggled back, pressing a hand over her lips to muffle the sound.

“What?” asked the Doctor cluelessly, glancing over his shoulder without seeing what the girls were seeing. Rose tried to gesture with her eyes, but he merely went through the motion again. “What?” he snapped impatiently.

“Amazing,” Hartley murmured to Rose conspiratorially, “he's completely oblivious.”

“What is it?” the Doctor whined. “ _What_?”

Finally, the fourth time he checked over his shoulder, he noticed what the girls had noticed: the London Eye standing tall and proud, nobody but the three of them knowing the Nestene Consciousness was using the famous London landmark to try and take over the world.

The Doctor grinned, eyes lighting up at the brilliance of it all. “Fantastic!” he exclaimed before turning around and rushing away from the TARDIS, in the direction of the ferris wheel, leaving Hartley and Rose with no choice but to dash after him.

They had to cross the bridge, passing over the River Thames, and it was a fair way to run. But despite feeling out of breath, Hartley pushed on, keeping up with Rose and the Doctor, sprinting across the bridge towards the giant, towering London Eye.

“Think of it – plastic, all over the world, every artificial thing waiting to come alive,” the Doctor said once they stopped at the base of the Eye. “The shop window dummies, the phones, the wires, the cables...”

“The breast implants,” Rose added offhandedly, making Hartley smirk briefly at the sly humour.

“We found the transmitter, the Consciousness must be somewhere underneath.”

They didn't know where it was, exactly, which was a problem. They didn't have time to spare – the Consciousness could have already infected half the plastic in London by now – but they had to find it before they could stop it. They scattered, searching for any hint of the Nestene Consciousness in the immediate area. Hartley made a beeline for the railing, slamming against the brick and staring over the edge, looking for anything that looked promising; a hatch, or a door of some kind.

When she found it, she grinned in triumph. “Doc!” she shouted eagerly.

He made it to the railing and she hurriedly pressed him against it, pointing with a strong finger down at the manhole laying by the water of the Channel. He agreed, it was the perfect place for the Consciousness to hide.

“That could work,” the alien nodded and hurried away from the railing, heading for the stairs leading to the hatch down below.

The two girls raced after the Doctor, the Time Lord all but leaping down the stairs in an attempt to get to the hatch faster. The girls clamoured after him, struggling slightly with the steps. Hartley let herself drop the final metre, her beaten up shoes smacking against the concrete, an ache radiating up through her ankles at the contact.

Smoke and red light poured from the now-open manhole, but the Doctor didn't hesitate as he leapt in, using the ladder to take himself down safely. Hartley followed close behind, giving Rose a chance to collect herself before she accompanied them. They dropped into a small, empty room, but the Doctor barrelled on, opening the a door to the right that had rich red light leaking out from the crack underneath.

This room was far larger, clearly some kind of waypoint for the workers of the Underground. Work supplies were stacked up against the walls, rickety metal steps leading them down deeper into the ground. Most of this went unnoticed, however, their attention drawn to what could only be described as a big plate of sentient, wobbling jelly.

“The Nestene Consciousness,” the Doctor proclaimed as they all stared down into the pit of living, molten plastic. “That's it there – a living plastic creature.”

“Well then, tip in your anti-plastic and let's go,” said Rose curtly, glancing down at the Consciousness with a wary disgust. Hartley tugged at the collar of her jacket. Heat was rising from the Consciousness' pit, the harsh temperature already beginning to make her sweat.

“I'm not here to kill it,” the Doctor snapped, the tone he used like that of a teacher scolding a student. “I've got to give it a chance.” He paused before continuing down the stairs, glancing over at Hartley pointedly. She got the message – _watch Rose_ – stepping closer to their new acquaintance, understanding the silent order to keep an eye on the wild card. The Doctor stepped forwards, and when he spoke next it was with a deep respect in his voice, addressing the Consciousness with high esteem. “I seek audience with the Nestene Consciousness under peaceful contract, according to convention fifteen of the Shadow Proclamation!”

Rose moved forwards, making to follow after the Doctor. Hartley reached out, gripping Rose's arm and stopping her from moving. When Rose turned to look at her, she only shook her head, trying to also pay attention to everything happening below them. She could only hope things weren't going to take a turn for the worst, that the Doctor would be able to solve things peacefully. Nobody _had_ to die today, not even the Nestene Consciousness.

“Thank you!” said the Doctor from below, the only one able to understand the Consciousness's telepathic method of communication. “If I might have permission to approach?”

There was a flash of movement from Hartley's left, and she glanced over to see a young man crouched on a landing a dozen feet away. Rose noticed him at the same time, and she gasped, “Mickey!”

Hartley didn't think anything could have stopped her as she raced to her boyfriend's side. She could only follow at a slower pace, one eye on them, the other watching the Doctor where he was walking below them, approaching the Consciousness with careful, measured steps.

“Doctor, he's alive!” Rose called, kneeling down next to her terrified boyfriend and looking over him in concern, assessing for damage.

“That was always a possibility; keep the original alive to maintain the copy,” the Doctor said flippantly as he strode past on his way down to the Consciousness. Hartley glared after him in irritation, his callousness most certainly unappreciated.

“And you never _said_?!” Rose hissed after him.

“Can we keep the domestics outside? Thank you,” he responded sassily, barely looking back at them as he wandered down the stairs and closer to the pit of sentient jelly below.

“Did you know?” Rose hissed at Hartley, who immediately shook her head.

“I would have told you if I had,” she promised, and although the blonde still looked frustrated, she nodded and began to comfort a trembling Mickey.

They listened to the one-sided conversation as the Doctor spoke to the Consciousness, but Hartley took in the way Mickey looked dazed, his eyes glassy and unfocused, and she began to worry it might have been more than just fear making him look so terrible.

“You okay, Mickey?” she asked gently, keeping her voice low so as to not disturb the negotiations happening beneath them.

“Wh-who are you?” the kid stammered, scurrying closer to Rose like he thought she was going to protect him. Rose was distracted, however, her attention on the Doctor standing on the platform below, steadily negotiating with the Consciousness.

“My name's Hart,” Hartley told Mickey patiently, leaning closer to get a good look into his eyes. She wasn't a doctor by any means, but she had taken a first aid class at uni, so she understood the basics. Mickey tried to flinch away, probably afraid she was going to hurt him, but she moved quickly enough to check for a head injury. “Do you feel dizzy, or sick?” she asked quietly.

“Of _course_ I do!” Mickey exclaimed, as though the question itself was redundant.

She got a good look in his eyes, lit up in the red glow of the Consciousness below, and checked his pupils, then nodded her head grimly. “I think you have a concussion,” she told him quietly.

“ _Great_ ,” he squeaked, looking about ready to pass out purely from his case of overwrought nerves. “If this _thing_ doesn't kill me, the concussion will!” he cried woefully, tears gathering in his eyes. Hartley was torn between sympathy and exasperation.

Not everyone could handle this life, she supposed. Besides, he hadn't _asked_ for this to happen. Of course it had scared him.

“Doctor! Look out!” Rose shouted suddenly, and Hartley whirled around to spy shop dummies appearing, seemingly from nowhere. They were tall and faceless, and they grabbed the Doctor by the arms, forcefully pulling him back and away from the Consciousness, one fishing out the vial of anti-plastic from his coat pocket.

“That was just insurance, I wasn't gonna use it!” the Doctor argued desperately, and although the Consciousness didn't seem to believe him, Hartley knew in her gut that he was telling the truth. The Doctor abhorred violence of any kind, that much she'd come to understand. “I was _not_ attacking you, I'm here to help! I'm not your enemy, I swear, I'm _not_!”

“Listen to him!” Hartley was yelling at the creature before she could stop herself, leaping from where she'd been crouched beside Mickey. She couldn't stand by and not at least _try_ to help _–_ if she didn't do anything, the Doctor could get hurt. “Please!” she begged the consciousness frantically. “The last thing any of us want to do is hurt you, so _please,_ give us another option!”

The creature roared, the sound thunderous and full of an anger that made Hartley's skin crawl, even more so when the Doctor spun around in horror. She followed his line of sight, heart dropping into her stomach when she spotted the dark blue of the TARDIS where it stood, tall and proud and stolen, behind them. She wished she could understand the Consciousness like the Doctor could, but it was with a telepathic voice that it spoke, so unless it spoke to her directly, even the TARDIS couldn't translate.

She felt ill, anxiety bubbling in her gut like a brew in a witch's cauldron. If the Consciousness had the TARDIS, who knew what it would be able to accomplish? It could conquer all of space and time, if it so wanted to.

“That's not true, I should know! I was there! I fought in the war; it wasn't my fault!” the Doctor shouted, his voice thick with a grief that Hartley couldn't even begin to understand. She understood now that the Consciousness was talking about the Time War, and her expression twisted with pain for the Doctor. “I couldn't save your world, I couldn't save any of them!” the last Time Lord cried beseechingly, desperately trying to free himself from the shop dummies' unyielding, plastic grips.

Rose, watching everything happen with complete and utter confusion, shouted down a frantic, “what's it doing?”

“It's the TARDIS, the Consciousness has identified it as superior technology and it's terrified. It's going to the final phase!” the Doctor called back in a panic, struggling against the dummies that held him.

Hartley, feeling not just fear but also a fierce determination, leapt down the stairs, attempting to shove the sentient shop dummies off her friend in an effort to free him. She wasn't going to let them hurt him – not while she was still breathing.

They fought against her, shockingly strong, the hard material of their bodies slamming into her side with a painful smack. They gripped her so tightly she could almost feel her bones rattle from inside her skin.

“Hartley, no! Get out!” the Doctor shouted frantically, but she ignored him, struggling harder against the dummies, trying with everything she had to free them both. “Rose! Both of you! Just get out, leg it, _go_!” the Time Lord insisted at the top of his lungs in an effort to be heard over the rabid snarling of the Consciousness, the sound like nails in a blender.

“Now isn't the time to be noble!” Hartley shouted back at him stubbornly, groaning as yet another dummy appeared, wrapping its unbreakable arms around her middle, locking her into place. She struggled violently against its hold, throwing her small weight around in a fruitless attempt to break free.

Her heart slammed against her ribcage, and she desperately sucked air into her burning lungs as she struggled to escape the dummy's painful grip. The hard ridges of its arms cut into her skin, and she knew it was going to leave marks, probably bruises.

“The activation signal, it's transmitting!” the Doctor shouted in horror, staring up at the ceiling as a strike of what appeared to be lightning zapped at the roof. Hartley yanked desperately at the plastic arms around her, wondering if this was it; if this was how she died?

But she wasn't done yet. There was still so much left to do, so much left to _see._ She wasn't ready for it to end here, inside a hole in the ground. Death by shop window dummies: it was so without dignity.

The seconds ticked by, and the obedient plastic soldier's grip only tightened, and Hartley had a sinking feeling in her gut. What were her options? How were they meant to save the world now, when everything seemed most bleak?

She tried to look around, catch the Doctor or Rose's eye, but her captor was strong, forcing her in the other direction. It edged her ever closer to the lip of the landing, where certain death awaited.

There was a beat, about as long as it might take to take a deep breath, and then the dummy behind her was knocked forwards, and her heart leapt into her throat as she realised the blow was sending both her captor _and_ herself to their deaths at the hands of the Consciousness. She tried to scream, but her mouth was too dry and it was impossible to make so much as a sound.

She felt the metal of the landing disappear from beneath her feet, and she sucked in a sharp breath of air, gritting her teeth and closing her eyes. It might have to kill her, but she didn't have to watch.

Her fall was suddenly pulled to a sharp, jerky stop. For the briefest of seconds, she thought it was her impact with the consciousness, and that everything was over. Then she took note of the weight of a hand in hers, calloused fingertips brushing against her wrist. She exhaled loudly in relief, her chest aching from the stress, and she forced her stinging eyes to open, tilting her head back to glance at her saviour.

The Doctor was holding her hand in his tightly, keeping her from falling to her death; _saving_ her _life_. His sky blue eyes met hers, and with but a frown to prove his trouble, he tugged, getting her high enough that she could pull herself up onto the ledge, saving her from what would have been a terribly gruesome fate.

“All right, Hartley?” Rose yelled over the Consciousness's screaming, dropping from the chain she'd swung on, landing soundly on the metal ledge, a confident smile on her face.

“I'll live,” she confirmed just as loudly, resting a hand on her sternum to feel how fast her heart was beating. Her breaths came out in pants, and she tried to force herself to inhale slower, attempting to even out her pulse.

An arm wrapped around her shoulder, and she glanced up to see the Doctor holding onto both her and Rose, eyeing the Consciousness warily. “Now we're in trouble – run!” he ordered just as an explosion rocked the room. Hartley didn't need to be told twice. She legged it, stopping by the stairs only long enough to check that that other two were following before she tripped up them, stumbling across to the TARDIS and forcing Mickey to his feet and out of the way as the Doctor unlocked his spaceship's doors. They all piled inside, the doors shutting on the sound of the Consciousness's terrible roars.

Mickey barely had time to be flabbergasted by the 'bigger-on-the-inside' part, still processing his shock from everything else that had just happened. “You okay, Mickey?” Hartley was quick to ask, the boy having dropped to the ground by the door when the room filled with that familiar wheezing as they dematerialised to safety.

Mickey didn't respond, staring up at her with glassy, horrified eyes. She gave a sympathetic sort of smile, reaching out to pat him consolingly on the shoulder. He flinched away, rocking in the place where he had collapsed. Hartley knew there was probably little more she could do to comfort him, and stepped away, giving him some much needed space.

Rose was standing behind her and so Hartley moved closer, needing to know that she, too, was okay. “You all right, Rose?” she asked softly, watching as the blonde took a moment to catch her breath before answering.

“Yeah,” she finally answered, one hand gripping the railing tightly. The horror in Mickey's eyes didn't seem to be mirrored in Rose's, instead there was a shocked sort of excitement in them, something Hartley might have even labelled as _glee._ “Yeah, I think I am,” she nodded, a ghost of a stunned smile flickering at her peachy lips.

Hartley grinned brightly, patting Mickey gently on the head and nudging Rose's hip with hers as she passed them, heading for the console where the Doctor was typing away at the keyboard. “Not bad for a day's work,” she said conversationally, but the alien only grunted in response, busy with flying the ship. The floor shook, and Hartley's hand darted out to grasp the railing, keeping herself upright.

Finally the TARDIS landed, the wheezing groan fading into nothing as they rematerialised. “Go on then,” the Doctor said to Rose distractedly, nodding towards the doors, “perfectly safe out there.”

Mickey didn't even hesitate, bursting from the TARDIS doors and stumbling out into the alley they'd materialised in, falling to his hands and knees as he recovered. Hartley wouldn't have been surprised if he'd thrown up – he was looking rather peaky. Rose had the opposite reaction, smiling to herself as she followed him out, pulling her phone from her pocket, probably dialling her family to make sure they were safe.

Hartley and the Doctor remained in the TARDIS, watching through the monitor as Mickey slowly recovered and Rose smiled at whoever was on the other end of her call. “That went well, wouldn't you say?” Hartley said casually, another attempt at pleasant conversation, leaning back against the console and watching as he jammed his finger repeatedly into a glowing green button.

“Hm?” he hummed distractedly. “Oh, yeah, s'pose it did.”

“Shame we couldn't save the Consciousness,” she added with a sigh, and the Doctor looked back up at her with a hint of a bemused frown. “Rose was brilliant though, wasn't she?” she continued before he could say anything.

“She wasn't bad,” he agreed flatly, lifting his shoulder in a shrug, returning his gaze to the console. She could tell he was purposefully seeming unaffected, and she nudged him gently. Only, instead of looking back at her, he glanced out to the open doors, peering through the gap at Rose, who was now hanging up her call, a bright, happy smile on her face.

“Don't give me that,” she said sternly, and he looked back at her in confusion. “She was amazing, and you know it.”

“You just want a playmate,” he replied dryly, as though it were any sort of argument.

“So?” she countered without so much as a beat of hesitation. “What's so wrong about wanting another friend?” The Doctor didn't have a reply, and he hated it, lips pursed in frustration as he stared down at the console. “Rose saved us today,” she reminded him. “It doesn't get much more worthy than that.”

“It's not about being _worthy_ ,” he argued.

“Isn't it?”

His stare was utterly unimpressed. Hartley rolled her eyes at his stubbornness. “Come on,” she said, grasping the reluctant Doctor by the elbow and dragging him towards the doors. She slipped out first, leaning against the side of the TARDIS, watching Rose with a mounting sort of anticipation.

She didn't know where they were going to go from there, all she knew was that she felt a connection to Rose, one she couldn't quite explain. But that only made her all-the-more eager to explore it.

“Nestene Consciousness? Easy,” the Doctor snapped his fingers with a wide grin, back to his happy-go-lucky attitude now that things were once again safe. London was saved, they'd all survived, and everything was back to exactly how it should be.

“You were useless in there, the both of you!” Rose responded cheekily, hiking her chin up proudly. “You'd be dead if it wasn't for me.”

“Yeah, we would,” he agreed in a rare move of humility. “Thank you.”

“You're a star,” Hartley added gratefully, smiling at the girl sincerely. Rose continued to beam, still high off the adrenaline of their adventure.

“Right then,” the Doctor said bracingly, clapping his hands abruptly and pushing off from the TARDIS. “We'll be off...” he trailed off, considering his next words, and Hartley grinned brightly, seeing what was coming from a mile away. It was inevitable, really, that he'd invite her along. For all his bravado and stubbornness, she knew he saw the exact same potential in Rose that she did. “Unless, I don't know … you could come with us...” he offered casually.

Across from them Rose hesitated, eyes going wide, and the Doctor bristled uncomfortably at her silence.

“This box isn't just a London hopper, you know,” he told her enticingly. “It goes anywhere in the universe – free of charge.”

“Don't,” Mickey piped up from the ground, his voice quaking with terror. “They're aliens, they're – they're … _things,_ ” he said with a clear and offensive disgust. Hartley frowned at him, not appreciating the implication.

“He's _not_ invited,” the Doctor clarified to Rose with just a hint of disdain. “What d'you think?” he continued hopefully. “You could stay here, fill your life with work and food and sleep, or you could go … anywhere,” he told her in a tempting tone, and the way in which he spoke of it – of this life – with such reverence…it gave Hartley chills.

Rose sucked in a sharp breath, a hundred thousand thoughts swirling behind her pretty eyes. “Is it always this dangerous?” she asked them carefully.

“Yeah,” the Doctor replied through a broad smile, perhaps not the right answer for the situation, but certainly the most honest.

“I can't,” Rose said, a wince on her face like it pained her to turn them down. Hartley felt her shoulders sag in disappointment.

This lifestyle was heart-stopping, life-changing, the most brilliant thing anyone could ever experience. Hartley was having real adventures, seeing the universe, exploring new worlds and peoples, immersing herself in alien cultures and eating foreign foods. She was doing all the things she'd always written about, like one of the characters in her own novels. She was living a reality that surpassed fiction, and wasn't that every author's secret wish, in the end?

But she couldn't impress that wish onto someone else, no matter how wonderful it seemed to her.

The Doctor was right, she wanted another friend. Some people thought that three could be a crowd, but Hartley had the strangest sense that Rose would fit in just perfectly; like she was _meant_ to be there with them.

“I've gotta go find my mum, and someone's gotta look after this stupid lump,” Rose continued, patting Mickey on the back from where his arms were wrapped tightly around her middle like a child clinging to his mother.

The Doctor was silent, and Hartley knew she wasn't the only one left disappointed. “Okay,” he nodded his head acceptingly, giving nothing away. “See you round?” he offered.

Rose said nothing, eyes shifting from his disappointed face to the understanding but disheartened expression of his companion. With a sharp bob of his head, the alien disappeared back inside his blue box. Hartley cast the blonde girl a final, sad smile before heading in after him, unable to help but wish it had turned out differently.

Inside the TARDIS, the Doctor walked up to the console solemnly, frown on his face as he adjusted a lever and flicked a few switches almost absentmindedly. The ship wheezed around them as it dematerialised, sending them back into the vortex.

Hartley wandered up to the console, taking in the Doctor's hunched shoulders and tight frown. He was just as disappointed, and she suddenly knew that they couldn't just give up. “You can't let her get away that easy,” she said, jumping onto the jump seat with a small bounce.

“She doesn't wanna come,” he murmured before glancing over in her direction. “Besides, I thought we'd established that you were enough companion for any one Time Lord to handle?” he quipped.

Hartley just smiled. “The more the merrier, I say,” she told him

The Doctor's expression dropped into a sort of frown, deep and thoughtful. “You really want her to come with us, don't you?” he mused, eyeing her with just a tiny hint of suspicion, as though he thought she might have had some kind of hidden agenda.

“Something in my gut is telling me it's the right move,” she admitted, and the Doctor looked away, contemplating her words before abruptly slamming his hand down on a button to his right, gripping the lever she'd come to know as the equivalent of a throttle and yanking it back towards him.

“She might not even say yes,” he muttered, and she grinned.

“I bet you ten quid she will,” she replied impishly, wagging her eyebrows in challenge, excitement spreading through her body. He sighed in something like resignation, but Hartley only grinned in triumph, staying curled where she was as she watched the Doctor once more stick his head from the ship, out into the alleyway they'd only just left.

“By the way, did I mention?” he said to Rose enticingly. “It also travels in time.”

Not a full five seconds had passed before Rose was racing full speed into the console room of the TARDIS, a grin bigger and brighter than Hartley had ever seen spread across her pink lips.

“Rose Tyler,” Hartley said eagerly as the girl came to a stop at the console, breathless and excited, eyes sparkling with an unbridled delight. “Are you ready for the adventure of a lifetime?”


	7. The End of the World

“ _Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.”_

Matsuo Basho

* * *

“Who the hell are you?”

In retrospect, taking Rose to the end of the world on her very first trip may have been just slightly overdoing it, but the Doctor always liked to aim high.

Hartley had tried to suggest a different place, something more low-key, perhaps the Library or some time in Ancient Greece. However, the Doctor was nothing if not stubborn. (“Go _big_ or go _home_ , Hartley.”)

It made her chest ache to see the sun begin to encompass the Earth, and though she tried to tell herself that it was _billions_ of years in the future, and that there wasn't anybody even _on_ the planet at the time, it was still incredibly hard to watch. Her home was being reduced to ash – less than that – according to the Doctor, not even something as solid as ash would be able to remain. Instead there would just be nothing, as though her planet had never even been there. As if it had never existed.

“This is a maximum hospitality zone,” the blue alien continued, pulling Hartley from her thoughts. He began to head towards them, shoes slapping against the marble floor. He looked very cross indeed. “The guests have disembarked, they're on their way any second now––”

“But we _are_ guests. Look, I've got an invitation,” the Doctor interrupted, holding up the psychic paper for the other alien to see. “The Doctor and Hartley Daniels, plus one. I'm the Doctor, she's Hartley Daniels, and that's Rose Tyler, our plus one.”

The alien stared at the 'invitation', eyeing it critically for a long moment. “All good here?” Hartley spoke up, tilting her head at the alien innocently, knowing they had him hook, line and sinker.

“Well, obviously,” he responded, clearly at a loss. “Apologies, et cetera,” he mumbled rather insincerely. “If you're on board, we best start. Enjoy.” He wandered off, more bemused than he'd been when he'd arrived, casting the trio a suspicious look over his shoulder.

“This is the slightly psychic paper,” Hartley told Rose quietly, snatching the paper from the Doctor's hand, holding it up for Rose to see with an eager grin. “It's my favourite psychic _anything_ ,” she added, tapping it affectionately. “Comes in handy, that's for sure.”

“Shows them whatever I want them to see,” the Doctor explained in more detail, plucking the paper from her grip and tucking it back into his jacket with a stern look at Hartley, quite clearly telling her _not_ to steal the psychic paper.

Everything they said went in one ear and out the other to Rose, who was still recovering from her encounter with the rather _alien_ alien. “He's _blue,_ ” she muttered to the pair of them, the exchange having gone pretty much unnoticed.

“Yeah,” the Doctor confirmed.

“...Kay,” Rose mumbled back, pitchy and vague.

“We have, in attendance the Doctor, Hartley Daniels and Rose Tyler,” the alien announced dramatically despite there being nobody around to hear it, but the Doctor grinned dopily. The man began to call guest after guest into the room, and Rose marvelled at all the strange and shocking aliens that filed into the room. Hartley had seen her fair share of aliens by now, but even for her it was a lot to watch them all parading though the room with their heads held high.

She nodded politely at each new arrival, until they finally called out one name that, for some reason, made her snap to attention.

“From the Silver Devastation, the sponsor of the main event, please welcome the Face of Boe,” the blue man announced loudly, and Hartley's stomach jolted at the words; although she wasn't sure why. It was almost like somebody had said her name, but at the same time, she hadn't heard it uttered. Looking over, she saw a group of men pushing a large tank of liquid into the room. Inside was a massive, floating head, eyes intelligent and wide, and seemingly trained directly onto Hartley herself.

She suddenly felt called in a way she couldn't explain, like some long-buried instinct was drawing her towards the head of the alien in the tank.

“I'll be back,” she muttered to the Doctor distractedly, but the Time Lord merely waved her off, attention caught by a group of approaching aliens. Rose was just trying her best not to gape at them all like an idiot, something Hartley could sympathise with.

Hartley wandered over towards the Face of Boe, who was settled in the corner, quietly observing the gathered crowd and going mostly ignored. Something about the alien was pulling her in, but not in a nefarious way. It was like a warmth settling in her chest, something familiar and comfortable, nudging her closer to this giant floating head.

Nobody stopped her from getting too close, so she assumed she was allowed to do so. “Hi,” she greeted him quietly, and his large, intelligent eyes narrowed, focusing in on her with an intensity she simply couldn't match. She had the strangest feeling he could almost see _through_ her, but it wasn't quite as unsettling as she'd imagined it might be. “My name's––”

“ _Hartley_ ,” he whispered into her mind, the feeling odd, like a thought that hadn't come from herself. Shocked that he knew who she was, Hartley blinked, eyebrows raised in surprise. How could this alien from five billion years in her future possible know her name? “ _It's good to see you_ ,” the alien continued in that low, calming tone from within her own head.

“Pleasure to … meet you?”

It sounded like a question because he was looking at her like they already knew each other. But that wasn't possible, they'd never met before, had they? Stepping closer to the glass so she wouldn't be overheard, she crouched so their eyes were at the same level. There was an intimacy in their connection, strong and unexpected. She didn't know where it was coming from, all she knew was that it was real. This alien knew her, somehow.

“ _That's life with the Doctor, you see,_ ” his words swam in her head, filled with a familiarity she couldn't comprehend. “ _Things never happen in quite the right order._ ”

“We _have_ met before?” she gasped, casting a glance over her shoulder, only to see nobody paying either of them a lick of attention. Everyone was too entranced by the party happening around them, and by the sun slowly destroying the Earth in the space below them, devouring it whole like a living, hungry thing.

Her eyes moved over to the Doctor, finding he and Rose standing with a group of aliens in black robes, Rose with a wince on her pretty face.

“ _We will soon,_ ” the Face of Boe murmured into her mind, his mental voice like whiskey, smooth and rich in her head. “ _It will be both the beginning of an age, and the start of an everlasting family_.”

Hartley blinked in surprise, that hadn't been something she'd expected to hear when she'd unthinkingly wandered over towards the giant floating head at the end of the world. “We're … we're family?” she asked carefully, barely able to make sense of the conversation. She was struggling to get her head around the fact that he knew her, but she didn't know him, because of that pesky little thing known as time travel.

“ _In every sense of the word_ ,” the Face of Boe assured her, his head inclining ever so slightly from within the confines of his tank.

“So … I'm around for a while then?” she asked, needing to know. The threat of death loomed over her head, that was just life with the Doctor. It would be nice to hear someone who'd lived for so many years tell her that she was going to be okay. Already the thought of leaving the Doctor and this brand new life she'd been given was painful. She wanted to travel forever and ever, to not even for a moment stop running. “The Doctor doesn't get sick of me?” she pressed when the Face of Boe didn't answer. She hated the insecurity in her voice, but she needed to hear it on some fundamental level. She needed to _know_ she'd be okay. “He doesn't drop me off somewhere Earth with a packed bag and a handful of memories, once he finally finds a way to sever our weird, cosmic connection?”

The Face of Boe seemed to smile, just a pull at cracked his lips. “ _My dear Heart, you have a destiny ahead of you, the likes of which you can't even begin to comprehend,_ ” he told her, sincerity layering his whiskey coated voice.

It was enigmatic at best, but she let it slide. She figured that if anyone could give her the answers she was so desperately searching for, then it would be him. She wondered what else might be lurking within that huge, ancient head of his.

“Why am I here?” she asked, the words forceful but not quite demanding. She crossed her arms over her chest, glancing around to make sure nobody was eavesdropping. Maybe it was a bit of a stretch to think a floating head would magically know all the answers, but the gaps in her knowledge were beginning to make her anxious. “Why am I stuck to the Doctor? Why do I keep being brought back to him?”

The Face of Boe seemed to chuckle from within her mind and, against all sense, the sound put her at ease. “ _Everything's going to be okay, Hartley_ ,” he told her, amusement colouring his silent voice. Her brow furrowed, recognising at the familiar words. Over the years it had become something of a mantra for her. Something she told herself in times of strife or trouble. Was it possible the Face of Boe knew that, or was it just a coincidence? “ _Everything will become clear with time,_ ” he added reassuringly.

“Why can't it be clear _now_?” she asked, aware she was whining, but also beyond caring.

The Face of Boe seemed to only smile. “ _That isn't how it works_.”

“Why be so cryptic?” she grumbled, trying not to pout, and again, he gave a gentle chuckle.

“ _You will come to learn that sometimes it is simply … necessary_.”

She glanced down into the face of who was apparently destined to become someone she called family. She wondered if he was always a floating head, or if he had, at one point, had a body. “How can you remember me?” she asked curiously, still crouched by his tank. “We're billions of years in the future, and I'm just a human; I must be long gone by now.” The thought made her feel ill, but it was true nonetheless.

“ _You never forget your family_ ,” he hummed mysteriously. “ _And perhaps you're not quite as gone as you believe_.”

“Let me guess,” she muttered, a crease appearing between her brows. “It'll all make sense in time?”

He chuckled again, more than she'd have expected him to by looking at him. She liked the sound, it was warm and comforting, like her father's voice reading her Enid Blyton after a long day of school.

She glanced over to the other side of the room, where Rose and the Doctor were murmuring amongst themselves. “I should go,” she said regretfully. “Don't wanna leave my friends alone for too long.”

“ _Rest now, Heart, for you have a long road ahead._ ”

Again, it was enigmatic at best, but she was starting to understand that pressing for more would get her nowhere. “Will I see you again?” she asked him quietly, unable to stem her curiosity.

“ _You'll see me so often, you'll grow sick of me,_ ” the Face of Boe told her, the tiniest hint of mirth hidden deep in his lilting, telepathic voice.

She cracked a genuine smile. “Something tells me I'll never get sick of you, Boe,” she told him, stepping closer and gently resting her palm against the glass of his tank, hoping it wouldn't leave a noticeable smudge. “I suppose, then, I'll just say that I'll see you soon,” she said gently.

“ _That you will, old friend_ ,” the Face of Boe promised her sincerely. She smiled a final time, then turned and headed back towards the Doctor, despite the tug in her heart the pulled her back towards Boe, almost like they were connected beyond words – beyond _sense._

She reached Rose and the Doctor, the former fiddling distractedly with one of the many small gifts that filled her hands, a bemused look on her face. The Doctor was speaking with the cloaked aliens, a wide, toothy smile on his face. “Oh, do we get to keep these?” Hartley asked as she approached, the cloaked figures floating away. She reached into Rose's arms, plucking free the small sapling in a tiny, cute little pot. “I've been wanting to get some plants for my room. How big d'you think it'll get?”

“I'd say about the size of the average human,” said the Doctor brightly.

“Huh,” she murmured, handing it back over to Rose, who took it, a sort of dazed look upon her face.

“And last but not least, our very special guest,” said the blue, humanoid steward in a loud, proud kind of a voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, and trees and multiforms, consider the Earth below. In memory of this dying world, we call forth the last Human. The Lady Cassandra O'Brien Dot Delta Seventeen.”

Hartley turned to look, eager to see the last living human, only to freeze, insides churning with disgust. It wasn't a human at all, but rather a wide, tacky piece of skin pulled taut inside of a tall, metal frame. Two more aliens, covered head to toe in white clothing, walked beside her, what looked like weed sprayers in their gloved hands.

  
  
“Oh, now, don't stare. I know, I know it's shocking, isn't it? I've had my chin completely taken away and look at the difference. Look how thin I am. Thin and dainty. I don't look a day over two thousand,” said Cassandra brightly, and Hartley grimaced at the blood she could spy pumping in veins through the near-translucent skin. “Moisturise me,” she ordered her men, who hurried to pump moisturiser onto the skin.

Hartley was about ready to vomit – it was utterly sickening. She turned to Rose to share the sentiment, only to find Rose wasn't there at all. Instead she was padding silently across the room, drawn to Cassandra much as she had been to Boe – only for entirely different reasons.

  
  
Cassandra continued to prattle on, but Hartley had long since stopped listening. She kept one eye on the slab of talking skin, the other on Rose, who looked like she might keel over from the shock of it all. Hartley _knew_ the end of the world wasn't a good place to take Rose for her first trip in the TARDIS.

  
“According to the archives, this was called an iPod,” said Cassandra suddenly, and Hartley caught sight of the juke box being wheeled into the room by some of the workers. “It stores classical music from humanity's greatest composers. Play on!”

Hartley was more than bemused when it began to play the opening strains of Tainted Love by _Soft Cell._ “Classical?” she asked the Doctor in a low voice.

The Doctor stopped his enthusiastic head-bobbing to frown at her. “What's classical mean except old?” he shrugged. “To everyone here, hip-hop is an ancient form of traditional Earth art.”

She supposed he was right, nodding her herself and turning back to check on Rose, only to find her no longer where she'd been before. Hartley scanned the room wildly, searching for their new friend, only to spot the back of her jumper as she fled from the observation deck.

“Rose?!” Hartley called out, abandoning the Doctor and rushing after her. But someone stepped in her way, and Hartley stopped short, turning to look at the half-human half-tree that wanted her attention.

Only it wasn't her attention she wanted , but rather the Doctor's. There was a flash of light like a camera, and then the woman smiled sweetly and told the Doctor, “thank you,” before turning away as if it had never happened.

“What was that?” Hartley asked, but the Doctor had already moved on.

“Dunno. Doesn't matter. Did you see which direction Rose went?”

“No,” she frowned. “Let's try this way.”

They took a sharp right, walking down a long, empty corridor without any doors or windows. “She can't have got far,” said the Doctor.

Suddenly a voice appeared over the observation deck's speakers, the familiar voice of the steward speaking to them in a smooth, customer-service sort of voice.

“ _Would the owner of the blue box in private gallery fifteen please report to the Steward's office immediately. Guests are reminded that use of teleportation devices is strictly forbidden under Peace Treaty five.four/cup/sixteen. Thank you._ ”

The pair stopped where they were, turning to one another in surprise. “That's your cue, I s'pose,” said Hartley. “You go, and I'll keep looking for Rose?” she offered.

“All right,” he agreed, turning around and setting off in the other direction.

The observation deck wasn't overly large, and it didn't take very much searching at all until Hartley found Rose. She was in one of the galleries overlooking the planet, and she looked up in surprise as Hartley stumbled into the room. “Oh,” Rose sighed with relief, “Hart. S'just you.”

“Expecting someone else?” Hartley asked, moving to Rose's righthand side and taking a seat on the ledge next to her. Rose didn't answer, staring down at the little potted twig she still held in one hand. “How're you handling it all?” she pressed gently.

Rose didn't answer, nor did she meet Hartley's eyes, staring out at the Earth, whose life now clung to the ticking hand of a clock.

“It's okay to be a little overwhelmed,” Hartley told her gently. “I was, my first trip.”

“And how long ago was that?” Rose spoke for the first time since she'd entered the room. Hartley was relieved she was talking again. That was a good sign.

“A couple of weeks ago, now,” she said with a lift of her shoulders. “Bit hard to keep track of time in this life.”

“This _life_?” Rose asked, turning away from the burning Earth to stare at Hartley with wide eyes. “You say that like it's a new diet, or a haircut, some sort of lifestyle change.”

“It is.”

“That's not what I signed up for!”

Hartley was calm, blinking back at her evenly. “And what _did_ you sign up for?” she asked steadily.

For a moment Rose couldn't reply, mouth gaping open as she struggled to find an answer. “I dunno,” she finally said, shoulders dropping, eyes returning to the dying planet. “I didn't think. I just, I just _did_ it.”

Hartley smiled, “yeah, the Doctor sorta has that effect.”

“Did I do the right thing?” Rose asked in nothing more than a whisper. “Should I really have come with you at all?”  
  


Hartley thought seriously about her answer, but she never got to reply, because there was a loud knocking at the door, and then the Doctor's voice was saying, “Hartley? You find Rose?”

“Yeah, in here, Doc!” she called back through the metal of the door.  
  


The Doctor sauntered in, a wide grin on his face. “Hullo,” he greeted them cheerfully, taking a seat on the ledge on the other side of the walkway. “What do you think, then?” he asked Rose eagerly.

  
“Great. Yeah, fine,” Rose replied unconvincingly. “Once you get past the slightly psychic paper. They're just so alien,” she said quickly, and the Doctor's eyebrows rose up high. “The aliens are so … alien. You look at 'em and they're _alien._ ”

  
The Doctor smirked. “Good thing I didn't take you to the Deep South,” he joked wryly.

  
But Rose didn't laugh. “Where are you from?” she asked him seriously.

  
The Doctor made a vague motion with his hand. “All over the place,” he said distantly.

  
Rose thought for another moment. “They all speak English,” she commented, a suspicion in her voice that Hartley wasn't sure was warranted.

  
The Doctor was grinning now, wide and bursting with pride for his ship. “No, you just hear English. It's a gift of the TARDIS. The telepathic field, gets inside your brain and translates,” he told her giddily.

  
But Rose was made anything except happy by this information. “It's inside my brain?” she asked in a measured, controlled voice.

  
“Well, in a good way.”

  
Rose was running out of patience. “Your machine gets inside my head? It gets inside and it changes my mind, and you didn't even _ask_?” she shouted, growing panicked. Hartley could understand how she was feeling – in a foreign place, far, far away from home as she knew it. It wasn't easy to adjust to, but it grew that way over time.

  
“I didn't think about it like that,” the Doctor admitted around a pensive frown.

  
“No, you were too busy thinking up cheap shots about the Deep South,” she shot back heatedly. The Doctor looked taken aback by the accusation. “Who are you, then, Doctor? What are you called?” she demanded. “What sort of alien are you?”

  
He shifted uncomfortably. “I'm just the Doctor.”

  
“From what planet?” she persisted.

  
“Well, it's not as if you'll know where it is!”

  
“Where are you from?”

  
“What does it matter?”

  
“Tell me who you are!”

  
“ _This_ is who I am, right here, right now, all right? All that counts is here and now, and _this_ is me!”

  
“Yeah, and _I'm_ here too because _you_ brought me here, so just _tell_ me!” Rose shouted.

The Doctor stood in a huff, taking the stairs two at a time until he was on the lowest level of the gallery. His hands were on his hips and he was angled away from them, but his shoulders were tight with tension, and Hartley could practically feel the frustration coming off him in waves.

It wasn't frustration at her, or at Rose, or even at the situation. It was himself. Hartley knew right then that he was ashamed – ashamed to admit the truth, that he was the lone survivor of the war to end all wars.

  
“ _Earth Death in twenty minutes,_ ” said the cheerful voice from above them, and Hartley scowled at the ceiling in distaste. She glanced over at Rose, noting that the frustration had leaked from her body, replaced with a sort of sad resignation, maybe even remorse.

She looked down at the Doctor awkwardly, not seeming to know how to fix what she'd broken. She glanced over at Hartley, who nodded to her encouragingly.

  
“All right,” said Rose weakly, climbing to her feet and slowly descending the stairs. Hartley remained where she was, legs folded beneath her, the knitted material of her sweater warm against her skin. “As my mate Shareen says: don't argue with the designated driver.”

The Doctor didn't react, and Rose pulled out her phone, holding it up in the air.

  
“Can't exactly call for a taxi. There's no signal. We're out of range. Just a bit,” she muttered wryly.

  
The Doctor's frosty demeanour finally melted, and he turned to Rose with a sigh. “Tell you what––” he took her phone, fiddling with it for a few moments, “...with a little bit of jiggery pokery...”

  
“Is that a technical term, jiggery pokery?” Rose teased.

  
“Yeah, I came first in jiggery pokery. What about you?”

  
“No, I failed hullabaloo.”

  
“There you go,” said the Doctor, tossing her back her phone, which she caught with the tips of her fingers, holding it out like it were a precious stone.

Rose stared down at it for a long moment before dialling someone and taking a few steps away to speak in relative privacy.

Now Hartley descended the stairs as well, coming to a stop beside the Doctor, who was watching Rose with a small, barely-there smile.

“You'll have to come clean eventually, you know?” she whispered to the Doctor, whose lips curved down into a frown. He didn't answer, turning his eyes back to the shimmering ball of gas that made up their dying sun, eyes dark and haunted with a past he refused to speak of.

  
“I'm fine,” Rose was saying to her mum, spirits much lighter than they had been earlier. “Top of the world.”

  
“You think _that's_ amazing, you want to see the bill,” muttered the Doctor with almost all of his usual cheekiness.

  
But Rose wasn't paying attention, staring out at the dying sun and the empty Earth, distant and distracted. “That was five billion years ago. So, she's dead now. Five billion years later, my mum's dead,” she murmured to herself in something of a daze.

  
The Doctor rolled his eyes. “Bundle of laughs, you are.”

Before Rose could say anything in her defence, the entire station around them shook, the floor trembling violently beneath their feet. Hartley thrust out her arms in an attempt to remain stable.

When she glanced over to the Doctor, it was to find all of his usual zest returned back into his face, an excited gleam of a grin on his lips. “That's not supposed to happen,” he said eagerly.

“You look awfully happy, considering it wasn't s'pose to happen,” quipped Rose.

“You're still learning,” the Doctor waved a hand at her idly. “You'll understand in time.”

“Come on,” said Hartley, already beginning back up the stairs leading to the door. “We should get back to the party. I have a feeling something's about to go down, and we don't want to be cut off from everyone when it does.”

The others followed her out of the gallery, heading down one of the narrow corridors in the direction of the main viewing deck.

“Why d'you think something's going to happen?” Rose asked Hartley as they made their way down the hall, the Doctor leading them at the front.

“Because something usually does,” she replied. “Or so I'm beginning to learn.”

“ _Honoured guests may be reassured that gravity pockets may cause slight turbulence, thanking you...”_

The voice of the steward came from above, but the Doctor was already shaking his head. “That wasn't a gravity pocket,” he said as they slipped back onto the main deck. “I know gravity pockets and they _don't_ feel like that. What do you think, Jabe?” he asked, and Hartley turned in surprise to see the tree-woman from earlier standing behind them, listening keenly to their conversation. “Listen to the engines. They've pitched up about thirty Hertz. That dodgy or what?” he asked her eagerly.

  
Jabe gave a waning smile. “It's the sound of metal. It doesn't make any sense to me,” she confessed.

The Doctor smiled. “Where's the engine room?”

  
“I don't know,” the tree replied gently, “but the maintenance duct is just behind our guest suite. I could show you … and your wife…”

The Doctor grimaced like the insinuation repulsed him. “She's not my wife,” he said quickly. “Neither of them are.”

  
Jabe smirked, just slightly. “Partner?”

  
“No.”

  
“Concubine?”

  
“Nope.”

  
“Prostitute?”

Hartley was beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable, but apparently Rose wasn't raised into a society as prim and proper as Hartley was – one where you took insults to the chin and never, ever said anything in retort.

  
“Whatever we are, it must be invisible. Do you mind?” Rose snapped, and Hartley's lips twitched upwards in fond amusement. She paused, considering. “Tell you what, you two go and … pollinate. Hart and I are going to catch up with family. Quick word with Michael Jackson,” she finished with a nod in Cassandra's direction.

  
“Don't start a fight,” the Doctor begged Rose. “Watch her?” he added to Hartley, who nodded obediently. He seemed satisfied, turning to Jabe with a wide smile. “I'm all yours,” he said gladly.

  
“And I want you home by midnight!” Rose shouted after the pair, and the Doctor took a moment to grin at her cheekily before the doors slid shut, blocking off their view. Rose was quiet for a moment. “You don't really think he's gonna...” Rose didn't seem to know what to say.

“Pollinate?” Hartley supplied playfully. Rose hardly looked impressed. “The Doctor will do what the Doctor will do,” she told Rose as though it were some sage wisdom she was imparting. “We gonna talk to our descendant, or what?”

“Ugh, don't call her that,” Rose gave a shudder of disgust.

Hartley grinned, nudging Rose's hip with her own and leading the way across the room towards Cassandra. She was talking with her assistants – servants, if you will – in low, muted tones. As the women grew closer and they spotted them, the drew apart, looking off into the distance as though above it all.

“Hello, dears,” said Cassandra in a crisp accent. “Who might you be?”

Rose just stared, she didn't seem to know what to say. “I'm Hartley, this is Rose,” she introduced them politely, shifting forwards to prepare to shake Cassandra's hand, only to realise her mistake at the last moment and rock back onto her heels awkwardly.

“Lovely to meet you,” said Rose sweetly, seeming to overcome her sudden anxiety. “Could we have a word?”

“Of course, of course,” said Cassandra, voice like silk. “Come, let's look out over the planet I once called home.”

Her servants began to wheel her over towards the window, and the girls could do no more than follow. “Sad, isn't it?” Hartley asked gently, standing beside Rose, eyes trailing over the continents she could see on the planet below. England was turned away from her, and instead she was looking down at Asia.   
  


“Soon, the sun will blossom into a red giant, and my home will die. That's where I used to live, when I was a little boy, down there,” said Cassandra wistfully. “Mummy and Daddy had a little house built into the side of the Los Angeles Crevice. I'd have such fun...”

  
“What happened to everyone else?” asked Rose hurriedly. “The human race, where did it go?”

  
Cassandra paused, most likely for dramatic effect. “They say mankind has touched every star in the sky,” she told them, eyes twitching in their – could they be called sockets? – place as she took in the sight of the dying Earth below.

  
“So, you're _not_ the last human.”

  
Cassandra's mouth pursed into the closest thing she could possibly get to a scowl. “I am the last _pure_ human,” she said derisively. “The others mingled.”

“So?” Hartley asked, looking away from the Earth to stare at Cassandra's face intently. “You say that like it's a bad thing,” she said slowly. Because to her, it wasn't. It was natural to love whomever, to grow and evolve and move on.

  
“Oh, they call themselves New humans and Proto-humans and Digi-humans, even 'Humanish', but you know what I call them? Mongrels,” spat Cassandra in disgust. Suddenly Hartley wasn't so sure Rose would be the one to worry about. If Cassandra had a throat to punch, Hartley probably would have punched it.

  
“Right,” said Rose slowly. “And you stayed behind.”

  
“I kept myself pure.”

  
Rose snorted indelicately. “How many operations have you had?” she asked sharply.

  
“Seven hundred and eight. Next week, it's seven hundred and nine. I'm having my blood bleached,” said Cassandra with a tone of pride. “Is that why you two wanted a word? You could be flatter. You've both got a little bit of a chin poking out,” she added in a hushed tone – as though having a chin were something horrible and embarrassing.

  
“I'd rather die,” deadpanned Rose.

  
“Honestly, it doesn't hurt,” sang Cassandra.

  
“No, I mean it,” scoffed Rose. “I would rather die. It's better to die than live like you – a bitchy trampoline,” she spat, and Hartley's eyes went wide in surprise.

  
But Cassandra couldn't have cared less. “Oh, well. What do you know?”

“Rose,” whispered Hartley, a wooden smile on her lips, “the Doctor said not to fight.”

  
“I was _born_ on that planet,” said Rose in a hiss, tone sharp and combative, “and so was my mum, and so was my dad, and that makes me officially the last human being in this room, 'cos you're not human. You've had it all nipped and tucked and flattened till there's nothing left. Anything human got chucked in the bin. You're just skin, Cassandra. Lipstick and skin,” she snarled. “Nice talking.”

Rose stormed away, leaving Hartley standing in front of Cassandra. She considered rushing after Rose, but she got the sense that she needed to be alone a few minutes, just to cool off, if anything.

“Uh, sorry about her,” Hartley apologised – but it was stilted and awkward because she wasn't really sorry at all. She agreed with everything Rose had just said, however her need to please and her engrained sense of propriety kept her polite. “Seeing the Earth die – it's all a little morbid, she's just on edge.”

“Some people just can't handle it,” sniffed Cassandra. Hartley grit her teeth together to withhold the insult bubbling up to the surface. “You know, I wasn't kidding before. You really could use a surgery or two. I can put you into touch with my plastic surgeon. Your face is far too wide, and your lips could do with a little thinning––”

And suddenly Hartley sympathy for her was gone, replaced by intense dislike. “Lovely to meet you, Cassandra,” she lied, abruptly turning on her heel and storming away. Irritation radiated through her skeleton, but she pushed it aside, focusing instead on finding Rose.

She seemed to have left the observation gallery, so Hartley ventured out into the corridors of the rest of the station in an attempt to find her. She knew the shock of the aliens and the future were all a lot on their own, but add – in Rose's words, a bitchy trampoline – and you seemed to have a recipe for disaster.

She looked for about five minutes, unable to find Rose anywhere. But that was hardly surprising; the station was unfamiliar, and everything looked the same.

It wasn't until Hartley passed a random door off to the left that she finally stumbled upon Rose. “Let me out! Let me out!” Rose's familiar voice was shrieking through the doors, and Hartley froze in place, staring at the doorway in horror.

“Rose?!” she asked, stepping closer and pressing a hand against the doors.

“Hart?!” her new friend responded, relief colouring her tone. “Hart, you've gotta let me out! The window's, I dunno, its sun protection's turning off! I'm gonna get roasted alive!”

Hartley cursed, panic seizing her, sharp and uncomfortable in her gut. She looked to the walls around the outside of the door frame, hoping to find a panel that would open the door. There was one on the righthand side, but when Hartley jabbed at it, nothing happened.

“Hartley!” cried Rose again, her banging on the door getting louder. “Let me out! Hurry!”

Cursing again, Hartley threw her weight against the doors in an effort to force them open. But they didn't so much as budge.

“Hartley?!” came a new voice, and Hartley whipped around to see the Doctor standing across the hall, staring at her in surprise.

“Doc – it's Rose! She's trapped!” Hartley cried, and the Doctor wasted no time in darting over to the control panel at the wall, the familiar buzz of his sonic screwdriver filling the corridor.

“Oh, well, it would be you, wouldn't it?” he asked himself sourly.

The sun filter slowly began to rise, and relief gripped Hartley before it was demolished when the filter abruptly began to descend once again.

“Rose!” Hartley cried, banging harder on the door.

“What's happening?!” Rose shouted through the doors.

The Doctor never looked up from the panel. “The computer's getting clever,” he said with a huff.

  
“Stop mucking about!”

“I'm _not_ mucking about,” he argued petulantly, and despite it all, Hartley had to smile. “It's fighting back,” he frowned.

“Open the door!” Rose shrieked at them frantically.

But then the Doctor did something right, and the computer was droning, “ _sun filter rising. Sun filter rising_.”

Rose began to bang on the doors once more. “They're jammed or something,” Hartley told him even as she tried her hardest to prise the two doors apart, to no avail. “We can't get it open.”

“The sun filter should hold,” said the Doctor. “I need to go sort this out. I'll be back.”

“Swear it?” she pressed.

“Always,” he agreed flippantly, no idea of the kind of impact a word like that could have. “Rose! I'll be back!” he shouted to Rose through the doors. “Don't move!”

  
“Where are am I gonna go? Ipswich?” Rose shouted back, sharp with exasperation at the ridiculous command.

“Stay with her!” the Doctor ordered Hartley, who quickly nodded her head. He turned, barrelling from sight, heading in the direction of the main observation gallery.

Hartley moved back to the doors, gripping either side and trying her hardest to prise them open. “D'you think we could get a crowbar or something?” she asked Rose through the metal of the jammed doors.

“Do they even _have_ crowbars in the future?” Rose replied, and Hartley couldn't help but smile. “S'no use,” she added.

“Yeah,” said Hartley slowly, “might as well just wait for the Doctor to get back.”

“You say that like he can fix anything,” said Rose from the other side of the door, skepticism in her voice.

Hartley didn't know how to respond, so she just didn't. Rose didn't understand yet, she hadn't seen enough of the Doctor to think what Hartley thought – that the Doctor could do anything he set his mind to. She doubted there was anything he wasn't capable of achieving with the right motivations.

“Did I make a mistake?” Rose's question was sudden and unexpected.

Hartley pressed her back against the jammed doors, sliding down until she was sat on the floor, head tipped back against the scorched metal. “A mistake?” she asked, brow pinched in confusion.

“Coming with you.”

Hartley realised they hadn't finished the conversation from before, and that most of Rose's questions remained unanswered. She wondered how to reply, thinking at first on what Rose wanted to hear – then realising her mistake and wondering what she _needed_ to hear.

“What makes you think it was a mistake?” she asked, buying herself more time.

“Well, the fact that I nearly just died – twice – comes to mind,” Rose told her, dry and unimpressed. Hartley floundered, it was a good point. “Is it worth it, Hart?” Rose asked, voice so low and quiet that she nearly missed it through the thickness of the doors.

“You knew it would be dangerous,” Hartley reminded her. Flying away with a strange alien in a big blue box? What did she expect would happen? But Hartley understood – knowing about danger and experiencing it firsthand were two vastly different things. Rose didn't respond. “Is it worth it?” Hartley repeated the question, tasting the words on her tongue. “I guess the answer to that depends on the person. For me it's worth it, but I've always dreamt about adventures and aliens and the kind of life that didn't have rules. Maybe you haven't, maybe you'd be content with life on Earth, working and eating and sleeping and then doing it all over again.”

“S'that all you think I do?” Rose sounded vaguely amused from the other room.

“I dunno,” Hartley said. “That's all I did, back on Earth.”

“Do you miss it?”

Hartley had to think hard on the answer. Did she miss her life on Earth? She missed aspects of it – her family, her friends, the familiarity of her apartment and the easy predictability of that life – but would she have gone back, now knowing what else was out there?

“Yeah. In a way I do,” she told Rose, the truth. “But I still wouldn't give this up for the world.”

Rose was silent, considering her answer carefully. Hartley was content to let them sit in silence, but all of a sudden there was a flare in her mind, like something was sharing her brain's space in her skull, pressing up against it, strong and persistent.

It was a strange sense of urgency that she didn't understand – nor did she know where it was coming from. It reminded her of something, though. That day she'd first appeared aboard the TARDIS – when the Doctor had pushed telepathically into her mind, searching for answers she didn't have.

Was someone trying to communicate with her telepathically? But how could they be doing that without her seeing them? Were they more powerful than even the Doctor?

Whoever it was seemed to sense that Hartley didn't understand, and the feelings of urgency melted into clear, concise images.

Clear as day in her mind's eye, she saw the Doctor with desperate panic on his face, sprinting as fast as he could down a narrow hallway.

Hartley sat up ramrod straight with a gasp. Somehow this person knew the Doctor was in danger, and for some reason they thought Hartley was the one most qualified to save him. She was stunned, and frozen for a good few seconds as she tried to process it all. Then there was another impatient brush against her mind and she knew she was running out of time.

“Rose – I've gotta go do something! I'll be back!” she called through the doors.

“What?” asked Rose in surprise.

“I'll be back!” she repeated before turning and barrelling down the hallway as quickly as her feet could possibly take her.

Like a map seared into her mind, she somehow knew exactly where the Doctor was. She didn't stop to think about the danger she was putting herself in, sprinting her way through the halls of the observation deck like a bat out of hell.

“ _What's going on_?” she thought with all her might, trying to imagine the person responsible for the connection receiving the message and understanding it, but they didn't reply other than a knowing little nudge against her mind, almost like a reassurance.

She _really_ hated when people were unnecessarily cryptic.

With a gasp she burst into a massive room, the temperature causing her to break out in a heavy sweat, heat seeming to leak from the walls themselves. She spotted the alien from the observation gallery immediately. Jabe was holding some kind of switch down with all her might as the Doctor was attempting to get past a series of deadly, spinning turbines.

It was like something out of an Indiana Jones film, only with more aliens and set in space. The woman holding the switch was beginning to smoke, and Hartley realised with a start that she was half-tree – she was made out of _wood._

“Hey!” Hartley called out, and the alien glanced up in pure shock, her timber-like skin damp and steaming. “It's getting too hot, you're going to die!” she yelled over the noise, feeling her own flesh tingle from the scorching heat of the room.

“I don't have a choice!” the female tree shouted back, a look of pain on her face as her wooden skin slowly began to char.

“You do!” Hartley argued, darting to her side and throwing all her weight onto the lever. “ _I'm_ not made of wood!” she shouted to her. “Run!” she ordered over the whirring of the fans. “Get to safety! Go!”

“But––”

“You'll burn. I won't!” Hartley insisted, stubborn but also right. “ _Go_!”

“Hartley?!” the Doctor shouted across the room at her, spinning around from his goal to stare at her in bewilderment. His voice echoed even over the loud whirring of the turbines.

Hartley ignored him, nudging the other alien in the direction of the door. “Go!” she repeated for a third time, and Jabe only waited a moment longer before fleeing from the room, out into a temperature that wouldn't set her entire body alight. Hartley turned her attention back to the Doctor, who was eyeing her, but she couldn't identify the expression on his face from so far away. “Hurry!” she yelled as loudly as she could, and his eyes pinned her down for a second more before he turned and rushed through the final two obstacles.

He made it to the switch and yanked it down with all his might. The platform beneath their feet shook violently as the shields raised and they were hit with the blast from the obliterated Earth. Everything was silent, and both the Doctor and Hartley let out loud sighs of relief. Now that the turbines had come to a complete stop, it only took a moment for the Doctor to walk back to where his companion stood, one hand still holding down the switch, just to be safe

“How did you know?” was the first thing the Doctor asked, staring at her in pure confusion.

She thought about how to word her strange experience. Would he think her crazy? Mad? She did know one thing, and that was that she wasn't going to lie. “It was a voice in my head,” she admitted, and the Doctor's eyebrows shot upwards. “They told me you were in danger. I'm just glad I got here in time to save Jabe.”

“A voice?” he asked, eyebrows raised high.

“A sort of telepathic connection, I guess.”

“Who was it?”

Hartley could only shrug helplessly, but as she did, something in her head clicked. Who was the one alien on this ship who she knew with absolute certainty could communicate through telepathy – _without_ skin-on-skin contact?

“I think it might have been the Face of Boe,” she told him.

“I saw you standing by him earlier,” he said in the voice of a detective piecing the clues together. “You were talking?”

“He says he knows me,” she told him, deciding to omit the part about them being 'family'. After all, an omission was hardly even a lie, so it didn't really count. Did it?

The Doctor didn't seem to know what to make of this information. “Did he, now?” he asked, expression measured. He was silent for another beat, considering her with thoughtful eyes. Suddenly a smile broke out on his face, wide and toothy and full of a pride she wasn't used to receiving. “You saved her life,” he said, and a rush of warmth filled Hartley's system. She let out the breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding, her shoulders sagging in relief.

A smile appeared on her lips, and the Doctor watched as her eyes lit up with happiness.

“I kind of did, didn't I?” she asked, and the smile grew, nearly blinding in its brilliance. She reached up to wipe at the sweat gathered on her brow. “It felt good,” she admitted shyly, and the Doctor grinned back in a bright amusement.

“Come on,” he said, jerking his head towards the exit. “Let's go find Rose.”

The viewing deck was filled with the injured elite. Hartley was relieved once more to see the tree she'd saved standing with her guards, the group murmuring amongst themselves in quiet voices. They glanced up, and Hartley sent the alien a gentle smile. The tree nodded back, eyes sparkling with gratitude. Hartley didn't know what to do in this kind of situation – she'd never saved anybody's life before – and merely nodded in reply, hoping to come across a lot cooler than she felt.

“Hey, you got the doors open,” Hartley said to Rose, who slid into place beside them, hair wild and messy from the day's ordeal.

“They came apart once the shields went back up,” Rose nodded, a tiny smile on her face. “Are you two all right?” she added tentatively, looking about as exhausted as she could get, though more concerned about their safety.

“We're fine, Rose,” Hartley assured her softly, sliding to the side as she watched the Doctor's anger grow. Hartley wasn't totally sure what had happened today, but she knew it couldn't have been an accident. Somebody had planned things to go wrong, somebody had had something to gain, and the Doctor wasn't about to let that go. So the day wasn't over, not quite yet.

“I'm full of ideas,” the Doctor said, shoulders tense as he spoke, the storm in his eyes raging as he raised his voice, suddenly commanding the attention of the entire room. “I'm bristling with them. Idea one: teleportation through 5000 degrees of heat needs some kind of feed. Idea number two: this feed must be hidden nearby.” The Time Lord moved confidently over to the ostrich egg sitting on a corner table, picking it up and slamming it into the surface without mercy. It cracked open, revealing the small metal device inside which could only be the feed he was talking about. “Idea three: if you're as clever as me, then a teleportation feed can be reversed.”

There was a flash of near blinding light, and then Cassandra was back where she'd been before, a smug grin on her stretched lips that faltered upon realising her situation.

“The last human,” the Doctor addressed her scathingly, and she gave a delicate little cough.

“So, you passed my little test; bravo,” she struggled to formulate a reply, sounding wholly unconfident in what she came up with. “This makes you eligible to join the...ah – the human club...”

“People have died _,_ Cassandra,” the Doctor said with a calm that was anything but comforting. “You _murdered_ them.”

“It depends on your definition of 'people',” Cassandra argued weakly. “And that's enough of a technicality to keep your lawyers dizzy for centuries. Take me to court then, both of you, and watch me smile and cry and flutter––”

“And creak?” the Doctor supplied just as a low creaking sound began to fill the room. Cassandra's stretched skin was beginning to dry out without her personal moisturisers to keep her hydrated. “You're creaking,” he continued at her apparent confusion.

The glorified stretch of skin began to panic, eyes growing red as she desperately cried out for someone to moisturise her. Hartley wondered if there was anything she could do. Almost as an afterthought her eyes scanned the room on the off chance one of her minions had left their moisturising machines behind, but the room was empty of hope.

“Help her,” Rose begged them quietly as she stepped up to her new friends, neither of whom were doing anything to save Cassandra. Hartley looked back at her helplessly, telling her that she just didn't know how.

In contrast, the Doctor's dispassionate expression didn't so much as twitch. “Everything has its time, and everything dies,” he told them frankly, and Rose winced at the chill of it.

“But does it _have_ to be today?” Hartley questioned gently, looking away from Cassandra and pressing a hand against his arm, squeezing imploringly through the leather of his jacket.

The Doctor didn't answer her, but then again, she wasn't sure she'd really expected him to. They watched without action as Cassandra exploded, strips of flesh flying to every corner of the room, leaving nothing left on the rack but pieces of limp, bloodied tissue.

Rose was wincing in pity and disgust, but the Doctor only turned away indifferently, attention switching to the other occupants of the room. Hartley felt a pit in her stomach, insides swooping with disappointment. She swallowed around the ball in her throat, glancing over at the Face of Boe, still sat where he'd been before. He seemed to ever-so-slightly incline his head from within his tank, and she forced her lips to twist up into a sad attempt at a smile.

The Doctor moved away from his two companions, circulating the room to make sure everyone was all right, and to help them on their way. The Doctor was such a contrast, Hartley realised. Cold and dispassionate one moment, kind and caring the next. It was enough to give anyone whiplash.

“Does that happen a lot with you two?” Rose asked Hartley some time later, the two companions standing side by side at the viewing window. The aliens filling the room had finally begun to drift away, heading on their way home, away from the solar system's dying light. “Do people usually die?” she asked, voice small and sad.

Hartley hesitated, wondering what she could possibly say that would be a comfort to Rose.

“He tries not to let anyone get harmed,” she eventually said – the complete truth. “But it's not always so always easy when everything seems to be against you.”

“But he didn't even try to save her,” Rose murmured, eyes on the expanding sun outside, safe behind the wall of glass separating them.

“You heard the Doctor,” Hartley whispered. “Everything has its time.” But the look Rose shot her told Hartley that she didn't believe a word. “Besides, there's a big, wide, infinite universe out there,” she added gently, looking past the sun to eye the breathtaking star systems beyond it, imagining the billions upon billions of civilisations hidden amongst them, just waiting to be explored. “Anything's possible,” she said, and nothing had ever been so true.

Rose considered her words carefully, but Hartley decided to change the subject before she could press any further.

“It wasn't easy to watch, was it?” she murmured, eyeing the floating chunks of rock that used to make up their home planet. Everything they'd ever loved had been down there, and now it was all gone.

“That's the thing though, isn't it?” Rose countered bitterly. “None of us _were_ watching.” She turned to Hartley, eyeing the side of her face in the orange glow of the light of the expanding sun. “You don't seem upset,” she noted quietly.

Hartley shrugged her shoulders, staring out into the infinite space with surprising detachment. “It just doesn't really feel like my home, I guess.”

Rose frowned in confusion. “What, you mean you aren't from Earth?” she asked skeptically.

“No, I am,” she replied with a small, bittersweet smirk. “But the life I lived there … I think it's over,” she admitted quietly, the first time she'd done so aloud, watching as the planet disintegrated into nothing. “I can't go back, at any rate.”

She could, technically, but who knew how long she'd be there before a fissure in space and time thrust her back into the Doctor's life, as though her own didn't even _matter_?

“So where _is_ your home, then?” Rose asked softly, staring out at the end of the world, taking in all its terrifying, majestic oblivion.

Hartley hesitated, her answer to the question feeling beyond complicated. “I'm still trying to figure that out, to be honest,” she murmured, and the two new friends once more faded into a comfortable silence.

“Why do you travel with him?” the blonde girl asked her after a long few minutes of nothing but watching the supernova before them.

Rose had been asking her variants of this question all day, but somehow none of them had ever gotten as close to the heart of the issue as this one did. _Why_ did she travel with the Doctor? She wasn't asking how she dealt with it, or whether or not it was worth it in the end. She was asking why, at its core level, _why_ she'd run away with the alien in the blue box.

Hartley looked away from the dying sun before them. Rose's face was bright, glowing in its light.

“Because I wanted more,” she confessed. “I wanted adventure and fun and purpose. And, I suppose, at the core of it all, I wanted to run away.”

“End of the Earth is a pretty far way to run,” Rose murmured thoughtfully.

“Yeah, I guess it is,” Hartley agreed. “But I don't tend to do things halfway.”

“Go big or go home?” she offered.

Hartley smiled with a wry amusement. “Yeah,” she said, huffing out a laugh. “Exactly.”

Things were silent for awhile, both girls lost in their own swirling thoughts. Hartley found the quiet easy, comfortable in a way she hadn't expected. It was only broken by the sound of footsteps as they echoed on the floor behind them. Rose didn't turn, staring out into the chunks of rock that had once made up the Earth. Hartley glanced over her shoulder, gently smiling at the Doctor as he approached.

“The end of the Earth,” Rose murmured once he had finally stopped beside them, hands tucked deep into his pockets. Her voice was distant and thoughtful, sad as she stared out at the remains of her home. “It's gone, and we were so busy saving ourselves that no one saw it go. All those years, all that history, and no one was even looking.”

They lapsed into silence again, each contemplating the weight of the view before them, until finally the Doctor held out a steady hand and said in a gently, understanding voice, “come with me.”

The trip in the TARDIS was a short and familiarly rough one. They landed with a jolt, and the Doctor motioned for Rose to be the first to step from the doors. He gestured for Hartley to follow, and the strawberry-blonde shuffled out after them, a small smile lighting up her face as she stepped onto the hard concrete of the main street in London.

People raced around them like fish in a school, paying them and the big blue box in the middle of the street absolutely zero attention. They talked on their phones and rode skateboards and chewed gum and nodded along to the music flowing through their headphones; completely ignorant to the adventure the three of them had just shared, ignorant to the fact that five billion years in their future the Earth was being swallowed by their expanding sun.

“You think it'll last forever,” the Doctor appeared by their side. Hartley looked up at him while Rose continued to stare out at the crowd in something of a daze. “People and cars and concrete; but it won't. One day it's all gone,” he looked up, and Hartley copied the action, blue eyes meeting the cloudy sky, shoulders sagging at the familiar stormy grey above her head, like a blanket you curled up under after a long day. “Even the sky.” He was quiet again, contemplating what to say. “My planet's gone,” he finally spoke, voice empty of emotion. “It's dead. It burned, like the Earth – it's just rocks and dust. Before its time.”

Hartley wanted to reach out and wind her arm through his, but the Doctor wasn't in the mood to be touched. He needed space, room to deal with the grief that he felt.

“What happened?” Rose was the first one to speak, looking up at him with her big, sad eyes.

“There was a war,” he told her, “and we lost.”

Hartley knew this already, from she and the Doctor's discussion that day in the TARDIS' kitchen. But hearing him say it again hit her with the memory of the pain in his eyes as he'd told her that all his people had died. That he was alone.

War wasn't something Hartley was familiar with. Her granddad – her father's dad – had died in the war, and her dad himself had fought in his youth; but apart from that it seemed to be a distant occurrence, something far away that she knew about but that never really affected her in any tangible way.

She was sure, however, that whatever wars they had on Earth _paled_ in comparison to the one the Doctor's people had been involved in. A war that decimated an entire _planet_? An entire _species_? It was almost incomprehensible.

“A war with who?” Rose asked the Doctor quietly, her voice layered with sympathy. The Doctor didn't answer, and she cleared her throat. “What about your people?” she tried again, and Hartley stared out at the sea of utterly oblivious humans, eyes wet with sorrow.

“I'm a Time Lord,” the Doctor admitted once he'd gathered himself enough to do so. “I'm the _last_ of the Time Lords.” He paused, eyes shining with concealed pain. “They're all gone. I'm the only survivor. I'm left travelling on my own, 'cause there's no one else.”

“There's me,” Rose said without a moment's hesitation. She glanced around him, meeting Hartley's eyes, her own pain mirrored within them. “And Hartley.”

“We're here,” Hartley added gently, and the Doctor slowly turned to look at her, eyes tight with an emotion impossible to name. She wanted to hold his hand, promise him that they were there with him, and that they had no plans on leaving him any time soon, but she knew it wasn't the kind of comfort he would accept. After all, what good were words at a time like this?

“You've seen how dangerous it is,” he said instead, looking back at Rose seriously. “Do you wanna go home?”

Rose paused, and Hartley's heart pounded from within her chest. The last thing she wanted was for Rose to leave. Not now, not when they'd only just barely begun. Travelling with the Doctor was amazing, more than anything even she could dream up. But still, something told her it was going to be better with three.

“I dunno,” she eventually answered, the weight of the dilemma shining in her eyes. “I want...” she hesitated, turning her head to the left. “Can you smell chips?”

The Doctor laughed, and Hartley gave a soft chuckle. “Yeah.”

“I want chips,” she told him, and the Doctor's smile grew large as he nodded. “Right then, before you get us back in that box, chips it is, and _you_ can pay.”

“No money,” the Doctor shrugged, a dopey grin on his face.

“What sorta date are you?” Rose teased. “Come on then, tight-wad, chips are on me. We've only got five billion years till the shops close,” she joked, tongue peeking out between her teeth.

The shop they chose was small and out-of-the-way, the salty scent of fish and chips swirling in the heat of the room. Rose picked a table by the window, and as they sat down Hartley realised they had a beautiful view of the water nearby.

“So, go on then, Hartley, today feels like it's been all about me. Tell me about yourself,” Rose said once she'd returned with a large packet of salty hot chips, a wide, toothy grin on her pale pink lips.

“Nothing to tell, really,” Hartley shrugged in reply, toying with the little packets of complimentary salt placed on their table.

“Come on,” Rose goaded her, nudging her with her foot under the table. “Where're you from? The future? The past? Earth? You sound English.”

“I _am_ English,” Hartley answered slowly. She didn't tend to enjoy talking about herself, but she had a feeling that Rose wasn't going to let it go any time soon. “And I'm from here and now. I lived just over the water there, in Westminster.”

“You're joking!”

“Cross my heart.”

Rose looked stunned by the information. “So, how'd the Doctor find you, then?” she asked as she unwrapped the bundle of chips, picking one out and taking a generous bite. “Did you rescue a space station with him, too?”

“No,” Hartley laughed, unable to help but wish that had been the case. “It's kind of a complicated story, actually.”

“I'm a slow eater,” Rose assured her cheekily, and the Doctor looked up from his fiddling with a smirk on his lips, meeting Hartley's eyes. She rolled her own at him, then turned to Rose and began the mysterious tale of how she and the Doctor had met.

As they talked, Hartley got the strangest feeling. It was warm and insistent in her chest, a pressure against her heart telling her, in no uncertain terms, that she was lying to herself before. She knew where home was, now. She just had to learn to accept it.


	8. Poison Screamers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another original chapter here - I hope you enjoy!

**POISON SCREAMERS**

“ _The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”_

John Ray

* * *

It had been a crazy few weeks, but also some of the best of Hartley's life.

They'd fought ghosts with Charles Dickens and battled Slitheen in Downing Street with future Prime Minister, Harriet Jones. Hartley began to get into the swing of things, she was growing more and more physically fit with every passing day, all the running doing her a world of good.

It surprised her when she got hurt. It wasn't too bad; a graze here, a sprain there. Travelling the universe sure as hell wasn't as glamorous as it had seemed in the initial pitch.

And yet it was so much _better._

She'd never considered herself a thrill seeker, but as she survived explosions and dodged energy weapons and helped solve problems where the safety of a planet was at jeopardy, she found herself feeling more alive than she had ever before, than she could imagine any human had ever felt, ever.

It wasn't all danger and mayhem. The Doctor took them to flea markets on moons and olympic triathlons on space stations. Hartley loved the art galleries the most. If she'd thought Earth art was impressive, pieces from planets like Karpoloron or Gahenrika's 2nd moon absolutely took her breath away.

The Doctor never let them stay long when there was no trouble for him to get into – in other words, he grew bored fast. He had the attention span of a small child, but she supposed it did grow endearing over time.

Rose was much the same, but she was polite about it as she followed Hartley around the rooms, watching her stare in rapture at the metal sculptures and neon-coloured portraits. The Doctor probably wouldn't take them to any at all if Rose didn't insist that everyone got a turn to decide where to go.

For her friends' sakes, Hartley didn't always choose places she knew they'd find dull. Sometimes she picked the 'random' setting, something the Doctor liked very much. He would grin madly, yanking on the appropriate lever and sending them into the vortex at the TARDIS' mercy.

It was on one such day that they stepped out of the doors only to be met with tall, glittering pink grass and foliage a stark white. Hartley smiled at the magical, alien sight, tipping her face up into the warmth of the alien sun above them.

“Ooh,” Rose murmured, zipping up her pink jacket as a cool breeze brushed them by. “This is a pretty planet.”

“Where are we exactly?” Hartley asked the Doctor, pulling her beanie further down her ears before tucking her hands into the pockets of her jeans.

“This is the planet Ulka,” the Doctor responded cheerfully, reaching over to pluck a white leaf from an overhanging branch. “We're in the Cigar Galaxy – as your lot call it.”

“Ulka?” Rose repeated, the word strange in her mouth.

“Ulka,” he confirmed with a grin, sniffing the leaf before letting go, allowing it to flutter down to the pink grass below.

“Why's the grass that colour?” Hartley asked curiously, bending down to run her fingers over the pink meadow, surprised by its softness. “Something in the soil?”

“Ten points to Gryffindor,” the Doctor chirped.

Hartley grinned widely at the words. “I'm a Hufflepuff,” she corrected him cheekily, “but continue.”

“They have a nutrient in the soil that you don't have on Earth – they call it Tryphosea. It's all over this solar system, comes from a gas that lingered in this quadrant of the universe back in the time of its formation. In its natural form, it's red, and their grass is naturally white, so together...”

“...they make pink,” Hartley nodded, inhaling softly. She detected the faint smell of sugar carried on the wind, and it seemed to warm her from the inside. The scent of it made her hungry, her sweet-tooth flaring to life. She could have really gone for some hot chocolate, or a caramel tart, in that moment.

“Shall we?” Rose prompted them, already starting forwards, heading in the direction of a large metal structure positioned at the base of a hill. Its sharp angles and hard, shiny surface were a massive contradiction to the soft pink grass and gentle, sloping hills of the land. It looked wrong and out of place, like it shouldn't have been there at all. It was, simply put, an eyesore.

“Do you know much about this planet?” Hartley asked the Doctor curiously, reaching out to run her fingertips along the soft stalks of tall grass that were growing along the side of the path. “Who're the native species?”

“No idea,” the Doctor answered her cheerfully, blue eyes focused on Rose as the blonde stopped to pull off a snowy white leaf off a branch, holding it up to the bright sun and squinting at its rough, see-through surface.

“You're the worst tour guide in the universe,” Hartley jested, and the Doctor pulled his attention away from Rose long enough to roll his eyes at her in exasperation.

They made their way up to the large, unnecessarily ostentatious building, approaching the frosted glass doors at the ground level with minimal caution, as per usual. They stood there for a moment, wrongly assuming the doors would open automatically. When nothing happened, the Doctor cleared his throat, like he was trying to get someone's attention.

“ _Identification badges_?” an automated voice asked, seemingly from nowhere. It was so sudden that it startled both Hartley and Rose. They jumped, squinting up at the doors in shock.

The Doctor was quick to pull out his psychic paper, holding it up to the doors, letting whoever – or whatever – was in charge scan it.

Nothing happened for a full minute. There was no sound other than the breeze blowing through the surrounding trees. Then finally, just as Hartley was going to suggest they walk around some more to explore the landscape, a figure appeared through the frosted glass, running towards them as fast as his short little legs could carry him. He dragged a card through the scanner and the doors opened without a sound.

“Good rise, Inspector,” the tiny alien greeted them, reaching up with a stubby little hand to shake the Doctor's, then his two companions after. “We weren't expecting an inspection for another three weeks.”

The little alien looked a lot like how Hartley imagined a real-life goblin might. He was short, the top of his head barely reaching her hips, and his skin was a murky brown colour, crinkled and folded. A large, hooked nose was the most prominent feature on his squished face.

“The Doctor's fine,” the Time Lord said casually, going along with the goblin's words, grinning at the alien in the tiny lab coat broadly before he gestured to the girls. “That's Rose, and she's Hart,” he relayed succinctly, pointing to each woman in turn.

“Your...assistants?” assumed the goblin hesitantly, and the Doctor didn't stop for a moment, nodding his head in agreement.

“They certainly are,” he said brightly, grinning a toothy grin. Neither Hartley nor Rose were pleased by this title, but the Doctor was oblivious to the annoyed frowns they sent in his direction.

“My name is Jaggle,” the little man introduced himself with an awkward smile, revealing a mouth full of sparkling, pointed teeth, much like those of a shark. His voice high and squeaky, utterly unthreatening. It was a stark contradiction between how he looked and how he sounded. Hartley found it strangely endearing. “Please, come inside, wouldn't want to get stuck in a Screamer riot,” Jaggle told them with a tiny burst of laughter, as though he'd attempted a joke.

None of the trio got it, but they followed him inside the sleek, modern, out of place building obediently.

“Screamer?” Rose echoed with a confused blink.

“She's new,” the Doctor said dismissively, giving a wave of his hand. “First day on the job.”

Jaggle paused a moment, eyeing them with slight suspicion as the doors silently shut behind them, sealing them all inside the building. The room was climate controlled, the air warm against Hartley's human skin. “So, I can assume you're all up to speed, then?” Jaggle asked as though he didn't quite believe they were.

“Of course,” the Doctor lied with a practised ease.

“But, for the sake of the inspection, why don't you tell us about it – in your own words?” Hartley suggested quickly, thinking on her feet as she realised they needed to know more about what was happening and where, exactly, they were.

The Doctor glanced over at her with raised eyebrows, but she didn't return the look, instead watching Jaggle with carefully blank, patient features. The small, goblin-like alien hesitated only a beat before nodding and beginning to lead the trio down a long, glistening hallway. The floor itself sparkled like it were made from recycled crystals, she felt almost guilty for tracking her dirty shoes across its pristine surface.

“Well, this is outpost D47 from the Galactic Wildlife Appreciation and Research Department, or, as it's affectionately known – GWARD,” Jaggle explained as they walked. The three travellers nodded like they already knew this, and Hartley made sure to send him an encouraging smile, letting him know he was on the right track. “We're here researching the newly discovered species inhabiting this planet.”

“And that would be?” Rose asked, playing along.

He narrowed his black little eyes at her for a beat, before his expression smoothed and he continued on walking. “The Poison Screamers, milady,” he answered her, and the blonde's lips pursed in intrigue.

They certainly sounded intimidating – _Poison Screamers._ The name was more than a little unsettling. How exactly had they come to earn this name? She hoped she wasn't going to have to find out first-hand.

“Tell us more about these Poison Screamers,” the Doctor said, but the words were an order, not a request.

“Well, they're a primitive species, barely beginning their journey of evolution. They don't even have a means of verbal communication; as far as we can tell, they seem to be mentally linked.”

“And _how_ can you tell?” he pressed.

“We've yet to record any form of conversation, but they're able to organise in a way that suggests higher intelligence and communication.”

Jaggle paused by a set of thick double doors and pulled a card out from around his neck, sliding it through a scanner on the wall. He stepped back as the doors swung open, revealing an immaculate research lab. A large screen on the far wall was showing live security footage from outside the building, and work stations dotted the room, various scientific instruments and vials full of colourful liquids sitting on top.

A handful of people filled the room, all of them wearing what appeared to be lab coats, only they were a shade of deep magenta instead of the typical white that Hartley and Rose were so familiar with.

Jaggle shuffled forwards, heading straight for a tall blonde woman standing at a computer in the corner. The Doctor and his companions hesitated by the door, taking in the scene with interested eyes. The people filling the room looked up from their work at their entrance, eyes alight with curiosity.

Jaggle was murmuring with the blonde lady, who had bent over almost comically to speak with him in undertones. She had a stern demeanour, and shot them narrow-eyed looks while Jaggle spoke into her ear, before finally forcing her face to smooth out into a neutral expression as she stood up straight, now towering over Jaggle like a skyscraper. She adjusted her lab coat, tilted her chin up like she were heading into battle, and approached.

“Doctor, is it?” she asked, striding forwards, her tall, nude high heels clicking against the shiny floor. Hartley thought it was a miracle she didn't slip and fall.

“That's right,” he nodded cheerfully, utterly unruffled. “Rose and Hartley,” he introduced the girls again, and the woman smiled with forced politeness.

“I'm Professor Janet Kingsley, I run this facility,” she began, her voice the sort that commanded respect and attention. “That's Zimmerman,” she pointed to a young woman with buzzed red hair and lips the colour of blood. “Dip,” she nodded over at another goblin-like man standing on a high stool, allowing him to reach the keyboard of his computer. “And Cole,” a man of average height with thick dreadlocks and piercing eyes. A wide, friendly smile sat on his lips.

“And you're the research team looking into these 'Poison Screamers', then?” stated the Doctor plainly.

Janet – as they now knew her to be called – shot them a scathing look that intimidated Hartley, though she wouldn't admit it. “Shouldn't you already know that?” she challenged him, voice dripping with suspicion, but the Doctor took it all in his stride.

“We like to pretend we don't know anything – it starts us all off on the same level,” he told her merrily, straightening his leather jacket and casually wandering over to the large screen, observing the graphs and charts flashing across its surface every few moments. “Tell us more about this native species, then.”

Janet hesitated. “Aren't you more concerned with how efficiently we're running?” she asked, her perfectly maintained brows pulling down into a frown. “Jaggle can pull up the daily reports for you to review,” she offered auspiciously.

“That won't be necessary,” Hartley said confidently, smiling gently at the somewhat anxious woman. She could only imagine what it was like to run a scientific research centre in the middle of nowhere, having an unexpected 'inspection' interrupting her day. “We prefer a much more hands-on approach. We want to see you all in action,” she told her with another comforting smile.

“I'm afraid you've come at a bad time,” Janet told them rather flatly, retaining her cool exterior. “It's a slow day – we're focusing on stock count and temperature readings.”

Just as she finished speaking, the one she'd called Dip slammed his hand down on a red button, and the room suddenly rang with sharp alarms, making everyone else flinch. “What the sunshine, Dip?” the handsome one – Cole – shouted over the alarms, frowning across the room at the much smaller alien.

“The cameras are showing dogs one through four returning, but no Gibson in sight,” the other goblin reported in a crackly voice, typing furiously at the keys before him, beady little eyes flickering over the screen before him in concern.

There was a pause. “Looks like it might not be such a boring day after all,” the Doctor declared with a wide, excited grin.

“Who's Gibson?” Rose spoke up before Janet's scowl could fully form, glancing over at the screen in interest.

“Head of our field team,” the centre's leader told them with a worried frown, hurrying back over to her desk and beginning to type away at the keys, her long, perfect nails tapping loudly against the plastic. “When did he last check in?” she asked Dip sharply, never lifting her eyes from the screen.

“Seven minutes ago,” he answered her shortly, wrinkles growing deeper with his frown.

“Locator chip?”

“Still transmitting.”

A map of what was clearly the immediate area popped into sight, one lone red dot blinking on the screen. The map wasn't easy to read, Hartley unsure what the strange symbols meant. They weren't a language, just part of the map which the TARDIS didn't see fit to translate.

“Cole,” began Janet in a bark, but the large man was one step ahead, already shedding his laboratory coat to reveal a rather _Indiana-Jones-_ looking ensemble underneath. “Tranquillisers _only_ ,” she told him as he unlocked a large metal cabinet on the far wall, pulling out a large tranquilliser gun followed by a set of fluffy grey earmuffs, slipping them over his dreadlocked hair to securely cover his ears.

He looked rather ridiculous with them on, but he didn't seem to care, winking at Hartley playfully when she grinned in vague amusement.

“What do you need a tranquilliser gun for?” demanded the Doctor. “Maybe this Gibson bloke just got lost. I'm sure there's no need for violence.”

“You don't know these things like I do, Doctor,” Janet replied crisply. She turned back to Cole, who was shoving spare darts into his pockets. “Do not engage unless absolutely necessary. Stay on channel eight, and take the dogs back with you.”

“You got it, Boss,” Cole said as he secured a small walkie-talkie to his jacket, turning and bolting from the room with wide strides of his long legs. The doors slid shut after him, and the trio of travellers turned back to Janet, whose expression was pinched in a withheld consternation.

“Tell us what's happening here,” demanded the Doctor, the earlier buoyancy gone from his voice. Things had certainly taken an abrupt turn – Hartley got the feeling this adventure was not going to be of the happy-go-lucky variety.

“Zimmerman,” barked Janet, and the younger woman with the buzzed red hair scurried towards them, a frown on her freckled face. “Answer their questions, will you?” she said in a snap. “I have more important things to do.”

She turned around, striding from the room with the elegant clicking of her towering heels, disappearing out the doors and around the corner. This left the trio of friends alone with Dip, Jaggle and Zimmerman. Jaggle and Dip were huddled beside a small computer, muttering between one another as they worked. Zimmerman was staring up at the three travellers with a small smile.

“She's kind of a grump,” she said with a huffing laugh, hugging a large stack of papers to her chest. “But you get used to it.”

“Why don't you explain things from the start?” suggested Rose kindly, and Zimmerman nodded her head, shuffling over to the large screen on the far wall, using the controls to pull up the relevant information.

“This planet was discovered two years ago by galactic explorer, Leonid Lucas,” she began in a voice much like that of a history teacher. “Unfortunately, this was the last planet he ever found. He was killed by the Poison Screamers only a week after arriving.”

“Killed how?” asked the Doctor, leaning towards the screen where the image sat of a round man in khaki clothes, stood beside what looked like a dead sabre-toothed tiger, hanging beside him. He was holding a rifle and grinning at the camera with greying teeth. Immediately Hartley knew she loathed him, and she felt sick looking at the poor creature dead at his feet. Zimmerman didn't answer his question, so he tried a different tactic. “Why're they called Poison Screamers?” he asked curiously. “Bit of a funny name for a species, don't you think?”

“That was what Leonid called them in his last transmission to the Empire,” Zimmerman explained patiently. “We continue to call them that in his honour.” There was a pause, and the young woman looked like she were taking a moment of silence for the fallen explorer. Hartley tried not to let her grimace be too obvious. “The Empire wanted to exterminate the indigenous population in retaliation, but GWARD stepped in, made a huge fuss and eventually got them to agree to send a team down to study them – ergo, us.”

“Study them how?” pressed the Doctor impatiently, growing eager for answers.

“Observation, mostly,” she told him with a perfectly straight face that then evened out into a small smile. “Gibson's not just our field officer, he's also our linguist. He's trying to teach them to communicate verbally so we can talk to them, but it's been slow going.”

“How long have you been here?” asked Hartley curiously.

“Seven months, two weeks, three days and eight hours,” she replied without flinching.

“That's awfully specific,” murmured Rose.

Zimmerman suddenly looked very tired. “You'd count the days too if you were stuck here without access to fresh coffee beans or the movie channels on your TV, with only _these_ guys for company,” she said, jerking her chin at the pair of goblin-like aliens muttering to one another at the monitor in the corner.

“That's fair,” Hartley nodded, thinking back to Janet's scowling face. Being stuck in close quarters with that woman would probably be enough to drive anyone to insanity. “What do you do here?” she asked curiously.

“I'm a biochemist,” she revealed, reaching up to tug at the impressive stretchers hanging in her ears.

“But _why_ are they called Poison Screamers?” asked the Doctor again, it not having escaped his noticed that the question had so far gone unanswered.

“They possess a rather...unique ability,” Zimmerman replied, turning back to the controls and fiddling with them for a moment before a video began to play across the large screen before them. It was a man, round and balding, holding out a small device that looked an awful lot like a calculator to Hartley's untrained eyes.

There was no sound to the footage, all was silent as they watched a small creature dart out from the cover of the tall, dead grass.

It was humanoid in shape, though its hair looked to be made out of the same grass it nested in. Its eyes were a complete, solid black. It had high, angular cheek bones and pasty white skin, which was unexpected due to the exposure to the sun, with lips just as colourless. It wore a grass skirt, and a top that looked like it was made from dry mud and leaves, most of it pink, blending in almost seamlessly with its surroundings.

The man began talking, judging by the moving of his lips, but the creature did nothing, only staring. The man then reached into his pocket, pulling out a small bar of something, probably food, offering it to the creature in a show of peace.

Finally it began to edge forwards, fingers tipped with tiny pointed claws held out to gingerly grasp the proffered food. The moment it was close enough, the man lurched forwards, attempting to swipe at the alien, tag it with the small device he held in his hand. It leapt backwards, opening its mouth in what they could only assume was a scream.

The human stumbled backwards then collapsed to his knees, dropping what was in his hands and holding them up to his head in apparent agony. He was shouting out, crying in pain, and finally the alien darted back into the tall grass, immediately disappearing from sight.

The man on the ground recovered slowly, pulling back his hands to reveal blood had poured from his ears, staining his hands red.

The footage ended with a blink, going back to the home screen, an aesthetically pleasing picture of a double sunset on some unnamed alien world. Hartley gaped at the screen in shock, struggling to process all she'd just witnessed. Rose was similarly stunned.

“We had to mute the sound,” admitted Zimmerman grimly. “Even a recording is enough to evoke the same reaction.”

“How does it do that?” asked Rose, swallowing her shock to look at Zimmerman in bewilderment.

“Frequency manipulation,” she replied matter-of-factly. “But on a much larger scale than anything man could ever create. It quite literally turns your brain to mush.”

Realisation struck Hartley, and her jaw dropped open in horror. “You mean that wasn't blood coming out of his ears?” she breathed, crossing her arms over her chest.

“It was brain matter,” confirmed Zimmerman grimly, and feeling like she were about to be sick, Hartley had to turn away, running a hand through her long hair, the pull at her scalp grounding her.

“This Gibson bloke,” began the Doctor, his sharp mind never stopping for anyone or anything. “Is he the first to go missing?”

“We don't know that he's _missing_ ,” argued one of the goblin-like aliens from behind them. Hartley remembered that Janet had called him Dip.

“Do you know where he is right now?”

“...No.”

“Then he is, by definition, missing,” the Doctor deadpanned.

Dip was disgruntled by this retort, but he didn't dispute its accuracy, turning back to his tablet with a muted _humph._

There was a crackle of static as their high-tech walkie-talkie devices flared to life, and Zimmerman fumbled to pull hers from her pocket, pressing the button on top and holding it to her lips. “Cole? Where are you?”

“ _Just leaving HQ now,_ ” Cole's deep voice washed over them, tinny through the device's speaker. “ _Got dogs Three through Seven with me_ ,” he said, and over the line they could hear the faint barking of dogs.

“Roger that,” replied Zimmerman, a concern frown pulling at her shapely brows.

“What's his plan?” asked the Doctor, hands folded in front of him, coming off a lot more polite than he actually was.

“Find the location of Gibson's locator chip, hopefully finding Gibson in the process,” Zimmerman answered him, utterly candid.

“That happen a lot?” the Doctor pressed curiously. “You find the chip but not the owner?”

Zimmerman winced. “It may have happened to a few dogs, in the past,” she admitted warily, and the Doctor's answering frown really said it all.

“ _Zimmerman, you there_?” Cole's voice reappeared, and Zimmerman just about dropped her communicator in her zealous to answer it.

“Here, Cole,” she replied, sidestepping the hovering Doctor and making her way over to her own computer, beginning to tap away at the keyboard, bringing up what Hartley could only assume was the security feed from the surrounding area. “Status?”

“ _Heading into the fourth quadrant now_ ,” he told her, and a second later he appeared on the screen. He looked just as big on the monitor as he had in real life, walking steadily along the path carved from the tall, pink grass.

Everyone in the lab watched as he moved across their vision, four large, black dogs surrounding him in a perfect square, their noses held to the ground.

“You're going to want to take a sharp right, Cole,” Zimmerman told him, wincing as she said it. On the screen, Cole came to a stop. He seemed to lift his shoulders, giving Hartley the impression he was gathering his courage.

“ _I'll see you on the other side, Zimm_ ,” he said, but the hint of anxiety in his voice felt amplified in the stifling silence of the laboratory.

“Keep in contact,” she replied, the anxiety mirrored in her own voice. With only another beat of hesitation, he stepped into the pink grass. It was taller than even the tall Cole, and he disappeared completely from view.

“Where'd he go?” asked Rose with a frown, stepping closer like she might be able to get a better look.

“No way to see through the grass,” Zimmerman told her, shoulders tight with her worry.

“No drones?” the Doctor questioned.

This time Zimmerman hesitated, an uncomfortable look on her face. “The Poison Screamers took them all down,” she finally revealed. The Doctor certainly didn't look thrilled by this news.

“Took them down _how_?” he pressed firmly.

“With a scream on a localised frequency that brought the mechanics to a standstill.”

The trio were silent as they processed exactly what this meant. “You're telling me this is a race with the ability to melt brains and stop engines from working with a single scream?” the Doctor asked, cold and careful.

Zimmerman looked uncomfortable again. The crackle of her comm was a saving grace, and she picked up the small device with a relieved look on her face, holding it up to her ear as Cole spoke. “ _I'm not seeing anything, guys_ ,” he told them, voice calm but holding just a hint of uneasiness. Hartley could only imagine what he was feeling, trapped in that tall grass with zero visibility, knowing that at any point, the native species could kill him, should they so wish it.

“You're about twenty yards off,” Zimmerman assured him. They all watched as his little red, blinking dot slowly moved closer and closer to the other, stationary dot.

Cole's dot came to an abrupt stop about halfway to his goal. The group watching all frowned in confusion, waiting nervously until the walkie-talkie device crackled with activity. “ _Zimm?_ ” came Cole's voice, suddenly sounding more wary than they'd yet heard.

“Cole? What's wrong? Do you see Gibson?” asked Zimmerman quickly, gripping the edge of her desk, knuckles turning white.

“ _Something isn't right,_ ” he replied, but it was said in a whisper, like he was afraid someone might overhear.

“What do you mean?” Zimmerman pressed.

“ _Zimm,_ ” replied Cole. “ _Zimm, I'm not-_ ” he cut himself off with a loud shout of abject terror, and then the transmission ended with that same crackle of static.

“Cole,” cried Zimmerman into the device, eyes wild with panic. “Cole, talk to me,” she ordered, and Hartley swallowed around her suddenly dry throat.

“Look,” the Doctor muttered, and all the women looked away from where they'd been staring at the comms device, as if peering at it might somehow make Cole respond. He gestured to the computer screen where the two red dots remained blinking, each signifying a missing person. The signals had moved closer together, and now both dots were occupying places beside one another.

As far as they could tell, Cole had succeeded in finding Gibson. But then why wasn't he responding? And what had scared him so?

“Cole, come _in_ ,” demanded Zimmerman, her voice rising in pitch. “It says you're with Gibson now. What's going on?!”

The girl was quickly becoming distraught, and Hartley was the first to act, slipping closer and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “It's okay,” she told the upset biochemist soothingly. “We'll find him. It'll be okay.”

“What the sunshine is going on here?” Janet's sharp tone barked from over by the doors, which closed behind her with that mechanical whirr.

“Cole isn't responding on the comms,” Dip informed her factually, no feeling whatsoever in his voice.

“Why not?” demanded Janet coldly.

“Well, if they knew that, there probably wouldn't be a problem,” said Rose in dry humour, and despite themselves, Hartley and the Doctor smirked.

Janet looked less than amused by the comment, shooting the younger blonde a disapproving glower before turning to the monitors, attempting to take control of the situation. She ripped the device from Zimmerman's hand with enough force that the woman with buzzed, red hair flinched back, nearly toppling over Hartley in the process.

Janet held the comm to her perfectly painted lips, barking into it with force. “Cole. Cole do you read? Cole, answer me, or so help me _angels..._ ”

There was no reply other than the sharp static of the comms. Whatever had happened to Cole, he was officially unreachable. The people filling the room fell into a stony, heavy silence. The weight of the unknown sitting on all of their shoulders. Was Cole okay? Was he even _alive_?

“The dogs just returned,” said Dip grimly, and the monitor suddenly showed all four dogs darting back to the facility, tails between their legs. “They're alone.”

“What now, Janet?” asked Jaggle carefully. Before their leader could answer, the comms flickered to life once more.

“Cole?” asked Janet eagerly, and nothing happened for one long moment, and then the room was suddenly filled with the single worst thing Hartley had ever heard.

It was a high-pitched screech, something no earthly creature could possibly make – which was fair, she supposed, considering they weren't actually _on Earth._ It was almost a tangible thing, a bullet shooting through the air, stabbing each person directly through the head. They dropped like flies, collapsing to the floor in agony.

Hartley felt like somebody was trying to twist a screw into her brain. She curled in on herself, covering her head with her arms like it might prevent the pain. It didn't, the sound filling her every atom, her body humming with the pitch of it.

Then, just as suddenly as the noise had started, it ended. It took them all some time to recuperate, most remaining on the floor, panting from the aftereffects. Hartley finally raised her head to see that Janet had smashed the comms device against the desktop, breaking it and ending the dangerous transmission.

“Blimey, that was intense,” Rose was the first to speak, her voice tense from the lingering pain. “How'd they know to do that?” she asked, climbing unsteadily to her feet. The Doctor was already standing, and he reached down, taking her hand and helping her up. Hartley began to stand as well, and the Doctor extended a hand, kindly helping her to her feet. She smiled at him in thanks, but he turned away without acknowledging it.

“We told you,” said Janet in a cold voice, staring down at the broken communicator grimly. “They're _intelligent._ ”

“You've been here for eight months,” began the Doctor. Everyone in the room turned to look at him, and Hartley knew this was it; this was when he took charge. “Why are they only attacking now?”

“What do you mean?” asked Zimmerman mildly, painted features pulled together in confusion.

“They've had eight months to do something, but according to your records they've been peaceful up until now – the very first encounter notwithstanding.”

“What are you saying?” pressed Janet flatly.

The Doctor didn't rise to the bait, merely staring back calmly. “I'm saying that they've been provoked, and I want to know how.”

Janet's expression grew dark, the irritation obvious in her stormy eyes and pursed lips. “What right do you have to come in here and accuse us of-”

“Two of your people have been taken hostage,” the Doctor interrupted her, no time for games. Janet's expression wavered, the severe truth of his words an unwelcome shock. “And right now I'm your best bet to get them back unharmed.”

Janet didn't look convinced.

“We don't even know if they're alive,” interjected Dip grimly. “The locators are just that; locators. They don't show life signs. For all we know, they could already be dead.”

“I bet you're fun at parties,” muttered Rose, turning to roll her eyes at Hartley, who smiled in spite of herself.

“Chances are, they're still alive,” the Doctor said, taking the time to meet each and every one of their stares. “But until we know for certain, we have to operate as if they are. This has become a rescue mission.”

“And who exactly put you in charge?” asked Janet icily. It was clear that she wasn't going to relinquish control easily.

“I'm your best bet for getting everyone through this with their brains still intact,” he replied without so much as a blink. “So if I were you, I'd start listening to me.” Janet didn't move, staring back, a war of indecision waging behind her eyes. “Or, if you'd rather, we could just leave – getting a bit hungry, to be honest. We could always go get pizza in Italy?” he directed this to his companions, but they knew better than to take him seriously.

Hartley knew he'd never abandon the people here. Not even for a moment was he actually contemplating leaving. He would see this through, making sure every last living thing on this planet was safe from harm.

But Janet believed his bluff, the battle behind her eyes coming to an end, her shoulder hunching as she accepted her decision – the _right_ decision, whether she believed it or not. “What do you suggest we do, then, Doctor?” she asked, voice tense with reluctance.

The jovial glint to the Doctor's eyes abruptly vanished, replaced by a steely resolve as he slid effortlessly into save-the-world-mode.

“First of all, tell me why this building is safe,” he began, voice as serious as his expression.

“What do you mean?” asked Zimmerman in confusion.

  
The Doctor looked like his patience was already failing him. “Those lifeforms out there could _level_ this building with a single good scream,” he reminded them tightly. “So what's stopping them?”

Janet pulled herself up to her full height as she turned and began to tap away at the computer with perfectly manicured fingers. “Just a simple forcefield. Nothing extraordinary,” she answered just as tightly. Schematics of the building appeared on the big screen, showing a sort of second skin clinging to the outside of the building, like the walls themselves held their own aura.

The Doctor moved forwards, stepping in between Janet and her computer, taking control himself. The director of the facility looked like she had a few choice words to say about his manners, or lack thereof, but wisely kept her painted lips sealed shut.

“Brilliant,” the Doctor was saying cheerfully from his perch. Rose and Hartley turned to look at the screen, trying to figure out what he was so happy about. “Absolutely brilliant.”

“What is?” prompted Rose eagerly.

“It's sonic!” he exclaimed, turning to shoot his companions a jolly grin.

“What is?” Hartley repeated with careful patience.

“The forcefield,” he huffed, as though disappointed they hadn't immediately known. “It's sonic. That's why the impact of the Poison Screamers can't reach the building. The whole thing is emitting a low level buzz. It's subtle, but still powerful enough to cancel out the effect of their screams.”

“Like white noise?” Hartley guessed, and the Doctor beamed at her with more enthusiasm than she'd yet to encounter from the enigmatic alien.

“Bingo,” he praised her in that crisp Northern accent, bright eyed as he turned back to his furious typing.

“And this helps us how, exactly?” asked Janet skeptically, eyeing him through narrowed eyes.

“Dunno yet,” he replied, utterly cheerful. Janet looked extra unimpressed by this admission. “But I'll figure it out in the end,” he added, somehow reassuring and distant in the same moment. The rest of the group didn't seem particularly convinced, but Rose and Hartley knew him well enough by now to know they could trust it. He did his best work under pressure.

There was a moment where only his continued tapping resonated through the room, and Janet shifted uneasily. “What are you doing now?” she asked anxiously.

“Nosy, aren't you?” he responded effervescently. “Bit of a control freak?” Janet looked positively scandalised by his blatant call out, but he kept talking before she could give him a tongue lashing. “Jaggle, you're up,” said the Doctor over his shoulder. The small alien winced as the attention was brought to him.

“What – uh, what do you need, sir?” he stammered, the pressure of the situation getting to him.

“I need three biological current distributors,” the Doctor ordered him, never lifting his eyes from the screen.

“Uh, well, I'm not even sure we stock-”

“It says right here that you have four of them just sitting there in Storage Two,” he cut him off sharply. Jaggle closed his mouth and gave a quick nod. “Go get them. Quick as you can.”

“Right,” he muttered, turning and scurrying as quickly as he could from the room. With legs that short he didn't seem to be able to go very fast, but he was trying his hardest, and Hartley sent him a kind smile as he shuffled by.

“What are they for, then?” asked Zimmerman curiously, her hands twisted together in front of her stomach anxiously. Hartley realised she must have cared about Cole a lot to be so torn up over his disappearance. Then again, she couldn't imagine she could be cooped up on a planet for nearly eight months with the man and not form a strong connection.

“I've figured it out,” grinned the Doctor, the expression dopey in a way only he could pull off.

“What does a...biological...current... _thingy_ , even do?” asked Rose, too confused by it all, stumbling over the unfamiliar name.

“Distributes a charge through a body's natural current,” explained the Doctor haphazardly, eyes flickering over the screen. “In this instance, a sonic charge – or, as Hartley put it, a source of white noise.”

“Acting to repel the screams of the Screamers,” Rose finished with a proud grin on her face, tip of her tongue just barely poking through her pearly white teeth.

“Exactly,” he confirmed, smiling in that goofy way he sometimes did.

“What's the plan, then, Doc?” Hartley asked, trying to piece together the coming endeavour.

The Time Lord shot her a disgruntled look for the still-unapproved nickname, but otherwise launched into the specifics of his master plan.

“Hartley, Rose and I will go out, get to and save Gibson and Cole. Then we'll reason with these Screamers, try and get some kind of a peace treaty set up.”

“We don't need a _peace treaty,_ ” said Janet, snide and derisive.

The Doctor shot her a look that could only be described as flat. “They've taken two of your people hostage, and tried to melt our brains over the comms not five whole minutes ago,” he countered, utterly deadpan.

Janet winced uncomfortably under all the eyes focused on her. “Fine,” she bit out, lips pulled back in a contemptuous sneer. “If you want to go risk your lives, that's your prerogative.”

“We're going out there to _save_ your men,” Rose snapped back, no time for her attitude. That was what Hartley liked about Rose, she didn't just take things like that lying down. She herself, on the other hand, was something of a doormat when it came to these kinds of situations. “You could at least act like you appreciate it,” Rose continued strongly.

“So that's what this is about?” Janet hissed, and Hartley began to think she was going just a bit overboard. “Gratitude? You want to be labelled as _heroes_?” her face twisted into an ugly sneer.

“That's the furthest from what we want,” interjected the Doctor, calm in the face of her irrational behaviour. “We're going to save those men _and_ those Screamers, just because it's the right thing to do; because it's what anyone with a _heart_ would do,” he paused, thoughtful, “and, considering I've got two, I'm more so inclined than most.”

The others looked terribly confused by this comment, but they had no time to question it. The doors slid open, Jaggle shuffling into the room as his top speed, sweat coating his goblin-like face, puffing loudly from the run.

“Here you are, sir,” he coughed with all the force of a long-term smoker, making Hartley briefly wonder exactly what it was he did in his spare time. But her musings were cut short as Jaggle handed over what looked like three shiny, silver coasters.

The Doctor took them and held them up to the light for a moment before smiling to himself and immediately crossing the room to where a long bench ran along the wall. Atop it sat all manner of scientific equipment, and Hartley thought that the Doctor was suddenly very much in his element, nestled among beakers and hunks of wire, blowtorch in hand and – why did he have a _blowtorch_?

“Is the fire _really_ necessary?” asked Janet in a long-suffering tone of voice.

“I suppose you were the one who taught Nikola Tesla everything he needed to know to build the first radio, then,” the Doctor said conversationally, his fingers and eyes never moving from the little discs in front of him, “oh no, wait, that was _me_.”

The director of the operation looked like she was seriously contemplating hitting him over the head with the microscope sitting only a few feet to her right. Hartley jumped in, stepping between them before Janet could follow through with the voluntary manslaughter.

“Do you know the area where they've taken the men?” she asked the facility's director quickly, if only to serve as a distraction. “Is the territory mapped out?”

Janet pursed her lips into a thin line, jerking her head at Zimmerman who leapt into action, moving over to the computer and beginning to expertly tap away.

“This is a digital model of the terrain,” Zimmerman began, reaching up to idly scratch at her buzzed hair. “Visibility is low because of the grass, but the land's flat and relatively easy to traverse.”

“Do they have weapons of any sort?” pressed Rose, stepping up beside her with a frown.

“Bows and arrows,” Zimmerman replied. “They're mostly a primitive species, but they've mastered basic prehistoric weaponry and defence.”

“They've got bows and arrows, _and_ they can melt our brains using only their voices?” Hartley asked, suddenly feeling much more wary about the whole thing.

“Once I've got these up and running, the only part you'll need to worry about are the arrows,” the Doctor piped up from where he was standing, hunched over the workbench toiling away at the devices that were meant to keep their brains safe.

“That makes us feel loads better, Doc, thanks,” Hartley drawled with the utmost sarcasm, but the Doctor remained oblivious, tossing a wide smile over his shoulder before returning to his work.

Rolling her eyes, Hartley looked over at Rose who grinned back, the pair finding a shared amusement in their travelling companion's antics. “And how long is this supposed to take, exactly?” asked Janet in what was sure to be her most derisive tone of voice. “You realise the longer we spend in here, the longer those _things_ have the chance to _kill_ my employees.”

“ _Employees_ ,” Hartley repeated lowly. “Huh. You guys must be real close.”

Janet shot her a glare that dripped with unimpressed apathy. Pursing her lips uncomfortably and regretting opening her mouth at all, Hartley turned back to the Doctor, pushing herself up onto her toes in an attempt to see the progress he was making from over his broad shoulders.

“It's relatively easy to override the main function of these distributors – they're a version 8.1 – which is good for us, because they're the easiest to hack-”

“You're _hacking_ my equipment?!” Janet shrieked, but the Doctor continued on regardless.

“-Of course, it is a delicate system, and considering they're going to be wired into our spinal cords, it's not the type of thing you want to rush. But still, I'm better than your average Joe, so they should be finished right about...” he put down his tools, spinning around on his toes and presenting the three small discs with a tiny flourish, “...now.”

Rose snorted a laugh, but Hartley knew she was more than impressed by his genius.

“Hang on,” said Hartley before she could be distracted. “Did you say those were going to be _wired_ into our _spinal cord_?”

“That would be correct,” he replied jovially. “Don't worry, it's totally safe.”

“Is it?”

“No, not really,” he deadpanned. “It was a lie to make you feel better. Is it working?”

Hartley could only stare back at him in pure disbelief. He could be so _alien_ sometimes that it was truly shocking. She decided not to dignify the question with an answer, but this seemed to suit him just fine.

“Turn around and hold up your hair,” he ordered her shortly, but Hartley hesitated. It wasn't that she didn't trust him – because she did, implicitly – it was just that the thought of some kind of modified alien tech being _hardwired_ into her _nervous system_ made her feel vaguely ill.

There was a small beep from across the room, and she remembered with a jolt that this wasn't about her. This was about those two men being held captive. She couldn't just allow her fear to override her actions. She knew what was right, and she was going to do it, regardless of her apprehension.

Decision made, Hartley turned on the spot and lifted her long, strawberry-blonde hair off of her neck. She sloppily piled it on top of her head, securing it with the spare band around her wrist, then took a deep breath to ready herself.

There was an agonising beat, and then she felt something sharp bite into the skin at the top of her spine. Flinching but then forcing herself still, Hartley closed her eyes against the unpleasant sensation. It was over quickly, the pain replaced by the cold press of metal to her sensitive skin.

“Rose, you next,” the Doctor said, rather unceremoniously telling her it was over. Huffing, Hartley adjusted her shirt, pulling the jacket tighter around her body to combat the new chill of the device. If she listened closely she could pick up a strange humming noise. She wasn't hearing it in her ears but rather in her entire body. Her whole body was buzzing with the white noise that was meant to keep her safe.

From beside her, Rose gave a hiss of pain but otherwise didn't speak, and Hartley knew she'd been connected also.

Turning, Hartley watched as the Doctor shoved the last remaining small disc into his own spine. He didn't even wince, making her briefly wonder what had hardened him so.

“You'll need some weapons,” began Janet flatly, waving her hand at Dip, who scrambled to get off the chair he'd been sitting on.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” said the Doctor blithely. “I don't like weapons.”

“You don't _like_ weapons?” Janet echoed him dubiously. “Are you telling me you're going to march out there without any form of protection whatsoever?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” he grinned back with all the confidence in the universe, teeth on full display, sky blue eyes crinkled at the corners.

The director of operations looked like she was contemplating manslaughter once again, so Hartley took it upon herself to intervene. “We should get going, yeah?” she asked, voice raised slightly over the hum of white noise in her body.

“It's your funeral,” muttered Janet, stepping aside and waving them towards the doors. “Jaggle, show them out,” she said primly, smoothing her hands down her crisp magenta lab coat, picking invisible lint from the cuffs, silently telling them exactly how little she valued them and the risk they were taking.

“We'll be back,” Rose said, like a reminder, eyes narrowed at the tall scientist in obvious distaste.

“I'm sure you will,” she replied patronisingly, anything but convinced.

Hartley frowned at her but otherwise didn't comment, turning when the Doctor did, following him out of the room and back into the hallway they'd entered through. The sound of Rose following behind her was comforting. She may have been about to step out into incredible danger, but she had her friends by her side, and what else did she need?

It was hot without the air conditioning to keep them cool, and the moment they crossed the threshold out into the harsh environment of Ulka they were hit with a wave of uncomfortable heat. It was a sharp contrast to when they'd first arrived, the air having been so cold it was nearly frigid. Pulling at her collar, Hartley tried not to wince as the door closed after them, clicking shut with a note of terrifying finality.

“Where to, then?” asked Rose curiously, bringing up a hand to shield her eyes from the double suns' glare, spinning around in a semicircle in an attempt to gain her bearings.

“Cole's chip says he's located due west,” said the Doctor, eyes moving from the small tablet in his hand to the direction of the signal, eyes narrowed up at the twin suns.

“Off we go then, I s'pose.”

They set off to the west, the annoying but necessary buzz still vibrating through her body, protecting her from the screams of this primitive but dangerous race.

“What do you think they want?” Hartley asked, unable to stem her curiosity. There had to be a reason, some kind of catalyst that had made these 'Screamers' attack. Was it _their_ appearance? Had their visit somehow triggered it?

She didn't see how this would be the case, but it was her only working theory.

“Could be anything,” said the Doctor flippantly. “Could be they think GWARD is trespassing on their land. Could be they've been somehow offended. Could be they're particularly hungry today.”

This thought made the girls' skin scrawl, but they soldiered on, knowing there was no space for fear on this adventure turned rescue mission.

“What're the chances of them still being alive?” asked Rose, her voice quiet and tentative, like she were afraid someone – or maybe something – would be listening.

“Dunno,” replied the Doctor, borderline cheerful despite the situation they found themselves in. That was just his baseline, Hartley supposed. Cheerful to the end, never minding the circumstance. Or maybe it was a sort of 'if you don't laugh, you'll cry' type of thing, in which case she found herself understanding it more than she'd expected to.

“What do we do if they aren't?” Rose pressed, and finally the Doctor's happy-go-lucky expression dropped into something more serious. He didn't answer, however, opting to remain silent as they continued their journey through the tall grass.

It was like something from a Dr Seuss book, Hartley thought, reaching out a hand to trail her fingertips over the soft material of the tufts of bright pink grass that surrounded them like the walls of a maze.

She'd never liked mazes. As a kid, she'd had a recurring nightmare about being trapped in a labyrinth. She could still remember the feeling of the walls closing in on her, not knowing where she was, or how to get home.

“Are we getting close?” she asked the Doctor anxiously, and he looked back down at his borrowed tablet, eyes narrowed as he read it carefully.

“It says we should be on top of them any second now,” he replied, and all three companions came to a sudden stop, eyeing the gaps between the brightly coloured grass. Hartley suddenly had the unfortunate feeling they were being watched.

“Does anyone else feel like we're being watched right now?” asked Rose cautiously, head tilted to the side as her eyes swept the grass, searching for the source of the sensation.

“Yup,” responded Hartley slowly, hands tugging at the hem of her teeshirt, more of an anxious tick than anything else. “Why d'you suppose that is?” she asked carefully, spinning in a slow circle, eyeing their surroundings critically. She couldn't see anything, but that didn't mean there wasn't anything there.

“Probably because we are,” said the Doctor, utterly unbothered. He wasn't even looking at the grass, but rather focused on whatever was showing on the tablet in his hands, fingers expertly tapping away at the screen.

“Well, that's comforting,” muttered Rose sarcastically, and Hartley had to agree.

There was a rustle of the bright, rosy grass, and all three snapped around to stare at its source. A figure appeared, seeming to suddenly materialise from nowhere, its camouflage so good.

It looked identical to the creature they'd seen on the monitor before. Humanoid but incredibly short, with hair and clothes the colour of the grass but skin a chalky white and eyes a deep, inky black. The expression it wore was set, not so much as a twitch of its lips giving anything away.

“Hullo,” the Doctor greeted it like he might greet an old friend, grinning wide and easy. Hartley was beginning to learn that he wasn't so easily intimidated as any regular old human might be. “I'm the Doctor. I'm here to help.”

The creature pulled back its waxy lips to reveal rows and rows of sharp, jagged teeth, like a shark opening its jaws before it bit you. It didn't scream, not yet. It just stared, seeming to be just daring them to take a step closer.

“Why are you doing this?” pressed the Doctor gently. “The people back in there are very worried about their friends. Are they okay?” he asked with boundless patience.

It only curled its lip back some more, a silent but serious threat.

“I can't help if you don't communicate. Can you understand me? I know every language, so I'll know what you're saying if you speak back. Or can you write something down?”

The creature didn't move, but the pink, grass-like hair on its head began to bristle, almost trembling as its haunches slowly rose.

“It's okay,” the Doctor kept insisting, hands held out placatingly, but then he made the mistake of stepping forwards. His shoe pressed onto a particularly crunchy leaf, the sound echoing around them, and both girls behind him gave near identical winces at the noise.

It was enough to break what little truce they'd created, and the creature before them opened up its mouth further and let out a piercing scream. It hit the trio in a tidal wave of sound, but almost immediately that sound was combatted against by the white noise in their bodies growing, to the point where Hartley's whole body seemed to vibrate with the force of it.

Still, she hunched over as though to try and protect herself from the attack. The Doctor was still shouting, begging the Screamer to listen, to communicate and talk. But it didn't, it only screamed. A few moments passed, and still none of them had died. The Screamer shut its mouth, little black eyes narrowing in frustration as it realised that its scream hadn't worked.

“It's okay, we're wearing white-noise forcefields to keep us safe. We're not going to hurt you!” he was trying to tell it, struggling to convince the little guy of their good intentions.

The Screamer curled back its lips, preparing to scream again.

“Please!” Hartley stepped forwards, hands held up in surrender. “Please – you have our people, we just want to know why, and if they're okay.” The Screamer didn't move, watching her closely. She focused on looking as innocent as humanly possible. “Are they all right? Are they hurt? Please, they have families.”

She wasn't sure if this part was particularly true, but hopefully it would help humanise them just that little bit more – she'd read a book on negotiation techniques once, back in university. She never thought it would ever be something she'd need to apply to a real-life situation.

The Screamer's hackles slowly began to drop, its stare cool and calculating. Then it opened its mouth and screamed, but this one wasn't an attack. It was short, and in amongst the sharp, piercing shriek of it, the three of them could hear a single word.

“ _Hostages_!” it screeched, simple and to the point.

“They're your hostages?” the Doctor leapt onto the communication instantly, hope gleaming in his eyes. “Why? Why do you need hostages?!”

The Screamer eyed him with obvious malice, but it made no move to attack. It seemed to be thinking something through, they could practically see the cogs turning away behind its inky black stare. “ _Return ours_!” it finally shrieked, the sound so loud and blaring it nearly threw Hartley off her feet. She grabbed ahold of Rose's arm for balance.

“Return what?” pressed the Doctor. “What do we have that's yours?!”

But the Screamer wasn't in the mood for chatter. It curled its lips back a final time, letting out a scream even louder than the one before. The white-noise in the back of Hartley's head began to flicker in and out, and slowly she felt her brain begin to burn from inside her skull.

“Doctor!” Rose cried out in the same instant, hands pressed over her ears, panic in her eyes.

“The fields are failing!” he shouted, barely audible over the Screamer's deadly cries. “Go – run!”

They didn't need to be told twice. Without pause they bolted, sprinting back in the direction of the base, the only place other than the TARDIS where they knew they'd be safe.

The doors opened as they approached, and they dove inside, the scream dying away into nothing as the door shut after them, sealing off all sound beyond the base's walls.

The trio groaned, slowly rolling onto their backs and blinking up at the pristine, white ceiling. A familiar buzzed head popped into view, and then Zimmerman was standing above them, eyes wide.

“What happened?” asked the younger woman, one hand anxiously tugging at one of her stretchers, the other cradling a tablet against her middle. “Did it say something to you? It looked like you were speaking, on the video.”

“You couldn't hear?” Rose asked, watching as the Doctor stood, then held out a hand to help them both up. Hartley smiled gratefully, taking it and letting him pull her to her feet.

“No sound to the feed – for safety reasons,” Zimmerman explained.

“Besides,” said the Doctor, grabbing ahold of the device at the top of his spine and tearing it off, tossing it aside like junk, “even if she could hear, she wouldn't understand. Only reason we could understand what he was saying was because of the TARDIS translation circuit.”

Hartley took it to mean she could do the same, gingerly tearing off the device plugged into her body. It stung as she ripped it out, like getting something pierced, but then the pain faded and she felt fine again, tossing it over in the corner with the Doctor's.

“Wait, so – what happened?” Zimmerman asked, confused by what she hadn't understood.

The Doctor didn't answer, turning and storming over to the far wall. It was panelled, but the Doctor seemed to know how it worked, because he slapped the centre panel once, and like something from an old spy movie it flipped around to reveal a wide touch-screen computer.

“Hey – you can't access that,” said Zimmerman anxiously. “Janet will have your head,” she hissed, glancing over her shoulder, paranoid she'd get the blame if her boss magically appeared.

“Let her try,” the Doctor waved her off, tapping away at the screen like an expert. Information was flying across the screen faster than Hartley could track, but the Doctor didn't seem to struggle, scanning it all without so much as a blink.

“I have to tell Janet you're doing this,” Zimmerman warned, her sense of self-preservation winning out.

“Do what you have to,” the Doctor said casually, and Zimmerman frowned as she began typing something out on her tablet.

“Doctor, what're you doing, exactly?” Rose asked, leaning around him, trying to make sense of what was on the screen.

“Looking for whatever it is they _don't_ want me to find,” he replied easily, hands moving so fast they began to blur. Rose still looked confused, but suddenly Hartley pieced together what was happening.

“That Screamer out there said these people have something of theirs,” Hartley murmured, crease appearing between her brows as she frowned.

“Yup,” the Doctor replied in his crisp accent. “And I intend to find out what it is.”

The sharp sound of high heels clacking against the floor rang out through the flat, crystallised surface of the hallway. Rose and Hartley looked up from the screen, eyeing Janet as she walked towards them as quickly as she could without it being considered 'undignified'.

“And what the bloody hell do you think you're doing?” Janet snarled like a dragon, her nostrils flaring. Hartley wouldn't have been surprised if she started spitting fire.

“Oh look,” the Doctor replied blithely, “a sealed door with no name that _isn't_ on the official schematics.” He jabbed a finger at the screen, which was now frozen on an image of a door labelled 'Authorised Personnel Only'. Janet had suddenly gone bone pale, gaping at him in pure outrage. “Wonder what's hiding in there?” he mused, turning to his companions. “Wanna go take a peek?”

“Love to,” replied Rose coyly.

“Sounds like fun,” Hartley agreed, taking a moment to glare at Janet through narrowed eyes, a warning. If she didn't like what she found, this woman was in for a whole lot of hurt.

“You – you have no right!” cried Janet from behind them as they turned and casually began to move down the large hallway. Zimmerman was standing silently off to the side in an attempt to stay out of the warpath, folded in on herself as though trying to make herself a smaller target. “Wait a minute, you're not _really_ Inspectors from GWARD, are you?” Janet finally hissed, eyes like fire as she finally put two and two together, clicking after them in her towering, impractical heels.

“You don't say...” Zimmerman muttered around a snort, the words laced with sarcasm. Luckily for her, Janet was in too much of a state to hear it.

“Maybe we are, maybe we're not. Doesn't really matter in the grand scheme of things, though, does it? Two of your men are in hostile territory. They aren't responding to communication and now I'm your only chance at getting them both back alive.”

Janet was quiet for a moment, staring at the Doctor like she was suddenly seeing him for the first time. “You're military, aren't you?” she finally asked, the words accusatory. The Doctor's expression went blank, like a mask being shuttered into place. “I see it now. You couldn't be anything else but a soldier.”

The Doctor was less than pleased by her words, grimacing as though she'd offended him, and Hartley wondered why that was. Was being seen as a soldier a bad thing? She always thought there was something to be respected about soldiers – but then, she'd grown up with an ex-military man as a father.

Despite the Doctor's irritation, his stride never once faltered. He kept on walking, leading them through the facility like he'd been navigating the monotonous corridors his entire life, with extra, laser-like focus on his destination.

“Stop – I order you to stop this _instant_!” shrieked Janet like some kind of overworked banshee, the pitch almost sharp enough to rival that of the Screamers outside.

None of the trio stopped walking, and Jaggle and Dip toppled from the lab they'd been in earlier, drawn out by Janet's panicked squawking.

“Dip! Jaggle! Restrain them at once!” Janet ordered them, growing desperate.

Hartley smothered a snort, casting the two tiny scientists an amused look, watching as they glanced at one another helplessly, wondering how _they_ were meant to do anything to stop even _one_ of them, let alone all three.

Janet let out a wail of frustration, but nobody paid her a lick of attention.

“Here we are, then,” announced the Doctor, coming to a stop outside of a tall, unassuming door with 'Authorised Personnel Only' written across the front, just like in the image from the computer. He turned, spinning on his heel to look Janet directly in the eyes. “Anything you want to tell me before I open this door?” he asked, voice friendly for the most part, like he were offering her a biscuit and not a chance to come clean of her deadly string of lies.

“I – I, I don't-” she stammered, eyes darting at the exits like she was preparing to make a break for it. Hartley wasn't sure where she thought there was to go, but she had the right idea; the only place more deadly to be than outside was in the Doctor's way.

Running out of patience, her chance to own up to her mistakes gone, the Doctor pulled out the sonic screwdriver. It buzzed, the keypad lighting up in its blue glow, before the door itself beeped and the lock clicked open.

Zimmerman's eyes were wide as she practically drooled over the sonic, but Hartley knew there wasn't time to let her gush about it. The Doctor shoved the door open, walking straight into the room beyond.

Rose and Hartley glanced at one another, sharing a split second of doubt – what would they find within? Would it be dangerous? Illegal? Scary? – before as one they followed the Doctor into the room.

They entered a large room full of monitors and equipment. The walls, however, weren't the shiny, pristine whites and glass of the rest of the facility. Instead they were dark, black as night, and made out of a foamy kind of material that took a moment for Hartley's to place.

When she did, she frowned in confusion – it was soundproofing foam, the kind used in music studios and sensory deprivation rooms. But why did they need it here? What sounds were they trying to muffle?

At the opposite end of the room was a large sheet of glass, but beyond that was only more blackness. It was a room, but the lights were off. The Doctor made a beeline for the glass, realising its significance before either of the others did. He reached for a switch on the wall, flicking it on, and suddenly the room beyond the glass was lit with harsh, fluorescent lights, revealing something that made Hartley sick to the stomach.

A Poison Screamer was tied down on a table, its little hands and feet bound. There was a large muzzle-type contraption on its face, and it looked screwed into its jaw, keeping it shut and rendering it virtually harmless. It was completely naked except for a small cloth covering its pelvis, and they could clearly see a huge, thick incision running down the length of its abdomen. They'd been _dissecting_ the poor thing – like it were some kind of _science experiment._

Hartley gasped, hands flying up to cover her mouth in pure, unadulterated horror. Rose's eyes were wide in shock, hands held over her queasy stomach. Hartley had never seen the Doctor look more deadly, the furious, icy look in his eyes made a shiver run down her spine, even though it wasn't aimed at her.

He shoved open a door to the right that Hartley hadn't even realised was there, pushing his way into the room and moving over to where the Screamer lay helpless in the middle of the room.

Hartley followed, then Rose a moment later, the pair of them swallowing around the lumps of disgust in their throats, horrified by what they were seeing.

“Is she alive?” Hartley asked as she and Rose gingerly approached the alien. She wasn't sure how she knew it was a girl, but she just had a feeling. The little thing was staring dazedly up at the ceiling, not even blinking.

“Barely,” said the Doctor, the words spat with no small degree of contempt. He pulled a stethoscope from the pocket of his jacket, slipping the ends into his ears and pressing the end against the little thing's scarred, chalky chest.

Hartley shuffled closer, heart in her throat, and bent down to the Screamer's level. She peered into her eyes, noting how foggy and distant they looked. “She's been drugged,” she said without thought, reaching out to press a hand against her arm. Her skin was cold, but Hartley got the feeling that wasn't a natural part of her physiology.

The Doctor stopped assessing the Screamer, assured she was alive – for the moment, at least – pocketing his stethoscope and turning to face Janet and her small group of colleagues.

Hartley kept her hand on the Screamer, but turned enough to get a look at the four of them and their expressions. She was surprised by what she found.

Janet looked resigned yet angry, her perfectly manicured hands balled into fists at her sides. The other three, however, looked on in pure shock. Hartley knew immediately that they hadn't known about this. Whatever had happened in this room before now, they hadn't been a part of it. But how did Janet pull it off alone?

The Doctor didn't even need to say anything, he just stared at Janet, who seemed to have broken out into a nervous sweat, perfect skin damp with anxiety. Janet quickly cracked, spurting excuses without so much as a single prompt.

“Do you know what this type of ability could be used for?!” she exclaimed, straightening her spine to look taller in an attempt to intimidate them. It didn't work. “The applications are numerous – and _invaluable_.”

“Invaluable enough to resort to _torture_?”

“Yes!” she cried, heavy with conviction. “You're a soldier – you understand –” she tried to say to the Doctor, but it was the wrong course of action. If anything, it only made him angrier.

“You did this for the _military applications_?” he growled furiously.

“To defend the interests of the Colonies!” she shouted back, growing desperate.

“That's what they all say,” the Doctor spat in disgust. “You say it's for _defence_ , only it _never_ stays that way. This kind of power, in the hands of the military? You might as well start signing off civilian death certificates now.”

“And anything you have to _torture_ someone else to get usually isn't something you have a right to in the first place,” Hartley interjected, unable to keep quiet any longer.

“It's barely even considered an _animal_ ,” hissed Janet defensively. “ _One_ Screamer doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things!”

“That's where you're wrong,” Rose said, voice colder than Hartley had ever heard it. “It _does_ matter. This Screamer alone is worth _ten_ of you.”

Janet's expression twisted at the insult, but the Doctor continued on before she could reply.

“ _You're_ the reason those men have been taken,” he said, sharp and accusing. “Don't you see? You have one of their people hostage – so they took some hostages of their own.”

Janet seemed to – if possible – get even more pale. “They're not smart enough for that,” she said, struggling to stay dismissive.

“How could you have been studying them for so long and still know _nothing_ about them?” Hartley asked in pure bewilderment. She couldn't understand how such a large group of brilliant minds couldn't see what was right in front of their eyes.

“People don't see what they don't _want_ to see, Hartley,” said the Doctor, his stare never breaking from Janet, who swallowed nervously under his dangerous, stormy gaze. She was struggling to keep her composure, eyes watering. Not with sadness, but rather a crushing despair. She was scared – just as she should have been. But she deserved whatever was coming to her, of that Hartley was certain.

Janet turned away, breathing deeply, seeming need a moment to gather her wits. But Hartley couldn't wait any longer – the Screamer didn't deserve to be locked up like it was. It deserved to be free. Not just for its own sake, but for the sake of the men its people had taken hostage. She leaned down to undo the straps, but before her fingers could so much as brush the leather restraints Janet had whipped back around and the loud whirring sound filled the small, metal room.

Flinching in surprise, Hartley looked up to see Janet had a weapon aimed at them. It was a futuristic sort of gun, dark blue and glinting in the low lights dangerously. It shook in her trembling hand, but her glare remained deadly.

Zimmerman let out a small yelp, bringing her tablet into her body and hugging onto it like a little girl might hold onto a teddy bear in bed at night. Jaggle moved quickly, slamming his little spine against the wall behind him, eyes wide with panic. “Janet!” exclaimed Dip, simply aghast.

Hartley stepped away from the table, hands held up in surrender. Rose moved with her, gaze laced with caution as she eyed the weapon aimed directly at them. The Doctor didn't move so much as a muscle, staring back at the wild-eyed, gun-wielding woman, perfectly composed.

“Think about what you're doing, Janet,” he said evenly, the cadence to his Northern accent calm and controlled. “You can come back from this – it doesn't have to end this way,” he told her, making Hartley wonder whether he'd read the same books on negotiation tactics that she had. It certainly sounded as though he had.

“You don't understand,” cried Janet, finally losing her grip on that composure that she'd prided herself on. “This situation isn't black or white, Doctor!” she added harshly.

The Doctor gave a waning smile. “It never is.”

“We're fighting a war,” Janet told him. “The Colonies – they need all the help they can get!”

The Doctor frowned, struggling to follow. “What year is this?” he asked, and Janet's terrified expression gave way to a flicker of confusion at the odd question.

“What?” she asked, almost defensive, like the question were somehow a threat.

“The year, what is it?” he pressed, unrelenting.

There was a beat. “6685,” Dip finally answered him, voice small and shaking from where he remained pressed beside his colleagues, watching the spectacle before him carefully.

The Doctor's spine straightened as he lined up the dates in his mind. “You're fighting the Empire,” he said with a note of realisation.

“The Empire?” Hartley asked, perking up at the familiar name.

“It isn't like _Star Wars_ ,” he replied, shutting her down immediately. A little freaky, how he knew what she was thinking without so much as a word.

“It sounds a _little_ like _Star Wars_ ,” she argued, unable to help herself.

“Those movies are fiction, Hartley, no matter how much you wish they weren't.”

“I'm just saying, it's a hell of a coincidence-”

“Guys!” Rose shouted, and both companions flinched, turning to look at her in surprise. “You wanna save it for later, when there _isn't_ a gun being pointed at our heads?” she asked, voice tight with frustration.

Properly chastised, both Hartley and the Doctor returned their attention to the matter at hand, ignoring the looks of pure bemusement on the faces of the scientists before them. “Look, shooting us won't do you any good,” the Doctor began again, much more straightforward than he'd been before.

“It won't?” asked Janet, whose emotional spike seemed to have passed. Instead she stared back at them, borderline impassive, the gun in her hand no longer shaking. And somehow Hartley knew that was worse.

“It's against Galactic Law to reap any part of an underdeveloped ecosystem; that _includes_ lifeforms. We already sent a beacon to the Shadow Proclamation,” he told her confidently. “They'll be here within the hour.”

That last part was a lie – he can't have possibly had the time to do such a thing. Hartley had been by his side throughout this entire debacle, she would have noticed.

“No,” Janet gasped, but the Doctor ploughed on ahead, heedless of the gun now aimed directly at his twin hearts.

“Yes. So put the gun down, and I'll convince them to give you a light sentencing.” As he spoke, he slowly took step after step closer and closer to the wild-eyed woman, hands held out towards her weapon. “It'll be okay.”

The gun began to shake once again as her eyes filled with tears. “I was just trying to do what was best for the colonies,” she said sadly, gaze distant, like her thoughts were a million miles away.

“I'm sure you were,” Hartley said gently from where she was stood, compassion fierce in her gut.

Janet had been right, it wasn't black and white. Yes, she'd done the wrong thing, but she'd done it for – what she'd _thought –_ were the right reasons. And that made it difficult to simply pin her as a bad person. Because what was your value, if not your intentions?

A tear escaped Janet's eye, trickling down her face and making a line in her perfectly applied makeup. The Doctor used the opportunity to gently pry the gun from her hand, and the moment it was free he tossed it behind him. Rose plucked it from the air, holding it out in front of herself gingerly, like she were afraid it might go off by accident.

The Doctor then did something even more unexpected; he brought Janet into an embrace. She cried into his shoulder, overcome with emotion, perhaps guilt over what she'd done. The Doctor mimed for Rose to take her, and she did so reluctantly, moving closer and beginning to pat the older, crying lady rather awkwardly on the back.

“Call the Shadow Proclamation,” the Doctor said to Jaggle quietly. “Tell them to come right away.”

Jaggle's small face scrunched in confusion. “I thought you said-”

“I lied,” he replied, succinct, and Jaggle nodded back grimly.

“Do you think we need to restrain her?” he asked, casting a still-crying Janet a distrustful side eye.

“No,” the Doctor assured him quietly. “She'll go willingly.”

Jaggle didn't look convinced, but he didn't argue, nodding his head and swiftly leaving the room. Now that she was free to do so, Hartley moved over to the Screamer on the table, beginning to undo her restraints.

“Careful, Hartley,” said the Doctor, appearing by her side. “She might be drugged, but there's still no telling how dangerous she could be.”

“We can't leave her tied up,” she argued in a low hiss. “Look at her wrists – they're rubbed raw.” And they were, the chalky white skin around the restraints now blistered and red. It looked painful, and Hartley felt a flare of contempt for Janet, who was still sitting by Rose over in the corner, tears marring her perfect face.

She didn't feel bad for her, not now. Nothing condoned torture – not even good intentions.

The Doctor moved over to the cabinet in the corner, rifling through it until he finally produced a long, thin cylinder full of some kind of purple liquid. Gently as he could, he injected it into the Screamer's arm, and she fell asleep instantly, relaxing back against the cold, uncomfortable table and letting her eyes slip shut.

“Just a sedative,” he assured her, throwing the minimalist syringe into the bin and moving to begin untying the Screamer's feet.

Hartley hurried to loosen the ones at her wrists, wincing in sympathy as she eyed the angry welts on her snowy skin. She was tiny, about the size of a small, skinny, ten-year-old girl, and the Doctor had no trouble lifting her in his arms. He was gentle about it, like he was carrying a baby.

“What now?” she asked him gingerly, one hand gently soothing back the sedated Screamer's pink, grassy hair. It felt like straw under her hand, completely alien, although somehow not unpleasant.

“Now we go make the exchange,” said the Doctor quietly. “Her for the two humans.”

Hartley frowned, the prospect of going back out into the pink surface of the planet not an appealing one. The Screamers, innocent as they may be, were still extremely dangerous. “Should we put those sonic forcefield things back on or something?” she asked, one hand still thoughtlessly carding through the injured Screamer's straw-like hair.

“No, we'll be fine,” the Doctor told her. “Rose, stay with them, someone will need to be here when the Shadow Proclamation arrives,” he called back to Rose.

“But –– but what do I tell them?” she asked, startled by the order.

“The truth,” he replied, simple and succinct. She still looked wary, but he left no room for argument, turning and heading from the room. “Hartley, with me,” he said, and the strawberry-blonde companion shot Rose a sympathetic look before hurrying after him, knowing better than to keep him waiting.

Outside was just as scolding hot as it had been before, and they'd barely taken five full steps away from the building before Hartley felt a sweat break out down the length of her spine.

“How do you know they won't just kill us on sight?” she whispered as they walked, the suns bearing down on them, hot and unyielding.

“They're smart enough to know an exchange when they see one,” he replied, holding the sedated Screamer close to his chest, blue eyes scanning the tall grass, looking for any hint that they weren't alone.

“But how do you _know_?” she pressed, unable to stem her trepidation.

“I don't,” he said, simple and honest. “I just have to hope.”

She wanted to be angry that he'd brought her out into danger with nothing to fall back on other than _hope_ , but she knew the Doctor well enough by now to know she had to trust him. She didn't like to admit it, but he _did_ usually happen to be right, more often than not.

A rustle of the straw-like grass alerted them to the other Screamers' presence, and they came to a sharp halt, meeting the eyes of the pair across from them. Their black, beady little eyes stood out against the chalky whiteness of their skin, and their grassy hair stood up in the air, like a cat with its fur on end.

“We're here to trade,” said the Doctor in a clear, authoritative voice. “Yours for the two of ours.”

The Screamers glanced at one another, communicating silently for a moment before turning their attention back on them. Everything was silent for a few long moments, before finally the Screamers turned, stepping back into the tall grass, this time at a slower pace.

“What now?” Hartley whispered, confused.

“I think we're meant to follow them,” the Doctor murmured back before starting after the pair of Screamers, completely confident. Heart beating just that little bit faster with anxiety, Hartley swallowed back her nerves and followed.

They walked for a few minutes, the silence surrounding them almost as suffocating as the muggy heat. The Screamers stayed within eyeshot, pushing aside the magenta grass and walking calmly to their destination. They didn't seem to be wary, or at all concerned by the two people following after them, the unconscious body of one of their own in their arms.

Hartley wanted to speak, if only to break the silence that draped over them like a blanket. But she didn't dare say a word, too scared it might break the unspoken peace treaty they'd just achieved with the Screamers.

The grass suddenly opened up to a small clearing with some rotted tree stumps dotting the ground. Revealed was a small army of Screamers, all of them with their beady little eyes narrowed at the pair of them, hackles raised in defence. And finally, tied to the largest stump in the clearing, was the familiar figure of Cole, all dreadlocks with caramel skin. Beside him was a small, stocky man with green eyes. Both were gagged, and clearly knew better than to try and make a sound.

“Let them go,” the Doctor said, voice loud and clear.

The Screamers all bristled at the order. “ _Let ours go_ ,” one near the front said in a piercing scream that made Hartley's ears ring. He was slightly taller than the rest of his brood, just that little bit more threatening.

The Doctor hesitated only a moment, and Hartley watched carefully, wondering what was going to happen. Finally he moved, taking a step towards the large group of aliens. They all bristled again, as though anticipating an attack. But the Doctor didn't stop, taking two more steps forward until he reached the middle of the clearing, where the Screamer in charge stood, its grassy hair pointing up at the sky.

“I'm sorry for what happened,” he said, the words genuine and sincere. He leant down, depositing the smaller Screamer into this one's arms. He took her, holding her close, and suddenly the beady little eyes that Hartley had before thought were full of only contempt were now softened and warmed with love. “These people were wrong. They'll leave in peace.”

The Screamer looked back up at the Doctor, eyes narrowed in consideration, before he turned his head and screamed a sharp note at one of his people. They hurried forwards, cutting the ropes that restrained the human scientists.

Cole and the one they called Gibson rushed to yank their gags free, scrambling to their feet and stumbling over to the Doctor and Hartley's side. Cole looked hardly worse for wear, if only a little bit shaken, but in comparison Gibson was a mess, eyes glistening with tears, hands shaking from the shock of his ordeal.

“Thank you,” the Doctor said, voice full of a genuine respect.

But the lead Screamer looked hardly impressed. “ _Leave now_ ,” he shrieked at them, leaving no room for argument, and as though commanded the rest of his people began to melt into the tall grass, disappearing from sight. And just like that, there work there was done.

Hartley was admittedly surprised that it had ended so peacefully. The Shadow Proclamation came to take Janet away – its officers being large rhinoceros-looking aliens (that the Doctor told her were called _Judoon)_ cuffing the trembling older woman and taking her away.

“What about us?” Zimmerman had asked, one hand soothing down Gibson's arm, the poor guy still shaking like a leaf. “What do we do now?”

“Send for an extraction team,” the Doctor had told her and the rest of her team, cheerful despite their lost, forlorn expressions. “Tell them what happened here. Make sure GWARD lists this as a protected planet. The Screamers are to be left alone.”

And then they'd left, the girls giving everyone hugs in farewell, before they followed the Doctor back to where they'd parked the TARDIS. He pulled out his key, slipping it into the lock and pushing open the door.

The three of them stepped inside the ship, which gave a low hum, as though welcoming them home.

“Where to now?” the Doctor asked, heading for the console and dematerialising the TARDIS with that wonderful wheeze-groan. “Anyone else peckish? I could go for some of that pizza I mentioned – how about you two?”

But Hartley and Rose weren't as able to move on so quickly. There was still so much left hanging in the air. “What's gonna happen to Janet?” Hartley asked the question on both of their minds.

The Doctor's bright expression dulled, replaced by something more subdued. “She'll get some prison time, I s'pose,” he told them, eyes on the console, “and GWARD will definitely fire her. Her career's over.”

“Good riddance,” said Rose, a little callous, though certainly not undeserved. She looked over at Hartley, possibly searching for agreement, but instead she found her frowning, confusion and indecision swimming in her dark blue eyes. “What?” she asked her, not understanding the expression.

Hartley chewed on her tongue, considering her words carefully. “I don't condone what she did,” she began, slow and steady. “But Janet had a point, didn't she?” she asked. “The situation isn't black or white.”

“Doing the wrong thing for the right reasons is still the wrong thing,” the Doctor said, tone leaving no room for interpretation. “The ends don't always justify the means. No matter what's at stake.”

Hartley pursed her lips, a very famous quote coming to mind. “The road to hell is paved with good intentions,” she said softly, the words echoing in her soul.

“It is indeed,” the Doctor agreed, the light in his eyes dulled.

The three friends stood in silence a moment longer, considering the words, considering the morality of the situation, and where they stood on the spectrum. Until finally, the Doctor broke the quiet with a clap of his hands.

“So, pizza?”

Hartley looked over at Rose, who smiled, and as one they nodded. “Pizza it is.”


	9. Falkor

**Falkor**

“ _Because, you see, humans live by beliefs. And beliefs can be manipulated._

 _The power to manipulate beliefs is the only thing that counts._ ”

―Michael Ende, The Neverending Story

* * *

“Slitheen aren't anywhere _near_ the the top of my 'most terrifying aliens' list,” Hartley said with a laugh, tipping her head back against the railings surrounding the console and licking quickly at her melting ice cream. “You've seen them; they're nothing but big, blinking eyes and rolls of extra fat.”

“We've only seen them in London,” Rose argued after swallowing a mouthful of strawberry sorbet. “We haven't even been to Raxacoricofallapatorius yet.”

“You're going to use every single opportunity you get to say that now, aren't you?” she countered, cocking an eyebrow at the grinning blonde.

“Don't hate the player,” Rose murmured back playfully, taking another bite of her dessert before striding over to the bin sitting by the doors leading into the hallway, dropping her half-empty cup into its depths. “So, where to next, Doctor?” she asked eagerly, moving over to the Doctor's side, where he stood at the console, tapping away at one of the keyboards with purpose, staring at the screen with furrowed brows.

“Well, I was planning to take you to the planet Kartan in the Hipponortamous system,” he told them, throwing the words over his shoulder, attention occupied by the readings on the screen. “But it looks like we have a different adventure planned for us today.”

The room shook, the movement followed by that familiar wheezing, before everything went still and silent.

“You have exactly ten seconds to finish that dessert, because there's no way you're taking it outside those doors,” he said to Hartley, who looked up at him with wide eyes, taken by surprise by the demand. He stared back flatly for a beat, before saying, “9...8...7...”

Hartley panicked, taking two large bites and forcing herself to swallow them, the cold treat making her head hurt.

“Bin. Now,” the Doctor instructed sternly, pointing in the direction of the small console-room bin.

Wincing at the ache in her temples, Hartley dumped the cone with a scowl, nose scrunched unhappily in the Doctor's direction.

“So, what is it?” Rose asked in genuine curiosity once the Time Lord finally allowed them to step outside the doors, moving through some kind of storage room. There was an electric hum, and the floor beneath their feet vibrated slightly, trembling from the power of some kind of engine. “Where are we?” she pressed gently when the Doctor didn't reply.

He took another moment, scanning the room with icy blue eyes before turning back to his two companions with a puzzled expression. “We're on a ship of some kind,” he began to explain, a frown knitting at his brow. “They sent out a distress signal, the TARDIS picked it up.”

“A distress signal?” Hartley repeated. “What's wrong?”

They were clearly in a cargo hold of some kind. The walls were made from a shiny metal, an array of different sized wooden boxes and crates littering the room, numbers stamped onto their sides in dark blue ink.

“Dunno,” the Doctor replied flippantly, adjusting the collar of his leather jacket, “it was just a standard SOS.”

“Do you think everything's okay?” Rose asked quietly, already searching the room for a door. Hartley was curious about the boxes, and she leaned down over one of the smaller ones, pressing one eye to a hold in the top of it, trying to peer inside.

It rattled, giving a loud, animalistic snarling sound, and she let out a squeal of fright, throwing herself away from the box, heart racing in her chest.

The one snarl seemed to set off a chain reaction of responding noises from the other boxes, and soon the whole room was full of animalistic sounds, ranging from canine barks to serpentine hisses. The crates surrounding them rattled, whatever was inside desperately wanting to get free.

The Doctor looked just as shocked as either human, and they stood still for a total of ten seconds, listening to the array of noises, until finally a door across the room opened with a mechanical whir. Two men appeared in a flash of light, both holding long sticks in their hands, something blue and crackling dancing on the edge of them, like tiny little portable fireworks.

“Who the _hell_ are you?” asked the one on the right, the taller of the two. He sounded angry, and the stick in his hand crackled louder in threat.

“Bryce,” hissed the other one, shorter and much calmer. He seemed to be in charge, because the one named Bryce said nothing further, falling silent like a dog on command. “Come on, get out of there, now,” ordered the short one, waving them out into the lit up hallway.

Rose and Hartley both looked uncertainly at the Doctor, who hesitated only a beat before nodding his head, gesturing for them to follow him.

Stepping out into the hall, Hartley realised there was a window running along the wall. Vaguely she heard the door shut with another whir, but it fell of deaf ears, so enraptured as she was by the view she was presented with.

Countless constellations of stars spread out before her, none of them familiar. One was brighter than all the others, a nearby sun, and in the distance she could spot something large and purple hanging in the starry sky; a planet of some kind, one they were clearly heading towards.

“Who are you, and how did you get aboard my ship?” asked the one in charge, and Hartley reluctantly turned away from the view to face him. He was short, with fiery red hair and a face still rounded with youth. He wore what Hartley might have called medical scrubs, but the weapon in his hand told her he probably wasn't the healing type.

“We're travellers,” explained the Doctor, utterly unperturbed. “Our ship, it's in your cargo hold. We heard your SOS.”

The pair of strangers exchanged a long stare, and Hartley took a moment to observe the taller of the two. He had a sharp face, clearly much older than his partner. He had a scar running down over one eye, making it narrow and slope unnaturally. Perhaps it was just the scar, but he didn't appear to be particularly friendly.

“So, what's the problem?” the Doctor asked cheerfully.

“I _told_ you the SOS was a bad idea,” hissed the tall one who Hartley remembered to be called Bryce.

The shorter one ignored him, frowning at the trio of travellers in consideration, sizing them up in his head. Then there was a creak, one that was likely just from the hull of the ship, but he still whipped around in a panic, weapon extended like he expected something to burst out from around a corner and attack.

“ _Teve – do you read?_ ”

The disembodied voice seemed to come from nowhere, and it made both Hartley and Rose jump at its abruptness. The shorter one – Teve, apparently – lifted the watch-like device on his wrist, holding it at his mouth.

Bryce took over watching the area, weapon gripped tightly, prepared to defend himself. Against what, however, was still unclear.

“I read you, Jude,” he said, though his eyes never moved from from the three friends standing before him, like he didn't trust them not to attack if he so much as blinked. “We found the cause of the disturbance,” he continued, amber-coloured eyes darting from the Doctor, to Hartley, to Rose, and then back. “A trio of travellers, they're saying they heard our Mayday. We're bringing them up to you.”

“ _Roger,_ ” replied the voice, decidedly feminine in pitch.

Teve put down his communicator and nodded for them to follow he and Bryce. “This way,” said the tall, scarred man, a scowl on his face that told them exactly what he thought of them and their sudden appearance.

“I'm the Doctor,” the trio's designated driver began happily, following after the two strangers as though they were on pleasant a walk in the sunshine, not marching off into the unknown. Hartley noticed that the pair exchanged a meaningful look when the Doctor told them his name. “This is Rose, and Hartley,” he said, gesturing to each companion in turn. “Teve and Bryce, was it? Are one of you the Captain?”

“Yes,” said Bryce, walking almost sideways so he could keep an eye on them, his weapon held in his hand, a not-so subtle threat. Hartley wondered if he treated everyone who tried to help him with such blatant hostility.

“I am,” answered Teve, casting his crew mate a frown that went ignored. Then they both went back to watching their path. The care with which they glanced around corners began to set Hartley on edge. What were they expecting to happen, exactly?

“So, what's with the Mayday?” asked Rose casually, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her simple denim overalls. “And what about all the animals in those boxes? What're they in there for?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” grunted Bryce testily, one good eye swivelling to focus on her.

“You sent out an SOS,” said Hartley, unable to stem the wryness in her voice. “We can't read minds. We kind of _need_ to ask questions if we're going to be able to help you.”

There was a pregnant pause, Bryce glaring at Hartley with undeserved malice. Hartley shrunk under the lethal, crooked stare, beginning to regret speaking up at all.

“You're aboard _The_ _Swallow,_ ” said Teve before the silence could get too uncomfortable to manage, and Hartley turned her attention to him, smiling softly in gratitude. “We're a cargo ship for hire, transport goods across the three realms.”

“The three realms?” echoed Rose in confusion.

“Three neighbouring solar systems right at the very edge of what your people call the _Tadpole Galaxy_ ,” the Doctor told them both, sounding very much like he might have been repeating a passage straight out of an encyclopaedia. “One of the great civilisations of its time, famous for its production of valued goods and advancements in medicine and scientific research.”

“We can't all be fashion designers or nuclear scientists,” said Bryce in a disdainful kind of voice, like something about the Doctor's simple explanation had offended him. Hartley thought he was just reaching.

“So, you run a business as a cargo ship?” she asked, keeping her voice pleasantly interested, hoping not to offend. “I'm sure it's lucrative, what with all the goods production in the systems.”

“My dad bought this ship when he was a lad,” said Teve with a shrug, swinging around a corner, his weapon raised and ready for combat. Hartley swallowed back her nerves, trying to keep herself from becoming too anxious at their behaviour. “Handed it off to me when I came of age.”

“So, what's with the animals, then?” Rose questioned, gesturing over her shoulder from where they'd come from. “You transport livestock, too?”

“We transport whatever it is the day's client requires of us,” Bryce answered Rose in a condescending voice that made Hartley's brow knit down into a frown. What was this guy's problem?

Teve pressed a button on the side of the wall and a section of it folded away, revealing something of a hidden door. Inside was a room filled with ancient looking computer screens, like something from the 80s, only cheesier. It was a mess, wires sticking out of various panels and cartons of what looked like fast food strewn across the grated flooring without care.

A woman stood inside at a monitor, typing something into a keyboard that looked like it had been fashioned out of two separate pieces of a computer. “This is Jude,” said Teve as they filed into the room, shutting the door behind them all with a snap of his wrist and the groan of rusted metal.

“They the travellers?” asked Jude sharply, not looking away from her typing. She was a large woman with blue hair, wearing a simple cotton dress that had a some kind of small sword attached at the hip. An intricate tattoo wound up her left arm, disappearing under the shoulder of her dress.

“This one's a doctor,” said Bryce in a bark, and the woman turned, revealing startling, blood red eyes yet a kind face full of well-aged laugh lines.

“A doctor?” she asked with hope tinging her voice. There was a warmth to her, now that Hartley thought about it. She wondered what species she might have been, to be cursed with eyes the colour of blood. “Of medicine?”

“Of everything, really,” he replied flippantly, reaching out to poke at an old novelty drinking bird pecking away on a shelf near the door.

Jude seemed to take this as a positive answer. “This way,” she said in command, snapping her fingers and pointing him through a door, the inside of it hidden by a retro beaded curtain. Hartley thought this strange, but knew better than to run her mouth about it, and simply followed them into the next room, all too aware of Bryce's dark eyes tracking them as they moved. “Her name is Annie,” Jude told them in a sad voice, and when the Doctor stepped out of the way, Hartley saw who she was referring to.

A young woman lay on a tiny bed. She had inky black hair that fanned out around her head like a dark halo, and she was shivering like she were cold, even despite the sticky heat of the room. Hartley knew enough about medicine to know that wasn't a good sign.

“She was attacked,” Jude told them, reaching forwards to run her hand across the poor girl's clammy forehead.

“Attacked?” Hartley echoed without a second thought. “By what?”

Jude looked up sharply, features arranged into a dark, stern expression. From behind them, the beaded curtain gave a clink, and they looked back to see Teve stepping into the room, a tired look on his youthful face.

“Bryce is manning the helm,” he told Jude in a tone thick with exhaustion.

“Not to be rude, but will somebody tell us what's going on now?” asked the Doctor, not impatient, but not particularly placid either.

Teve gave a heavy sigh, moving across the room and taking a heavy seat in the chair sitting beside Annie's bed. He took her hand in his own, and Hartley would have had to have been blind not to see the love with which he stared down at her.

“We got a contract for three weeks of work from a pharmaceutical company called _Stellar Labs_ ,” began Teve with the voice of a man much older than he looked. He reminded her of the Doctor in that way, and the thought warmed her to him considerably. “We were to transport their testing livestock from their facility on _Aunith-5_ to the one of the third moon of _Mazo_ in the _Tracea System_.”

Hartley didn't understand a lot of what had just been said, but one thing in particular stuck out. “ _Testing livestock_?” she repeated, incredulous.

“Animals they use as test subjects,” he said with such utter apathy that Hartley felt ill.

“You're being paid to cart trapped, tortured animals from planet to planet?” she asked, voice dead cold, a tone her friends were used to hearing from her. She didn't care, she was just full of judgemental disgust.

“Hartley,” said the Doctor, a warning if she'd ever heard one. Falling silent, she ducked her head to stare through a porthole in the wall, letting her glimpse the sea of stars they travelled through, the familiar sight like a balm to her temper. “So what happened to Annie, then?” he continued as if nothing had happened. “Was it pirates?” he asked seriously.

“I wish,” said Teve morosely, gripping Annie's hand tighter. “One of the creatures got out,” he told them in a quick, pained whisper, like ripping off a bandaid. “It's loose on the ship, and has already killed three of my crew.”

There was a long pause, during which nobody spoke and the tension in the room grew almost unbearably, to the point where Hartley felt like she could barely breathe. She pressed her lips into a thin line even as her lungs screamed for air.

It was the Doctor to break the silence in the end. “What species?” he asked, sounding calm and unbothered.

“What?” Teve asked dumbly, looking up from where he'd been staring mournfully at Annie's pale, clammy hands.

“What species?” the Doctor repeated himself flatly.

For some reason, this question seemed to frighten Teve, who didn't seem to have an answer to give. “I don't know,” he finally said, thoroughly unconvincing. “I didn't get a good look.”

Hartley frowned, grinding her teeth as she fought against the urge to call him out on his barefaced lie. Looking across, she saw the Doctor and Rose exchanging a glance, thinking the same thing as her, but before any of them could speak up the girl on the bed gave an abrupt lurch, her body almost contorting in its agony.

“Annie!” yelped Teve in distress, shooting to his feet, a look of terror spread across his young face.

Jude flew forwards as fast as she could manage, grasping Teve by the shoulders and pulling him away from the writhing girl. “Stay back, Teve!” she ordered him sharply, angling him towards the back of the small room before bustling back to Annie, concern in her red, filmy eyes.

The Doctor had leapt to Annie's side as well, bending over her and fishing his sonic from his pocket, holding it over the tossing patient with a familiar high-pitched buzz.

“What's that?” Jude demanded shrilly, pressing her hands to the younger girl's shoulders, fighting to keep her still.

“Sonic screwdriver,” answered the Doctor, his voice clipped and impatient. “What happened to her?”

“The...the _thing_ ,” began Jude as Hartley dove into place at Annie's feet, holding down her thrashing legs to keep her from hurting herself, “it came out of nowhere, took a right good chunk out of her middle.”

The older woman struggled to lift the blanket covering their patient, and when Rose saw what she was trying to do she moved forwards, pulling back the thick woollen blanket from her body to reveal a large bandage. At one point it may have been white, but now it was stained a colour somewhere between bloody red and sickening brown.

“She's still bleeding,” the Doctor muttered, almost to himself.

“But we cauterised the wound,” Jude exclaimed in dismay, grunting with exertion when Annie continued to seize, only seeming to get worse as time went on.

The Doctor didn't appear to be listening, already peeling back the haphazardly applied bandage to reveal the injury. Jude hadn't been exaggerating, a decent-sized chunk was missing from her torso. Rose coughed around a gag, turning away from the sight, and Hartley nearly followed. It was was rather gruesome, beginning to fester and suppurate. She tasted bile on her tongue.

“Something's keeping it from healing,” the Doctor said, sonic buzzing, its glowing end casting a pale blue light over the wound. “How long has she been like this?”

“Two hours,” said Jude grimly.

“You have no proper medical supplies onboard?”

“Only what's in this room.”

Hartley cast a look around the space they were in. The surrounding benches were covered in bloodied tissue and bandage, instruments that appeared to be tweezers and large, scary looking syringes lay exposed to the air. She didn't know a whole lot about medicine, but she didn't imagine the whole setup to be particularly sanitary.

Looking back at the Doctor, his expression was bleak. It made unease curl in Hartley's gut, like a snake coiling its long body in preparation to strike. “Do any of you have medical training?” he asked, voice steely.

“Our medical officer, Kimbi,” began Teve from behind them, although none could spare the time to throw him so much as a glance, “she was the first one to be attacked.” The Doctor said nothing, but his silence was full of grim tension. “But you're a doctor! You said so!” he exclaimed, growing desperate. “You can save her!”

Hartley knew without having to look at the Doctor that it wasn't going to be nearly as easy as Teve seemed to believe, but she knew better than to speak up now.

The Time Lord was still leaned over the oozing wound, eyes narrowed as he assessed the damage. “It's infected,” he finally announced, standing back up, expression not particularly instilling a whole lot of optimism within any of the others. “Whatever contaminants were in that creature's mouth, they're preventing the wound from healing, acting as a sort of poison. She's not going to live through the next hour unless we find the thing that did this so I can make an antidote.”

“Can't you make the antidote without the creature?” asked Jude nervously.

“Impossible,” the Doctor replied without blinking an eye.

From beneath them, Annie finally stopped seizing, her body falling still. For a moment Hartley feared the worst, but then she inhaled shakily, the sound harsh, like it pained her to even breathe.

“We don't have long, so we need to find the creature sooner rather than later,” the Doctor said. He turned, shifting his eyes over both of his companions in careful consideration. Neither knew what he was considering, exactly, so they just stared back blankly, waiting for him to speak. “Rose, stay here and help Jude take care of Annie,” he eventually told them, voice shrewd and commanding. “Hartley and Teve, you're with me. We've got a monster to find.”

He turned to leave impatiently, and Hartley knew his mind was probably already a thousand steps ahead of theirs, but Rose called out to him. He stopped at the sound of her voice, spinning back around to see what she needed. She approached, beginning to speak to him in low, stubborn tones, and the Doctor's expression twisted in reconsideration.

Hartley left them to bicker, looking back at Teve, who had reclaimed his spot beside Annie and was staring down at her forlornly. “Who is she to you?” Hartley couldn't stop herself from asking, taking in the deep sadness of his eyes and the way he caressed her hand with the utmost tenderness.

“No one,” he told her, voice cracking over the lie. Hartley didn't say anything, just watching as he hung his head, pressing his forehead against her hand. His eyes slid shut and his lips moved silently, and Hartley got the impression he'd begun to pray. She averted her eyes respectfully.

Rose and the Doctor were still muttering between one another, and although Hartley couldn't hear, she could hazard a guess at what they were discussing.

Rose wanted to come with them, but the Doctor was against it. Hartley couldn't for the life of her figure out why the Doctor would rather her over Rose for this particular task – she had no skills in the area that would help, no experience with animals, particularly ones from different galaxies. But she'd learned enough by now that the Doctor knew what he was doing. She trusted him. Implicitly.

“Hartley,” the Doctor suddenly said from the doorway, and she turned to see him looking back at her impatiently, one hand stuck through the tacky beaded curtain to hold it apart. “With me,” he ordered and, like a soldier on command, she moved towards him. “You too, Teve,” he added to the Captain, whose head was still bowed over his 'no one'.

He muttered something else, thumb brushing over Annie's pale, clammy skin, then climbed to his feet and moved towards the pair of travellers. Hartley passed Rose, who was frowning, but she still made an effort to smile as the unlikely trio filtered through the beaded curtain and out onto the flight deck.

Bryce was standing at a small panel of dimly flashing buttons and switches. When he saw the Doctor, Hartley and Teve file out, his impassive expression twisted into one of distaste.

“The Doctor says the only way to save her is to capture the beast and use its DNA to create an antivenin,” Teve immediately told his crew mate, voice level and calm, though his eyes still held a glimmer of wild desperation, like there was a storm of emotion happening inside his head. Hartley didn't doubt it was a mess up there.

“Oh, well, if the _Doctor_ said it, then it _must_ be true,” muttered Bryce sarcastically, upper lip curled into an ugly snarl.

“What is your _problem_?” growled Teve, an authority in his voice for the first time since Hartley had met him.

“How do we know we can trust them?” asked his second-in-command, casting an undeserved glare of suspicion at Hartley and the Doctor, both of whom merely stared back, innocently watching the confrontation play out.

“We don't have a _choice_ , Bryce,” said Teve imploringly, lowering his voice to give them the illusion of privacy. “They can save Annie.”

“Annie is as good as dead, Teve,” he hissed in reply.

Teve took these words almost as a physical blow, recoiling away from his crew mate with a wince. “As a doctor, I'm telling you she _can_ be saved,” the Doctor injected, impatience leaking into his voice. “But only if we move. Now.”

The stubborn, unyielding glint to his icy eyes was enough to have even Bryce agreeing to help.

“Jude will keep her eye on the controls. Right now our only priority is capturing the creature that escaped – alive and _unharmed,_ ” he continued sternly. Both looked as though they desperately wanted to argue the 'unharmed' part of the plan, but both were smart enough to know when to keep their mouths shut. “I need access to this ship's logs. I need to see the life-signs onboard, it's our best bet to track the creature safely.”

Teve's expression twisted into a reluctant grimace.

“Don't tell me you don't even have a real-time readout of the onboard life signs,” the Doctor very nearly groaned in frustration.

“We do,” Teve was quick to assure him, all but diving towards one of the ancient-looking monitors that looked like something someone might have thrown together in their basement out of spare parts they'd found in a bin. “It's a little glitchy, is all,” he continued, frantically tapping at the makeshift keyboard until the cracked screen flickered to life, revealing a blurry image of the ship's schematics. “This is us,” he began, tapping a dirty finger against the monitor.

“Believe it or not, I can read a ship's schematics on my own,” the Doctor said dryly, ever so slightly sour. He got like that sometimes, when people treated him like he was an idiot.

“Well, I can't, so a proper explanation would be greatly appreciated,” Hartley said, voice gentle and kind to combat her friend's shortness. The Doctor shot her a look of mild annoyance for her interjection, but she ignored him, smiling sweetly at Teve, who seemed grateful for her kindness.

“This reads life-signs aboard the ship,” Teve began to tell her, and Hartley got the impression that he was glad for the distraction. “These four blips are the four of us,” he said, tapping the screen where three green dots flashed at them idly. “And in the next room, the three in there.”

“Can you tell who's who?” she asked curiously.

Teve wilted slightly, like he was embarrassed about the answer. “It's not that advanced of a system,” he told her with a shrug of his shoulders, eyes averted meekly. Hartley vaguely thought he was rather a sweet kid, probably no more than eighteen. She wondered what his story was, and then told herself they would all live to see the end of the day so she could ask him herself. “Anyway, along the hall here, you can see this big square of green?” he asked, moving on quickly and jerking at a tiny little joystick like a gamer might a flight simulator. “That's the cargo.”

“You mean the animals,” she countered thinly.

Bryce gave a derisive snort. “'Animals' is a loose term,” he said wryly. She opened her mouth to ask exactly what he meant by that, but she never got the chance, the Doctor injecting impatiently.

“Can you do an automatic sweep of the ship for life-signs outside of these two areas?” he asked quickly, hands twitching, like he desperately wanted to grab hold of the controls and do it himself.

Teve winced again. “Can't do that either,” he admitted meekly.

“We _would_ have been able to, had somebody not been cheap at the mechanic's last cycle,” said Bryce through a derisive sneer.

“Is now really the time to be having this discussion?” the Doctor asked, eyebrows raised dubiously, as though he just couldn't comprehend the inner workings of the human mind in that exact moment. “ _Do_ we, or do we _not_ , have a life to save?”

“We have to run the search manually,” said Teve, looking properly chastised. Bryce grunted and turned away, picking up the stick-like weapon and rubbing at it with his sleeve.

“Step aside,” the Doctor told Teve bracingly, gently nudging him off to the side and taking his place in front of the controls. “I'll get it done ten times faster than you will.”

“But you don't understand the system!” Teve argued fruitlessly.

“I'm clever,” the Time Lord quipped back without so much as a blink.

“But you don't even know what you're looking for-”

“ _Very_ clever.”

Hartley reached out, curling an arm around Teve's shoulders and herding him off to the side. “Best just let him do his thing,” she murmured to him conspiratorially, noting that he was shorter than her by at least half a foot. “He gets cranky when he doesn't get his own way.”

They stood off to the side, watching as the Doctor worked. He'd been right, he got the job done in a fraction of the time it was likely to have taken Teve. Bryce grunted darkly from where he was perched in the corner, pretending to be distracted by the monitor before him, but Hartley knew he was paying attention to them by the way his body was angled.

“Fantastic!” crowed the Doctor abruptly, and both Hartley and Teve hurried forwards again, leaning around him to better glimpse the monitor. The former didn't understand what she was looking at, but the Doctor seemed particularly pleased, so Hartley garnered it was good news. “He appears to have built a _nest_ of sorts in your mess hall,” he told Teve with an almost cheerful disposition.

“Great,” chimed Bryce sarcastically from his position. “We know where it is. Brilliant. Now, how the frell are we meant to _capture_ it? We aren't exactly equipped with the spare parts for traps, or even food to use as bait.”

“Already have a plan,” the Doctor said, and Bryce's expression flattened in irritation. Hartley assumed it was some kind of twisted alpha-male complex issue and shelved it, focusing on the task at hand.

“What is it?” asked Teve, sounding almost out of breath, possibly from the pace with which they were hurtling through their task.

The Doctor didn't answer verbally, instead he turned and ducked back through the tacky beaded curtain separating the two rooms being used. There were murmured voices from the other side, and Teve turned to Hartley, his expression so lost that she felt bad for the poor kid. He seemed so far out of his depth it was painful, and she wondered again how he'd come to be captain of a crew and a ship such as this.

A few moments later the Doctor reappeared, this time holding a vial full of a purple liquid. He wriggled the cork from the top, held it under his nose and inhaled, then nodded to himself and put the cork back in place. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a large syringe that caused a chill to run down the length of Hartley's spine. She never had been great with needles.

“You want to give the thing a flu shot?” asked Bryce in a dry, unimpressed tone of voice.

The Doctor looked equally unimpressed by his comment. “It's a sedative, actually,” he told him, juggling both items expertly until the vial of sedative was locked into place under the needle, the positioning of it reminding Hartley of all those terrible times she ever had to get a blood test when she was growing up. She'd always loathed needles. “We're wasting time,” the Doctor said, already heading for the door. “Annie doesn't have long. We need to work quickly.”

The halls were silent and still, apart from the occasional creak that Hartley knew to be from the simple vacuum of space and the cooling of the hull. Their footsteps echoed as they walked, and she had to stop herself from tiptoeing, knowing it would just make her look silly.

“How do we know it'll work?” Teve asked as they travelled towards the mess hall, curious and cautious.

“There's enough Methohexital in here to knock out 7 elephants,” the Doctor responded without looking up from his task, making sure the sedative was properly loaded. His footsteps were sure and measured, even without watching where he was going. Despite knowing exactly where the creature was idling, Bryce still brandished that stick-like weapon, the end sparking with electric heat, like the tip was a futuristic kind of candle-lighter. “It'll work.”

“Great plan,” drawled Bryce in a patronising sneer, and Hartley – who liked _everyone_ – decided she just didn't like _him,_ at all. “But how, exactly, are we meant to get close enough to even use the damn thing?”

“Easy. We need a distraction. Hartley.”

“Yeah?” she asked quickly, a knee-jerk reaction to the sound of her name. “How can I help?” she continued in a low voice, eager to be set to work.

The Doctor levelled her with an impassive stare. “By being the distraction,” he said flatly, like it were painfully obvious.

Her slow human mind finally caught up with the conversation, and the others in the room watched as her eyes went wide. “Being the distraction,” she parroted rather dumbly, mouth suddenly bone dry. “You want me to, what? Run through the mess hall, waving my arms and screaming 'look at me, I'm a distraction'?”

She liked to fall back on sarcasm when she was frightened, but surely the Doctor was growing used to that by now. She was right on this count, because he didn't even bat an eyelash at the comment. “If you like,” he said, utterly unperturbed as he pressed the end of the syringe, a spurt of the watery substance shooting from the frightening tip of the needle, making her shudder in abject horror, trying desperately not to think about it coming anywhere near her skin.

She didn't move, her pulse racing as she struggled to come to terms with the situation she was being presented with.

“Hartley, you've just got to distract it long enough for me to sneak up behind it and inject it, okay?” the Doctor said with a surprising amount of patience. She looked up at him, realising they were stopped outside a rusted metal door labelled _Mess Hall_. “You'll be fine,” he added in his most reassuring tone of voice.

Steeling herself, Hartley swallowed around the dryness in her throat, squared her shoulders and reached out, slamming her palm against the button that opened the door. The metal sheet pulled away with a mechanical groan, and she winced at the unpleasant sound.

She inhaled deeply, reminding herself that everything was fine, that the Doctor would keep her safe, and then she stepped into the mess hall, hands balled into fists in an effort to keep them from trembling.

It took her a few moments to spot the creature, because she had no idea what she was supposed to be looking for. She felt a flare of panic; what if it was some kind of giant spider? What if it could breathe fire, or turn her to stone with one glance? It was space, so the possibilities were endless, and that in itself was a terrifying thought.

When she spotted it, she didn't feel comforted at all. It was long and fluffy, an off white in colour, with a wide mouth full of terrifyingly large fangs. Its eyes were shut, apparently dozing, but the sound of her shoes hitting the floor was enough to rouse it, and they slid open, revealing a pair of massive, deep brown eyes.

Freezing where she stood, Hartley didn't dare so much as breathe, staring at it cautiously, prepared to make a run for it, should it attack.

Her mind was racing, her head spinning at a dizzying speed. She knew she had something to do, some task she had to accomplish, but gazing into the unnamed creature's enormous, calculating eyes, all comprehensive thought vanished from her brain, replaced by nothing but the rush of her own blood in her ears.

“ _Hart,_ ” hissed the Doctor from off to the side, jolting her back to proper awareness. Starting, she took a deep, calming breath, fighting to calm her racing pulse.

Right. She had to distract it so that an innocent girl would live. She was saving a life. This was important.

She remembered what she'd proposed to the Doctor, the suggestion of more of a violent distraction technique, but staring into the beast's wide eyes, she suddenly knew that wasn't an option.

“Hey there,” she said before she could overthink it, her voice soft and sweet, a gentle lilt, the kind she used to talk to tiny children and cute animals with. “My name's Hartley,” she continued, wondering if the creature too could hear the loud thumps of her heart. “I'm a friend. I'm not here to hurt you.”

Slowly and carefully, she lifted one leg up, moving it tactfully across herself and placing it silently back on the floor. With this method, she slowly began to move herself to the opposite side of the room, giving the Doctor room to sneak around its side, where he had a clear shot of tranquillising it while its attention was diverted.

“What's your name?” she asked it gently, forcing her lips into a placating smile. “If you don't have one, I'll have to give one to you.”

She kept moving, and while its mouth was still pulled up into something of a snarl, its eyes followed her movements, focus completely on her. It didn't so much as twitch as the Doctor slid into the room, silently moving around to its back.

“You know, you remind me of a creature from a book I once read,” she continued with growing ease. Slipping into talk of literature was a sure-fire way to make her significantly more comfortable. “It's about a boy who becomes part of a story. In that story there's what's called a _Luck Dragon_. His name was _Falkor._ ”

The creature blinked, the first movement it had made since she'd entered, and she took it as somewhat of a good sign.

“You like that name?” she asked, the smile on her lips growing more sincere. “ _Falkor_... I mean, it _is_ a pretty badass name, isn't it?” she said sweetly, keeping her voice light and peaceful, her body language calm and open.

The Doctor was creeping closer. A few more steps and he'd reach the angle he needed to inject the creature with the tranquilliser.

“You really are rather gorgeous, you know,” she continued, still moving, if only to hold its attention. “I don't see why everyone is so afraid of you.”

It gave a low whine that made her feel sad as clearly as if it had told her it felt as such. As she inched closer, she saw it was missing large lumps of its coat. Big tufts seemed to have been torn away, the exposed skin red and raw. Some parts were even charred, as if burned by fire.

“What did they do to you?” she asked him, unthinkingly stepping closer, traitorous tears stinging at her eyes. The beast flinched, and she froze with her hand outstretched, fear gripping her as she realised what she'd done. Then he exhaled, a wave of hot, smelly breath washing over her, then he inclined his head as though inviting her closer.

Stunned by the action, Hartley could do no more than drift closer, taking light, quiet steps until she reached him. Slowly lifting her hand, it hovered unsurely over the beast's – _Falkor's_ – head, until finally she brought it down.

Her skin came into contact with his thick coat of fur, softer than anything she'd ever touched before. He gave a gentle cooing noise, almost like that of a bird, and his eyes slid shut. Threading her fingertips into the furry pelt, Hartley petted the creature gently, feeling a warm, inexplicable affection for him.

In the back of her mind she was still painfully aware that he had killed three – nearly four – people. But something was telling her that there was more to the story, something they were missing. So caught up in her own thoughts, she didn't even realise that the newly dubbed _Falkor_ had drifted to sleep, only clueing in when the Doctor murmured her name gently, as though not to disturb the sedated creature.

Surprised, she glanced up from the beast to look at the Doctor. He was staring back at her, empty syringe in hand, a look of pure perplexity on his angled face, like something about her just wasn't adding up.

“How did you do that?” he asked her, his voice still quiet, like he didn't want to break the little bubble of peace they'd found themselves within.

“Do what?” she replied, confused by the question as her fingers continued to card through Falkor's fluffy coat, hoping to give him some semblance of comfort in his enforced doze.

The Doctor never got a chance to answer, because Bryce was storming into the room, his footsteps loud and jarring against the metal flooring, breaking their moment of brief tranquility. “Is it out?” he asked in a kind of snarl, shooting Falkor a look of pure contempt.

Hartley was torn, she knew the beast had killed, but for what? He hadn't eaten anyone, so it wasn't food motivated. The only thing that made any sense to her was that it had been in self defence. And, knowing Bryce to be as he was, and seeing the expanse of charred, scorched skin on Falkor's body, she was left with no other explanation than what made sense.

“He was protecting himself, wasn't he?” she asked him, turning around to unleash a surprisingly effective glare onto the taller of the two. Even Bryce shifted under the impressive weight of her furious glower. “He didn't attack anyone of his own accord – you've been hurting him!”

“Hartley?” asked the Doctor unsurely, blue eyes flickering between her and the men before them.

“Those weapons they're holding,” she explained with a cold edge that the Doctor had never before heard in her voice, “Falkor has the same marks on his skin! They've been torturing him!”

Bryce's face was thunderous in its fury, like she were accusing him of something unfair. “You don't _understand_ – these beasts are dangerous! We had to keep ourselves safe!”

“At what cost?!” she demanded. “Are you telling me that Falkor attacked you _first_? That you were _provoked_?”

“Yes!” hissed Bryce, taking a threatening step forwards. So lost in her own emotion, Hartley didn't even register the movement, standing tall, hands balled into tight fists at her sides. “And stop calling it that. It doesn't have a _name_ ,” he added in thinly-veiled disgust, grimacing in the beast's direction.

“What did he do?” she pressed stubbornly, fire glinting in her deep blue eyes. “What could he have done to deserve this torment?”

Neither man seemed to have an acceptable answer.

From behind her, the Doctor was working away, kneeling on the floor after collecting samples of Falkor's DNA, furiously mixing together an antidote with the small box of supplies he'd brought with him. “He's an experiment, Hart,” he said as he worked.

“I know,” she responded tightly, features pulled into a scowl of contempt. “I'd act out if I were being experimented on, too.”

“No, Hartley,” the Doctor's voice was soft and imploring. Reluctantly tearing her eyes from the two humans before her, she glanced over her shoulder at her friend whose attention was split between explaining it to her and the importance of his task. “He _is_ an experiment,” he explained, glass vials clinking together in his hands. “I did a scan of his complete genome.”

“And?” she prompted when he didn't immediately elaborate.

“It's a mess. He has the genes of about thirty different species inside of him. Someone's been experimenting in cross-genetics to an _illegal_ degree.”

“ _Thirty_?” she echoed, stunned. Hartley may not have known much about biology – or granted, science in general – but as far as she was aware, that should have been _impossible_. Though, she supposed, when you had the whole of time and space at your fingertips, was the word _impossible_ even an possibility?

“There's never been anything like him before,” the Doctor said with a voice full of wonder, reaching out to run a hand down the slumbering creature's coat. Then his face became stormy once again, turning his attention back on the two men before them, both watching warily, waiting to see what they would do with this information. “I'm willing to bet every animal in that cargo hold is just like this one – a nature-defying scientific experiment.”

“Look,” began Bryce in a tight voice, and Hartley didn't miss the way he held his weapon in that white-knuckle grip, like he expected them to start swinging. “We don't ask questions, okay? We just take the cargo where it needs to go.”

“And torture it for fun along the way,” Hartley interjected, voice sour and full of disdain.

“They're on their way to the slaughterhouse on Mazo, anyway,” Bryce told her with a scowl.

Disgust gripped Hartley, and her eyes went wide in her shock. “Why?” she demanded shrilly.

“They've served their purpose,” said Teve weakly, surprising none more than Hartley, who'd thought out of the lot of them, he'd have had the most compassion. Apparently, she was wrong.

“They're living, _breathing_ creatures,” she argued, unable to help herself. “How could you cart them off to their deaths just because you've decided they weren't _useful_ to you anymore?”

“We didn't decide anything, we're just the ones paid to do it,” said Bryce defensively, as though it were an actual argument.

Something within Hartley snapped. “That's just as _bad_ , you cruel, moronic bast-”

The Doctor shot her a narrow-eyed look in his peripheral vision, taken by surprise at her unchecked outburst. He'd never seen her get so angry before, hadn't even known it was something she'd been cable of doing. She was always so held together, so sweet and accomodating, it was a shock to see her lose control. “I think what the point is,” he jumped in before the insults could get really creative, “is that it's wrong. We're not going to let you do it.”

Hartley exhaled sharply, grinding her teeth together hard enough to give herself a headache. She was disappointed, but she didn't know why. She registered, somewhere in the back of her mind, that maybe she'd simply expected better. She'd _hoped_ for better. And perhaps that was naïve of her, but it was such a fundamental aspect of her personality, she didn't know how to fix it.

The weapon still held in Bryce's hand gave a crackle of life, and Hartley flinched at the abruptness of the sound. Whipping her head around to look at him, she saw he was brandishing it in front of him protectively, like he thought they might suddenly attack.

“What are you going to do to stop us?” he asked, voice dripping with unspoken threat. His stick gave another crackle, a spark of electricity snapping across the small end, and Hartley realised with a sinking feeling in her gut that it was a kind of taser. The thought of it making contact with her skin made her shudder with fear.

“Well, for starters,” began the Doctor flippantly, not even bothering to look up from his task. “We're going to call the quadrant's law enforcement.”

“Yeah?” challenged Bryce icily. “Gonna be a bit difficult to do that from beyond the grave.”

“Bryce,” hissed Teve, looking scandalised by the remark.

The Doctor finally abandoned the chemistry set he was using to stand to his feet. “Was that a threat?” he asked, head tilted as though merely curious, their lives not potentially depending on his answer.

Bryce held out his glorified taser, the end crackling in warning. “You're going to finish that antidote, and then you're going to get back in your little box and you're going to leave, forgetting everything you saw here today,” he said, voice deceptively calm.

“Is that so?” the Doctor asked innocently.

“Yes,” asked Bryce thinly, taking another threatening step forwards, end of his weapon getting uncomfortably close to the Doctor's chest. It swung to the left so it was pointed at Hartley's face, and she let out a yelp of fright, flinching backwards with enough force to send her to the floor. Bryce gave a mocking laugh, aiming it back at the Doctor while Hartley took a moment to collect herself on the floor.

Something cold touched her splayed fingers and she glanced down to see what it was, surprised to find the syringe the Doctor had used on Falkor. It was mostly empty, but there was still about half an inch of the purple liquid sitting in the barrel.

“I'm not going to let you hurt anyone else, Bryce,” said the Doctor calmly, but there was a conviction to his words. He meant them, they were a _promise._ Despite this, Bryce didn't seem to be bothered.

“Watch me,” he snarled.

“Bryce!” Teve shouted in the same instant that Bryce thrust the tip of his taser into the Doctor's gut. The Time Lord cried out in pain, the sound like a dagger to Hartley's heart. She didn't stop to think, didn't take a moment to examine her options, she just grasped ahold of the syringe, leaping to her feet so fast that Bryce didn't have time to notice.

She didn't hesitate, just jammed the needle into the delicate skin of his neck and pressed down on the plunger. There was a brief instant when Bryce realised what had happened. He turned his head to look at Hartley, whose face was slack with shock over her own actions.

Then, without warning, he dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes, totally unconscious.

There was a beat, everybody in the room processing what had just happened. Teve and the Doctor stared at Hartley in shock while Hartley just gaped down at Bryce's still form. “Oh God,” she muttered, feeling like she were about to throw up. “Did I just kill a man?” she asked weakly, beginning to grow faint.

The Doctor had the gall to laugh at her. The sound wasn't ridiculing at all, instead full of a warm sort of hysteria that even had her chuckling, despite the gaping hole of panic in her gut. “He'll be fine,” chuckled the Doctor, immediately kneeling back down beside the chemistry set, finishing mixing up the antidote. “He'll be out for about three days, though. And he'll wake up with one _hell_ of a headache, that's for sure,” he told her with a good-natured grin.

Relieved she hadn't just committed murder, Hartley crouched down beside him. “Are you okay?” she asked, remembering the way he'd cried out when he'd been hurt.

“Me?” he scoffed, waving her off. “I'm fine. But Annie won't be unless you get this to her,” he said, handing off a vial of clear, yellow liquid.

“This is the antivenin?” she asked, taking it from him and holding it up to the light. “And you did it with only that kit?”

“Yes?” he answered, as though waiting for a real question.

“You're kind of like space-Macgyver, you know that?” she told him with a playful grin.

“So they tell me,” he quipped back. “Now go _, run_! Get it to Annie!” She stood to her feet and began racing from the room, hearing the Doctor's voice say, “not you Teve. You're staying with here.”

She vaguely remembered how to get back to the medical bay, and was glad she didn't get lost, sprinting into the room, panting from exertion. Rose and Jude leapt to their feet, and Hartley handed over the antivenin, pressing a hand against the stitch in her gut. “Take it,” she puffed. “Save her.”

“What happened?” demanded Rose as Jude got to work feeding Annie the cure. “Where's the Doctor?”

“Having a serious talk with Teve,” Hartley told her, standing up straight and running a hand through her hair.

“So you got the creature, then? Everyone's okay?”

“First of all, that creature has a name – he goes by Falkor, now – and 'okay' is a loose definition. Nobody died though – I thought they had for a second there, and let me tell you, I _really_ didn't feel like being locked up in space jail for killing a man. But, all's well that ends well, I suppose.”

Rose blinked at her blankly. “I literally have _no_ idea what you're on about,” she admitted, and Hartley gave a breathless laugh, leaning back against the scuffed up wall and grinning.

“Yeah,” she agreed. “Me either.”

* * *

Annie was fine, in the end. The antivenin worked perfectly, saving her life, but they still had to take her to a hospital – somewhere the word 'hygiene' actually existed. The authorities had done that for them.

Teve had agreed to take the fall for his less-than legal business dealings. He was young, and Hartley hated to see him get in any serious trouble, but she'd grown up learning that there was always consequences to your actions. It was time the crew of _The Swallow_ faced up to their actions. Hartley wanted them to come out of their punishment better than they were now, but maybe that was asking just a little too much.

She supposed time would tell.

The trio of travellers left the crew of criminals in one of their escape pods once they were sure the authorities were on their way. They had to get out of there before the police found the ship – and all the illegal lifeforms on board.

“I know a great planet,” the Doctor had proclaimed confidently, and that was how they all found themselves on a small planet in a far away galaxy. There were two suns, and the grass sparkled like glitter. “They'll be happy here,” he told them as they released the animals one by one into their new environment.

“If they're genetic experiments, how do we know they're not just gonna tear one another to shreds the moment we disappear?” asked Hartley softly, arms crossed over her sweater as she watched the Doctor open a smaller crate, revealing a small rabbit-like creature that let out the kind of noise one usually heard from a giant toad. It hopped away, looking content as it moved towards a small lake at the bottom of the hill they were stood on.

“We don't,” the Doctor replied, using his sonic on another box, this one containing what looked like an octopus, bright pink in colour, with the beak of a toucan. Rose grimaced at the sight of it, and even Hartley was a bit freaked out by its appearance. It wriggled its way back down to the same lake the rabbit/frog had disappeared into. “But we have to have hope, don't we?” he asked quietly.

They came down to the last box, and this one contained a large pig with a pair of large, glistening, feathery wings. It gave a loud snort, flapped its wings twice, then took off into the air.

The Doctor gave a snickering laugh. “Now you can say you really have seen pigs fly,” he told them, almost giddy with the joke, and Hartley chuckled in appreciation, watching as the winged-pig disappeared off into the distance.

“How could any self-respecting human being do this sort of thing?” Rose questioned in disgust as they stood on the hill, staring out over the new population of the planet.

“Reminds me of a quote,” said Hartley gently. “ _You see, humans live by beliefs. And beliefs can be manipulated. The power to manipulate beliefs is the only thing that counts._ ”

There was a beat. “Blimey, that's dark,” commented Rose. “Where'd you find that one, Hart?”

She rolled her eyes. “It's from _The Neverending Story,_ ” she explained, reaching to the left to run a hand through Falkor's pelt. The massive luck dragon gave a little snore, still out cold from the sedative. “I thought it was appropriate.”

“We'll come back,” the Doctor assured them. “Check on them. Make sure they're happy and healthy.”

Hartley nodded, finding it difficult to leave them, too scared of what might happen without her watching over them.

“They'll be okay,” Rose promised her, wrapping an arm around her friend's shoulders, bringing her in for a gentle hug. “Come on,” she prompted her, edging her back towards the TARDIS, where it sat with its blue paint glinting in the double suns. “Ready to go home?”

Hartley took one final look around the once empty planet, now full of one of a kind life. Then she nodded and turned back towards the TARDIS. “Ready.”


	10. Dalek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder, this story is also posted on FF.net, and over there it's posted to its completion. Here I'm putting up chapters every few days, but it might still take awhile, so if you're impatient and desperate to finish it, you can check it out over there - it's under the same title, but my author's name there is "Sonny13".
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

**DALEK**

“ _History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.”_

James Joyce

* * *

“The red sweater was nicer overall, but the grey of that crop makes your eyes brighter,” Rose was saying to Hartley as they strolled from the hallway into the console room, each too involved in their conversation about fashion to notice the Doctor typing away furiously at the keyboard.

“Is that tank one of yours of did you fish it outta the TARDIS' wardrobe?”

“Mine, got it on sale at _Phase Eight_ a few years back.”

“It's cute.”

“If you two are quite done chattering about the various fabrics you drape over yourselves because society tells you it matters,” the Doctor spoke from the console, his Northern accent lilting, and they turned their attention to him, “there are more _pressing_ matters to discuss.”

“Are there?” Hartley asked, perching herself up on the jump seat while Rose grinned her tongue-in-teeth grin. “We weren't aware.”

“Hang on,” he was quick to say at the same time as the cloister bell began to ring, the sound filling every corner of the console room. “Dammit,” he cursed as the whole ship jerked, nearly throwing Hartley on the floor with the force of it. The familiar groaning echoed all around them, and before the sound had even fully stopped, the Doctor was marching towards the doors, throwing them open and stepping out into un unknown location.

Rose stumbled out after him, with Hartley close after her. She eyed their surroundings understandable skepticism, taking in the thick, luxurious carpet and the rows and rows of display cases filled with all kinds of alien technology and trinkets. Most – if not all – of the items on display were unfamiliar to her, but despite this she still got chills when she looked over them, as if her subconscious knew that wherever they had come from wasn't something she ever wanted to see firsthand.

“So, what is it? What's wrong?” Rose asked, spinning in a slow circle to observe their new surroundings.

“Don't know,” the Doctor replied cluelessly. “Some kind of signal drawing the TARDIS off course.”

“Where are we?”

“We're on Earth, in Utah, North America. About half a mile underground,” he told them with a lift and drop of his shoulders.

“And _when_ are we?” she pressed, stepping closer to a large display case and eyeing the contents within with a curious eye.

“2012.”

“God, that's so close,” Rose murmured to herself. “So I should be twenty six.”

“ _Ugh_ , and I'll be thirty-two,” Hartley revealed with a grimace, and Rose snorted at the sheer disdain on her friend's face.

“If it helps, you're looking good for your age,” she she teased playfully.

“It doesn't,” Hartley deadpanned back, and Rose let out a bell-like laugh. The Doctor reached out in the shadows, and abruptly the room lit up with glowing light, exposing it for what it was; a giant museum.

“Blimey. It's a great big museum,” Rose said in something like awe, eyeing the seemingly never ending rows of alien tech with a deep, thoughtful frown.

“An alien museum,” the Doctor corrected her tartly, strolling closer to a large case that seemed to be holding some kind of extraterrestrial blaster. Hartley eyed it too, wondering what kind of damage it might cause, were you hit with its beam. “Someone's got a hobby. They must have spent a fortune on this. Chunks of meteorite, moon dust. That's the milometer from the Roswell spaceship.”

Hartley looked away from the looming halls beyond, turning to gape openly at the Doctor. “ _Roswell_ _spaceship_?” she echoed dubiously, shock widening her eyes.

The Doctor grinned, wide and cheeky, before Rose was talking again, distracting them.

“That's a bit of Slitheen!” she exclaimed with a muted horror, and Hartley spun around to look. She could do no more than stare at what appeared to be a thick, greasy, familiar looking arm, stuffed and enclosed within a display case like a precious artefact. “That's a Slitheen's _arm_ ,” Rose just about gagged over the words. “It's been _stuffed_.”

Hartley swallowed around the lump that had suddenly appeared in her throat. “Does anyone else have a really, _really_ bad feeling about this?” she asked warily.

“I'm starting to, yeah,” Rose agreed, just as hesitant.

The Doctor paid no attention, distracted by a smaller case to his left. Hartley crossed her arms, anxiously checking over her shoulder like she could feel the weight of eyes on her back. She prayed she was only imagining it, but something in her gut told her she just wasn't that lucky.

“Oh, look at you,” the Doctor all but purred from her right, and when she turned to look his eyes were locked onto some kind of robotic, severed head, sitting in the dead centre of a display case. The metal was clearly well looked after, silver and sparkling, as if someone came through every other Thursday to polish it up.

“What is it?” Rose asked him curiously, drifting slowly closer.

“An old friend of mine. Well, enemy,” he corrected himself, and Hartley cringed at the thought of meeting them any time soon. Any enemy of the Doctor's was sure as hell going to be an enemy of hers. “The stuff of nightmares reduced to an exhibit. I'm getting old.”

“Is that where the signal's coming from?”

“No, it's stone dead. The signal's alive,” he explained quietly. “Something's reaching out, calling for help.”

The Doctor extended his arm, reaching for the display case, only for alarms to blare in their ears the moment his fingertips made contact with the glass. A troop of what could only be security guards seemed to appear from absolutely nowhere, and before Hartley could so much as blink there were dozens of guns pointed in their faces.

To make things worse, the guards were positioned directly between them and the TARDIS, effectively blocking their only escape.

“Well, if someone's collecting aliens,” Rose murmured to the Doctor from out of the corner of her mouth, “that makes you Exhibit A.”

And that was how it all started. They were just answering a simple call for help, and somehow ended up prisoners – and as if that wasn't bad enough, they were prisoners in _America._ Really, could it get any worse?

They were led at gunpoint into a lift, which took them to another level, where they were then marched to an office of some sort. The walls were a drab grey, made from pure concrete, and Hartley reluctantly wondered just how thick they must have been. She'd never liked being underground, it made her feel claustrophobic, despite not even suffering the fear.

“And this is the last,” a British voice was saying as the trio of time travellers were led – _still_ at gunpoint – into a small office by a handful of grumpy, stoic guards. “Paid eight hundred thousand dollars for it,” the voice was saying in an awestruck sort of a voice.

“What does it do?” another voice asked just as they came into view. The person who'd spoken was balding with beady, untrustworthy eyes – the kind that made you want to hit him. Hartley wasn't a violent person in any respect, but even she knew a bad egg when she saw one.

“Well, you see the tubes on the side?” a cute kid was saying in his British voice – the first one who'd spoken, then. “It must be to channel something. I think maybe fuel,” he was saying eagerly.

“I really wouldn't hold it like that,” the Doctor spoke up before the balding man could reply. Hartley just barely kept from groaning out loud, shoving the tip of her elbow into the alien's gut. To his credit he didn't even grunt, taking the blow like a champ. He probably knew he deserved it. Trust the Doctor to be so gabby with the barrel of a gun pressed to his spine.

“Shut it,” said a woman, the one who'd led them and the guards into this room. Hartley imagined she must have been some kind of second-in-charge.

“Really, though, that's wrong,” the Doctor continued, completely and utterly blithe.

“Is it dangerous?” the British kid asked, a hint of fear glittering in his eyes.

“No, it just looks silly,” the Doctor scoffed. He reached for the item, and all at once the room was filled with the sound of weapons being cocked. Hartley closed her eyes, hoping they weren't about to get shot execution style all because the Doctor couldn't keep his blimming mouth shut. To everyone's surprise, the balding man gestured for his guards to stand down, and Hartley breathed out a silent sigh of relief. He handed the alien device to the Doctor, who grinned in his usual self-satisfied way. “You just need to be...delicate,” he told them smugly, stroking his hands down the device.

Suddenly a high-pitched noise drifted from its tubes. It was a haunting sound, pretty and soulful, and Hartley couldn't help but smile at its beauty.

“It's a musical instrument,” the balding man hummed, sounding perfectly fascinated.

“And it's a long way from home,” the Doctor agreed.

“Here, let me.” The man snatched it back from the alien like a child might snatch back a shiny new toy. He stroked it roughly, and the Doctor winced.

“I did say delicate,” the Doctor said slowly. “It reacts to the smallest fingerprint. It needs precision. Very good. Quite the expert,” he complimented once the man had gotten the hang of it.

“As are you,” the man sounded more than a little bit intrigued.

All at once his attention had switched from the instrument to the Doctor himself, and he tossed the device aside like it were trash. Hartley gasped, eyeing the man with a growing disdain.

“Who exactly are you?” he demanded in a slimy, curious-for-the-wrong-reasons sort of voice.

“I'm the Doctor. And who are you?”

“Like you don't know,” the greasy man sneered proudly. “We're hidden away with the most valuable collection of extra-terrestrial artefacts in the world, and you just _stumbled_ in by mistake,” he said, utterly sarcastic.

“Pretty much sums me up, yeah,” the Doctor replied honestly, a goofy sort of grin on his face. Hartley couldn't help but giggle, quickly slapping a hand over her lips in a desperate attempt to muffle the sound.

The man's beady eyes slid from the Doctor to her, and she certainly didn't miss the way they ran up and down her body, like she were something to be ogled, put on display along with the rest of his hoard. She suddenly _very_ much regretted wearing a top that exposed a sliver of her midriff, and lifted her arms to self-consciously wrap them around her exposed stomach.

“The question is, how did you get in?” the still-unnamed man mused slowly. “Fifty three floors down, with your little cat burglar accomplices. You're quite a collector yourself. The blonde one's rather pretty; but the redhead-” he broke off with a moaning noise that made Hartley's skin crawl and her stomach turn, “I'd eat her up any day of the week.”

“Keep talking about her like that and I'm gonna smack you, you got that?” Rose threatened dangerously as she shifted just slightly in front of Hartley. They were the same height, but Hartley was built just a little more delicately than Rose.

Despite Hartley being just over six years older than her, Rose still felt she had to defend Hartley, who seemed just that little bit too sweet to defend herself. Hartley wasn't so sure she couldn't, but she did know that she was grateful Rose cared enough to do it anyway.

“She's English too!” the slime-ball before them exclaimed lowly. “Hey, little Lord Fauntleroy. Got you a girlfriend,” he said, gesturing halfheartedly to the British kid behind him, who looked awfully uncomfortable at the mention.

“This is Mister Henry Van Statten,” he told the trio in a tight voice.

“And who's he when he's at home?” Rose asked icily.

The British boy just looked more uncomfortable. “Mister Van Statten owns the internet,” he said stiltedly.

Hartley snorted at the claim in the same moment that Rose scoffed derisively. “Don't be stupid,” she said critically. “No one _owns_ the internet.”

“And let's just keep the whole world thinking that way, right kids?” Van Statten said with the kind of smile that _again_ made even Hartley – the pacifist that she was – want to smack him.

“So you're just about an expert in everything except the things in your museum,” the Doctor summarised with a note of undeniable contempt. “Anything you don't understand, you lock up.”

Van Statten cocked a thick, well-groomed eyebrow. “And you claim greater knowledge?”

“I don't need to make claims. I know how good I am,” the Doctor replied with a perfectly straight face.

Hartley turned her face into her shoulder so her next words were muffled, only Rose meant to hear them. “It's suddenly like I'm drowning in testosterone,” she muttered, and Rose gave a very unladylike snort of amusement. The Doctor shot them a look, but Van Statten didn't seem to notice.

“And yet, I captured you,” he cocky billionaire said smugly. “Right next to the Cage. What were you doing down there?” he demanded, amicable stare hardening into a deadly glare in just a heartbeat.

The Doctor shrugged. “You tell me,” he said simply.

“The cage contains my one living specimen.”

“And what's that?”

“Like you don't know.”

“Show me,” the Doctor ordered.

“You want to see it?” Van Statten leered.

“Blimey, Hart's right, you can smell the testosterone,” Rose muttered, and this time it was Hartley who snorted.

“Why don't you pull out some rulers and have at it, fellas?” she drawled. While Rose may have been more likely to make threats, Hartley wasn't without her own defence mechanisms. Wit was her domain, and she liked to use it whenever she felt out of control.

Van Statten's cold eyes drifted down to her, and she sent him a hard stare that let him know exactly how little she thought of him. He smirked, large and victorious, as though they'd been playing a game that he'd somehow already won.

“Goddard, inform the Cage we're heading down,” he commanded his people like they were nothing but dogs. “You, English. Look after the blonde girl. Go and canoodle or spoon or whatever it is you British do. And you, Doctor with no name, come and see my pet. Bring your little plaything along too, she might come in handy,” he leered at Hartley, who physically recoiled, making him laugh, the sound like nails on a chalkboard.

Hand snapping out to grasp the Doctor's arm, she pulled him to a stop before he could go after the sociopathic lunatic. “I want to stay with Rose,” she told him. He could protect himself, but Rose, even for all her bravado and protective instincts, could not. She'd feel better sticking by her side, seeing with her own two eyes that she was okay.

“I don't think we actually have a choice this time round, Hartley,” the Doctor admitted under his breath, chancing a glance at the men with guns positioned around them like a barrier. They were being watched like hawks. Suddenly options weren't something they had a lot of.

“Is there a problem?” Van Statten asked in an ugly drawl, peering at them from the doorway.

“'Course not,” the Doctor said with a cheerful grin, giving none of his real feelings away. “On we go then,” he prompted Hartley with a gentle push to the shoulder. She looked back at Rose, who was frowning after them. Their eyes met, and both attempted to look reassuring for the other. Neither succeeded.

They disappeared around the corner, and then Hartley and the Doctor were stuck with Van Statten and his armed guards, all of whom looked about ready to fire at the first sign of disobedience. Hartley had never before realised how much she _hated_ men who were holding guns.

“And what might your name be?” Van Statten asked her in his slimy voice, lagging back to speak with her. The Doctor slowed down too, keeping in perfect step with her, a move she appreciated more than he'd ever know. She felt a hundred times safer with him right there beside her.

“Screw you,” she told Van Statten with a straight face, fluttering her eyelashes innocently. Her pulse was beating in her ears, but thankfully he didn't give the order to shoot, instead throwing his head back and laughing like she were some form of lower entertainment – the court jester to his self-righteous king.

“You're adorable,” he said lustfully, the lecherous look he paired it with making her feel physically sick. She desperately needed a shower, the weight of his eyes alone making her feel unclean.

Thankfully, they were blessed with silence until they reached wherever they were going, a small room with some kind of vault door on the other side, leading into a dark, cold space.

“We've tried everything,” Van Statten said as they entered. “The creature has shielded itself but there's definite signs of life inside.”

“Inside?” the Doctor repeated. “Inside what?” But nobody answered.

“Welcome back, sir. I've had to take the power down. The Metaltron is resting,” a worker appeared beside them, adjusting the hard hat on his head.

“Metaltron?” Hartley asked wearily. Already this man had her exhausted.

“Thought of it myself. Good, isn't it?” Van Statten grinned obliviously. “Although, I'd much to prefer to find out its _real_ name.”

“Here, you'd better put these on,” the same worker said to the Doctor, holding out a pair of thick, rubber gloves. “The last guy that touched it burst into flames.”

The Doctor shot the guy a look that clearly asked just how stupid he was. “I won't touch it then,” he said slowly, like he was talking to a child. Hartley quite appreciated not being on the other side of it for once.

“Go ahead, Doctor,” Van Statten sneered, “impress me,”

The Doctor centred himself, then took a step towards the vault. Hartley's hand snapped out and she grasped onto the leather of his jacket. Her grip was tight and unyielding, bringing him to a sudden stop. “You sure about this, Doc?” she asked him under her breath, staring up into his blue eyes, trying to warn him with her own.

Who knew what was in there? Who knew what it wanted, or what it could do? He could have been walking into some kind of a trap. Could have been walking into certain _death._

“I think this is another one of those times when we don't have a choice,” he told her calmly, gently grasping her hand and prising it off his jacket. “I'll be fine,” he promised, despite it not being something he could possibly control, and she swallowed thickly, unable to do a single thing as he turned and walked straight into the vault, without looking back.

The heavy, impenetrable door slammed shut after him. The sound was ominous, like it were sealing both their fates inside it with him. Because what happened to the Doctor affected her in more ways than one, and they both knew it.

“You can watch over here with me, sweetheart,” Van Statten said in what he probably thought was a smooth tone, but it just made her all the more nauseas.

“I'm fine where I am,” she replied stonily. The man gave a shrug as if to say, 'suit yourself, bitch' and turned to the monitors he and his lackeys were hovering over eagerly.

“ _Look, I'm sorry about this_ ,” the Doctor's voice filled the room, and she realised there were microphones inside, picking up everything he was saying. It relieved her, knowing he wasn't completely cut off. At least this way she could keep an eye on him. “ _Mr Van Statten might think he's clever, but never mind him. I've come to help. I'm the Doctor_.”

The replying voice was robotic and lifeless. It made Hartley's skin crawl, even more so than Van Statten's did, and that was certainly saying something.

“ _Doc...tor_?”

She folded her arms around her middle in an embrace, staring at the door to the vault as though she might be able to open it with just the power of her mind.

“ _Impossible_ ,” the Doctor gasped. The horror in his voice was undeniable, like whatever he was seeing was straight from the depths of his worst nightmare. It struck fear into Hartley's heart, ice cold and painful, and for a brief moment she nearly forgot how to breathe.

“ _The Doctor_?” the robotic sounding creature inside asked again. “ _Exterminate! Exterminate_!”

There were a series of loud thumps on the door, and Hartley's pulse spiked as she balled her hands into scared, angry fists. “ _Let me out_!” the Doctor's voice filtered through the speakers, crackling and full of panic as he pleaded to be let out, pounding desperately at the dense door between them.

“ _Exterminate_!” the thing inside the vault droned, and more chills rattled down Hartley's spine.

“Sir, it's going to kill him!” Goddard cried, apparently having at least one sympathetic bone in her body.

“It's _talking_ ,” Van Statten hissed, sharp and uncompromising, and it shut her up completely.

The thought of anything happening to the Doctor, the thought of him being hurt, or in pain, was too much for Hartley to bear, and she snapped. “Let him out!” she yelled at the guards, who didn't so much as flinch. Bypassing them, she made a beeline for the door, grasping the handle to open it and yanking with every ounce of strength she possessed. “Let him out _right now_!” she screeched, banging against the metal as though it might make a difference.

“Get her out of here, now!” Van Statten bellowed over both hers and the Doctor's shouts. “Out!” he screamed at the guards who weren't moving quickly enough. “Crazy bitch!”

Hartley felt arms wrap around her exposed middle and in one tug her feet left the ground. She kicked and struggled, desperate to get free, to get into that vault and save the Doctor. “Let me go!” she shrieked at her captor, who was dragging her towards the other door, away from where the Doctor was trapped with what was apparently the only thing in the whole of time and space that could terrify him.

“Calm down!” a guard was yelling in her ear, and without thinking it through she thrust her elbow into his face. He let her go with a pained shout, and she dropped to the concrete floor, spinning around to run back into the Doctor, only to come face to face with the barrel of a gun.

Freezing where she stood, Hartley could do absolutely nothing but stand there in surrender, chest heaving from her episode.

“Good girl,” one of the guards purred, and she very nearly gagged at the sound.

The one she'd hit had blood spilling from his nose, and he was desperately trying to stop the flow, head tilted back as he swore up a storm, calling her every name in the book. “I'm gonna kill her,” he spat around a mouthful of the blood.

“You can't,” the shorter one muttered. “I think Van Statten wants to have a little _playtime_ with her first,” he laughed like the thought amused him. Hartley was surrounded by heartless psychopaths, and the Doctor, the one person who made her feel safe no matter the situation, was locked in cage with his biggest fear.

Curling in on herself further, Hartley avoided their leering gazes and focused on a random smudge on the wall, straining her ears to try and hear anything from the room behind them, where the Doctor was still with that creature, whatever the hell it was.

It wasn't long, really, but it felt like hours had passed before the Doctor finally reappeared. A storm raged in his expression, and Hartley could feel her pulse in her throat.

“Doctor!” she exclaimed when he broke the ring of lackeys surrounding her. She wanted to hug him, but the thunderous expression on his face made her pause. “Are you okay?” she asked more quietly, meeting his infuriated blue eyes and trying to assess the damage.

“Fine,” he told her, voice hard.

She didn't believe him, but she was convinced he wasn't physically injured, at least. “So, Doctor,” Van Statten sauntered up behind him, and the guards moved like they had it down to an art, marching them in the direction of the lifts. “What can you tell us about your little...friend, in there?” he asked snidely.

“The metal's just battle armour. The real Dalek creature's inside,” the Doctor revealed in cold, clipped tones.

Dalek – Hartley toyed with the word in her head. She'd never heard of them before, but clearly they were a significant part of the Doctor's past. What had happened? What had they done to him? Or maybe, to his people?

“What does it look like?” Statten asked eagerly, like a scientist who wanted to discover the new, learn all he could about the alien. All Hartley wanted to do was forget it even existed.

“A nightmare,” the Doctor answered him, voice layered with the kind of disgust bred from hate. Hartley had never imagined the Doctor _hating_ anything before. She hadn't thought he was capable. “It's a mutation. The Dalek race was genetically engineered. Every single emotion was removed, except _hate._ ”

“Genetically engineered,” the self-entitled billionaire sounded more than slightly intrigued. “By whom?”

“By a genius, Van Statten. By a man who was king of his own little world. You'd like him,” the Doctor muttered bitterly.

“It's been on Earth for over fifty years. Sold at a private auction, moving from one collection to another. Why would it be a threat now?” his glorified secretary asked, her hair perfectly curled and bouncy.

“Because I'm here,” the Doctor deadpanned. “How did it get to Earth? Does anyone know?”

“The records say it came from the sky like a meteorite. It fell to Earth on the Ascension Islands. Burnt in its crater for three days before anybody could get near it and all that time it was screaming. It must have gone insane.”

“It must have fallen through time,” the Doctor nodded, but the look in his eyes was distant, like his body was there with them but his mind was far, far away. “The only survivor.”

“You talked about a war?”

“The Time War,” the Doctor confirmed, and Hartley perked up in interest. It was the most she'd ever heard from him about his past, and despite the dark circumstances, she was fascinated. “The final battle between my people and the Dalek race.”

“But you survived, too,” Van Statten said plainly, and Hartley felt a roll of nausea, a sensation usually followed by everything going completely and abysmally wrong.

“Not by choice,” the Doctor said. His eyes were haunted. He'd experienced a pain Hartley couldn't quite comprehend. She wondered whether she'd ever be able to – then just as suddenly hoped she wouldn't.

“This means that the Dalek isn't the only alien on Earth, Doctor,” the rich collector said conversationally, and Hartley's eyes widened with fear. “There's _you._ The only one of your kind in existence.”

The Doctor came back to the moment, standing up straight as he realised what was happening. The others took this as a threat, and instantly their guns were cocked and held at the ready. Van Statten nodded his head at one guard in particular who seemed to be able to read minds, for without words he knew to step closer to Hartley and wrap an arm around her throat.

He brought her close to his body, the nozzle of his gun resting soundly at her temple. Her blood turned to ice.

“That's how it's going to be, eh?” the Doctor asked evenly, shockingly calm, given the circumstances. Hartley herself was just trying to keep from hyperventilating, her heart beating so fast, so thickly, that it began to hurt.

“You think I care if you kill me?” Hartley asked, striving to sound as brave as possible, but her voice shook, betraying her fear.

“No,” Van Statten looked close to hysterical laughter, which made the whole thing a thousand times more creepy. The gun at her temple was cold and beginning to dig painfully into her skin. “I think _he_ cares if I kill you,” he continued smugly, gesturing to the Doctor, who was scowling with all the intensity of a brewing storm, the glint to his frigid eyes deadly.

“You really want to have an innocent young woman's death on your hands, Van Statten?” asked the Doctor, voice like ice.

“Between you and me, _Doctor_ ,” their human captor bit out in a leer, leaning closer to the Doctor and lowering his voice conspiratorially, “she wouldn't be the first.”

The Time Lord looked more than disgusted with the man, he looked downright murderous. Before he could do anything about it, however, the gun at Hartley's head cocked, the sound practically booming in the small lift they were stuffed into. She tried to bite back a whimper, squeezing her eyes shut tightly against the fear coursing through her veins, but the sound was heard anyway.

She wondered what might happen if she died here, in this bunker in North America, five or six years in her future. Would anyone know? Surely the Doctor wouldn't tell anyone, he couldn't. Nor could Rose. Her family would never know. Her friends, her colleagues, the small scattering of fans of her books, nobody would ever, ever know what happened.

She wasn't sure what was more terrifying, the prospect of dying, or the knowledge that nobody would even be able to properly mourn her, once she was gone. She'd just go missing, a mystery never to be solved.

“So, here's the deal,” Van Statten began, voice slimy and cold, a sneering grin on his face. “You're going to come peacefully, or your pretty little pet here is going to get hurt,” he said with a mocking, exaggerated pout, “and we wouldn't want that, now, would we?”

He lifted a hand to Hartley's chin, grasping it in his large, stubby fingers. She tried to recoil from his touch, but he held firm, skin clammy against hers.

“Fine,” the Doctor spat, sounding less than happy. “Do with me what you will, but you can't touch a _hair_ on her head,” he growled, and she finally looked over at him to see a deep anger in his eyes. They were no longer the colour of the sky on a summer's day, they were instead like the sea during a hurricane, choppy and dark, dangerous and unpredictable.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Van Statten nod to his guards, and suddenly they were holding the Doctor in too-tight grips. Despite his promise, the Time Lord still struggled in their arms out of instinct lingering from wartime.

“Take him to room 403,” Van Statten ordered his men in a drawl. “And bring Little Miss Lips along too,” he added slyly, reaching up with his thumb to brush Hartley's full lips. She felt him smear the red lipstick she'd applied earlier that morning and recoiled again, making him laugh as he nodded to the guard holding her hostage.

The gun at her head _finally_ dropped away, but she couldn't even breathe a sigh of relief as she was grasped even tighter and dragged down the hall. The Doctor continued to struggle from up ahead of her, and her heart ached as she watched him get carted away like some kind of _thing_.

“Let _go_ of me,” Hartley demanded, the guard's grip on her arm beginning to hurt.

“I have my orders, miss,” he muttered, not sounding particularly apologetic, but also not like he was enjoying himself, either.

“Doctor!” she yelled instead, craning her neck to try and see him further down the hall.

“Just do what they say, Hartley!” he shouted back, and the guard holding him thumped him unnecessarily on the back with the butt of his gun, making him grunt in pain. Unthinking, she again tried to wrench her hands free, but the grip on them only tightened to the point of painful before a pair of cuffs were slapped around her wrists, tight enough that her hands began to throb.

She could only hope Rose wasn't in as much danger as they apparently were.

The room they were guided into was dark, but Hartley could make out the Doctor already being strapped into a sort of stand as though he were going to be dissected. His arms were held in thick cuffs attached to rattling chains, and they'd ripped off his signature jacket and shirt, leaving him bare from the waist up.

“Now, smile!” Van Statten said, somehow managing to sound venomously cheerful, and a bright red laser shot out from the machine between them, bathing the Doctor in unnatural crimson light.

He screamed out in pain, and Hartley whimpered again, yanking at her own restraints from where they'd dumped her in the far corner of the room, a guard still beside her, a gun held threateningly in his hands.

“Two hearts! Binary vascular system!” their captor exclaimed once the laser had receded, and Hartley realised it had been a type of x-ray, showing them what lay within the Doctor's chest. “Oh, I am so going to patent this,” he added with a pleased sort of a sneer.

“So that's your secret,” the Doctor spat from where he was splayed, panting from the effects of the laser. “You don't just _collect_ this stuff, you _scavenge_ it.”

“This technology has been falling to Earth for _centuries_ ,” Van Statten replied with a satisfied leer. “All it took was the right mind to use it properly. Oh, the advances I've made from alien junk,” he said smugly. “You have no _idea_ , Doctor. Broadband? Roswell.”

He began to move, casually strolling over to where Hartley was bound, chatting with ease as he reached up to brush back an errant strand of her hair. She wanted to spit at him, the only thing she could think of to fight back, but held herself back. The guard with the gun still hovered over her like a hawk.

“Just last year my scientists cultivated bacteria from the Russian crater, and do you know what we found? The cure for the common cold,” Van Statten continued, now stroking his fingertips down her face. A shiver of disgust went down her spine and she felt bile rise in her throat. She leaned away as best she could, and his leer only grew in size, like he found pleasure in her reluctance. “Kept it strictly within the laboratory of course. No need to get people excited. Why sell one cure when I can sell a thousand palliatives?” he asked, slightly quieter as he leaned closer to his victim. Folding her lips into her mouth, she pulled away from him again, desperate not to let him touch her.

“Do you know what a Dalek is, Van Statten?” the Doctor called abruptly from across the room, voice loud and forceful, and Hartley breathed a sigh of relief when it proved to be enough to pull Van Statten's focus. “A Dalek is _honest_. It does what it was born to do for the survival of its species. That creature in your dungeon is _better_ than you.”

“In that case, I will be true to myself and continue,” Van Statten replied coldly, leaving Hartley to wonder if the Doctor's words had maybe gotten to him more than he let on.

“Listen to me!” shouted the Doctor, growing desperate. “That _thing_ downstairs is going to kill every last one of us!”

“Nothing can escape the Cage,” Van Statten muttered tonelessly, utterly unperturbed. He pressed down on the x-ray machine and the Doctor was once more shot with the red laser. Hartley watched in horror as he threw his head back in agony.

“Stop it!” she screeched at the sadistic man before them.

The laser went away, Van Statten turning it off, but she knew her desperate pleas had nothing to do with it.

“It's woken up. It _knows_ I'm here. It's going to get out!” the Doctor shouted them moment he'd regained his breath. He wasn't worried for them, his only priority was getting to and destroying the Dalek below them. It made Hartley wonder, with a shiver of fear, exactly what it was capable of. “Van Statten, I swear, no one on this base is safe. No one on this _planet_!” he cried desperately.

Van Statten wasn't listening. He hit the button again, red light bathing the Doctor in near unbearable pain. Hartley knew now it was only to hear him scream.

“ _Stop it_!” Hartley begged Van Statten, yanking as her cuffs hard enough that they began to cut into her flesh, but she had no time to care about that. “ _Stop hurting him_!” she shrieked desperately, but she was only ignored.

Van Statten let it run for another long few moments before it shut off again, and the Doctor sagged against his brace, panting with exhaustion. “We can learn a lot from one another, Doctor,” their captor said lightly, as though they were sitting in a conference room extending peace treaties, not locked in his underground dungeon being tortured for information.

The Doctor levelled him with a dark glower, one that held the weight of a storm, but before he could say anything, the low lighting of the room disappeared, replaced by flashing red lights that made Hartley flinch.

“ _Condition red! Condition red!_ ” a disembodied voice flooded the room through the crackling speakers. “ _I repeat, this is_ not _a drill_!”

Everything in the room went still, then the Doctor lifted his sagged head. “Release me if you want to live,” he told Van Statten, flat and factual, no hint of a request in the command.

Van Statten took a long moment to consider it, staring at the Doctor with narrowed eyes, weighing his options carefully. Then the alarms from above sounded again, loud and jarring, and finally he sighed, deciding to bend in the way of self-preservation and waving a hand at his guards, who raced forwards and began to untie the prisoner.

“ _And_ Hartley,” the Doctor barked the moment he was released, that stony glare back in his ocean eyes.

Van Statten hesitated, likely unwilling to give up his only bargaining trip. Hartley grimaced at the thought of being used to make the Doctor do anything, let alone this horrible man's bidding.

“ _And_ Hartley, or I let you all die,” the Doctor snarled with such conviction that for just a moment, even Hartley believed him. Van Statten nodded, and the guard beside her quickly unlocked her cuffs. The moment she was free, she darted across the room to the Doctor. The ultimatum was effective, however insincere it may have been. The Doctor would never let anyone die, certainly not for a price as insignificant as _her._

“You're the expert, then,” Van Statten sneered, unsettled by the abrupt shift of power in the room. “What do we do now?”

“You have cameras for the cage?” the Doctor checked as a guard handed back his discarded clothes. He worked quickly, pulling them back on over his bare torso. Hartley was relieved to see that familiar, wonderful, black leather jacket slip back into its rightful place.

“Monitors are up in my office,” Van Statten said thinly.

“Then what're we standing around here for?” the Doctor snapped, and they all shot into motion, hurrying out the door. Hartley stayed close to the Doctor's side, just close enough that she could grab him if she needed to, should he collapse from the torture he'd just endured. The lift was a tight squeeze, and she took the brief pause to glance down at her sore wrists.

They were rubbed raw, the skin red and irritated. She gently ran her fingers over the marks and tried to forget how the cold metal barrel of the gun had been pressed threateningly against her temple.

“You said the whole planet was in danger,” Van Statten said, skepticism in his voice. “Surely _one_ Dalek won't be too much for the combined forces of the United States to handle.”

“You don't know them like I do,” the Doctor replied, shoulders and voice tense. It wasn't quite fear, but instead a kind of uneasy hatred that rattled in his words. The Doctor didn't _hate_ anything, she wasn't sure he could even feel such a dark emotion, but here he was, hatred burning in his icy eyes. “They'll destroy everything in their path, just because it's not _Dalek_.”

Van Statten didn't look convinced, but he didn't argue. The lift doors rolled open and they all poured out into the hall. “It's this way,” he told them firmly, leading them down the hall and into a room off to the left, the one they'd been in earlier. It can't have been a full half hour – and yet it felt like so much had changed since then. Like the whole world had tilted on its axis.

A screen sat on the far wall, and the Doctor didn't hesitate to run towards it when he saw Rose's face plastered across the glass, looking anxious and unnerved.

“You've got to keep it in that cell,” he said in a rush, and Rose whirled around to see them on the screen.

“ _Doctor, it's all my fault_ ,” she began apologetically.

“ _I've sealed the compartment_ ,” the guard interrupted, leaning forwards to speak with Van Statten. “ _It can't get out, that lock's got a billion combinations_.”

“A Dalek's a genius,” the Doctor snapped. “It can calculate a _thousand_ billion combinations in one second flat.”

For the first time, Hartley saw Van Statten look mildly alarmed. The expression was wiped before she could properly note it, a blank look shuttering over his eyes like a window being slammed shut.

The Doctor was right, barely a full second had passed before the door to the cage was opening and the Dalek was rolling out into the light. It was the first time Hartley had seen it. She hadn't been sure what she was expecting, but she was certainly surprised.

It was large, only a little shorter than the average adult. Made completely of metal, it glinted in the overhead lights. It looked kind of harmless to the untrained eye, but certainly there was an aura around it, a kind of energy it exuded, even through a screen, that just screamed how incredibly _dangerous_ it was.

The guards in the room opened fire, and Van Statten exclaimed, “don't shoot it! I want it _unharmed,_ ” and Hartley felt disgust for him churn in her gut.

But the guards were too panicked to listen, shooting at the approaching alien, knowing their lives were at stake.

“Rose, get out of there!” the Doctor shouted, but their friend didn't move, probably frozen from shock.

“Rose, _run_!” Hartley yelled desperately, heart in her throat.

The guard in charge sent one of his soldiers with Rose and the cute boy from before with an order to keep them alive. It didn't fix things, but it was a small comfort in a horrible situation.

“We're losing power,” said the woman who Hartley identified as Van Statten's assistant, headset hooked over her ear, fingers tapping away at a computer keyboard. “It's draining the base. Oh, my _God_. It's draining entire power supplies for the whole of Utah,” she gasped. The Doctor and Van Statten rushed over to look at her monitor, but Hartley remained where she was, watching from afar, still absently rubbing at her sore, reddened wrists.

“It's downloading,” the Doctor realised, voice echoing with horror. Hartley almost didn't want to hear the rest of it. She knew it wasn't going to be pleasant.

“Downloading _what_?” Van Statten demanded.

“Sir, the entire West Coast has gone down,” his assistant exclaimed, frantically typing.

“It's not just energy. That Dalek just absorbed the entire internet,” the Doctor said in a growl, staring at the monitor with wide, horrified eyes. “It knows _everything._ ”

  
“The cameras in the vault have gone down,” the woman continued quickly, panic leaking into her voice.

“We've only got emergency power. It's eaten everything else. You've got to kill it _now_!” the Doctor hissed at the man who believed he was in charge.

“All guards to converge in the Metaltron cage, immediately,” the assistant cried into the radio. Only the sound of gunfire echoed back, growing louder and faster, each bang making Hartley flinch. She once again recalled the cold press of the gun to her head, and shuddered at the memory.

She wandered closer to the others, glancing at the screen, but it showed nothing except electronic blueprints of the base. “The metal is a kind of armour?” she asked the Doctor in an undertone once she was close enough not to be overheard. “Must be strong,” she added as the gunfire only grew, trying her best to swallow the nerves building in her chest.

“Yeah,” the Doctor echoed, but his voice was hollow, lacking conviction. It was like he knew something that she didn't – and she didn't doubt it. “Must be.”

“Tell them to stop shooting at it,” Van Statten hissed suddenly, crazed desperation on his face, full of a misplaced concern for his little pet. Hartley may not have completely understood what the Dalek was capable of, but it was enough to make the _Doctor_ scared, which meant they should have all been absolutely terrified.

“But it's _killing_ them!” his assistant shouted back defiantly.

“They're dispensable. That Dalek is _unique,_ ” he responded, his heart in all the wrong places. “I don't want a scratch on its bodywork, do you hear me?” he leaned forwards to demand it into the radio. “Do you _hear_ me?” he prompted when nobody answered.

Then, slowly, the sound of gunfire died, until eventually everything was deathly silent. “Why do I get the feeling nobody's even left alive to obey those orders?” Hartley's voice was barely a whisper, lacking the strength to be any louder. The Doctor cast her a look, one full of grief and sympathy, and she swallowed the lump that had appeared in her throat, the danger suddenly seeming so much more _real_.

“Pull up the base schematics,” the Doctor ordered the woman abruptly, switching into soldier mode with an ease that was genuinely frightening.

Goddard did as she was told without question, and Hartley leant around her to get a better look at the monitor. “That's us, right below the surface,” she said, pointing to a smattering of dots on the schematics. “That's the cage, and that's the Dalek.”

“This museum of yours. Have you got any alien weapons?” the Doctor demanded.

“Lots of them,” she replied with a chuckle that was anything but amused, “but the trouble is the Dalek's between us and them.”

“We've got to keep that thing alive.” Clearly, Van Statten only had one priority, and this realisation made Hartley too disgusted to even look at him, focusing her attention on the map. “We could just seal the entire vault, trap it down there.”

“Leaving everyone trapped with it. Rose is down there. I won't let that happen. Have you got that?” the Doctor bit back sternly, and Van Statten looked briefly chastised, frowning as he turned away, running a hand through his thinning hair. “It's got to go through this area,” the Doctor continued without pause, talking to Goddard quickly, getting the job done. “What's that?”

“Weapons testing,” she answered him promptly.

“Give guns to the technicians, the lawyers, anyone. Everyone. Only then have you got a chance of killing it,” he ordered her, and Goddard nodded, knowing now who she was taking her orders from. She stood from her chair, pulling on her headset and obediently moving away.

The Doctor took a seat in her abandoned chair, moving his attention to the schematics, but something was bothering Hartley about the whole thing, and she leaned down beside him, resting her elbows on the desk. “Doctor,” she began, but even when he didn't so much as acknowledge her presence, she continued, “you seem awfully eager about the guns...”

“Get to the point,” he snapped at her, typing quickly, icy eyes flying over the screen. His voice was cold and indifferent, and although she'd never tell him, it frightened her.

“This Dalek, whatever it is,” she said carefully, “is it really so bad that you just want to kill it? You don't even want to give it a _chance_?” she asked, because that was what he _always_ did. He gave them a chance, even when they maybe didn't deserve it.

The Doctor whirled around on her, an outrage in his eyes she hadn't expected, and she flinched away from it out of instinct. He didn't seem to notice, continuing to glower. “You don't _know_ it like I do. That thing is _evil,_ Hartley. Pure, unadulterated evil.”

“But you don't know this _specific_ one,” she argued weakly, standing back up straight and twisting her hands together nervously. The Doctor had taught her a lot in their time together. He'd taught her to have kindness and grace, courage and leniency. Most of all, he'd taught her to always, always give someone a second chance. Everyone made mistakes, he would say, and everyone deserved a chance to rectify those mistakes. “Maybe this one's different,” she said, keeping all these life lessons in mind.

“Don't be so naïve,” he snapped, and she flinched again at the blatant insult. “The only _good_ Dalek is a _dead_ one.”

She swallowed back her trepidation, standing firm against her better judgement. Someone had to be the voice of reason – because it sure as hell wasn't going to be the Doctor. “You don't even sound like yourself right now. The Doctor I know would never-”

“You don't _know_ me, Hartley,” he barked, a crazed look to his eyes that began to make her think that maybe he was right about that. “And you especially didn't know me _then,_ ” he added roughly, and it didn't take a genius to figure out when he meant.

“But this isn't the Time War, Doctor,” she murmured in a hushed voice, very much aware that Van Statten was still listening to everything they were saying from where he was pacing in the middle of the room. He had no concept of privacy, but she didn't know what else she'd expected from the man who owned the internet.

“You think I don't know that?” the Doctor hissed back at her. “That only makes it so much _worse._ It shouldn't _be_ here.”

“I thought you were the great expert, Doctor,” Van Statten interrupted them, scowling at the Doctor like he were the one to blame for the mess they were in. “If you're _so_ impressive, then why not just reason with this Dalek? It must be willing to negotiate. There must be something it needs. Everything needs _something._ ”

“What's the nearest town?” the Doctor said suddenly, impatience leaking into his voice.

“Salt Lake City,” Van Statten answered just as quickly.

“Population?”

“One million.”

“All dead,” the Doctor snapped back shortly. “If the Dalek gets out, it'll murder _every_ living creature. That's all it needs.”

Van Statten stared at the Doctor with incredulity. “But why would it do that?” he asked, unable to understand, unable to _fathom_ it. Hartley didn't like having something in common with Van Statten, but suddenly she knew she did.

How could one creature generate so much _hate_?

“Because it _honestly_ believes they should die. Human beings are _different_ , and anything different is wrong. It's the ultimate in racial cleansing and you, Van Statten, you've let it loose!” the Doctor's voice was thunderous, enough so that even Van Statten looked wary. The schematics showed that the troops were getting into position, and the Doctor turned his attention to the comms system. “The Dalek's surrounded by a force field. The bullets are melting before they even hit home, but it's not indestructible. If you concentrate your fire, you might get through. Aim for the dome, the head, the eyepiece. That's the weak spot,” he told them all in a flat, serious voice, no emotion leaking through. It was as though he'd bottled it all up, never to be released again.

“ _Thank you, Doctor_ ,” drawled the Commander sarcastically, “ _but I think I know how to fight one single tin robot_.” The Doctor leaned away from the comm and hung his head. Hartley had the horrible feeling that these were nothing more than famous last words. “ _Positions_!” There was a long, drawn-out pause during which Hartley held her breath, and then the Commander shouted, “ _hold your fire! You two, get the hell out of there!_ ”

Hartley was confused for a long moment, trying to figure out what had happened. She gasped as she realised, turning to grip the Doctor's arm as a wave of relief crashed through her. “He must mean Rose,” she whispered to him, and though he didn't meet her eyes, she could tell he was just as relieved as she was.

The relief couldn't last for long, because not a full minute later the comms were filled with a loud sound, something like white-noise. This time it didn't take her long at all to figure out what it was. The gunfire made the microphone ring, and she shifted away from it, trying not to think about the poor men and women fighting for their lives and the lives of everyone on Earth, so many levels below them.

It made her sick with guilt that she could do nothing but stand there in the relative safety of the office. She didn't know how to use a gun, or any kind of a weapon, and she wasn't clever like the Doctor. She was helpless and sheltered while those people down there put their lives on the line.

If they got out of this alive, she swore to herself she'd never feel so helpless again.

Van Statten's assistant strode back into the room, her heels clicking on the floor. “We've got visual,” she said as she turned the television along the far wall on again. The video feed flickered into view, a couple dozen soldiers facing off against one single Dalek.

“It wants us to see,” the Doctor muttered, voice dark with that same burning hatred as before.

The soldiers on the screen continued to shoot, but to no avail. The Dalek only began to rise, floating above the ground. Hartley could do nothing but watch as it shot the fire alarm, water raining down on the men and women below it. At first she didn't understand why it did such a thing, but then once she'd realised, she desperately wished she hadn't.

“No!” she gasped, hands flying up to cover her mouth in horror, powerless to do anything but watch as the Dalek fired at the floor, electrocuting all the warriors standing in the water. Tears came to her eyes and she felt a sudden selfish longing to be anywhere but there.

She would have paid any price if it meant she could curl up under the blankets of her bed back at home, music playing through her earphones with the sound of rain falling over the top, the smell of her flatmate's baking wafting under the crack in her door and the knowledge that the biggest danger to her life was slipping on the tiles in her bathroom.

“Perhaps it's time for a new strategy,” said Van Statten once all the soldiers were dead, killed by the monster _he_ was responsible for. Hartley felt hate too, for a moment – hate for reality itself. “Maybe we should consider abandoning this place.”

“Except there's no power to the helipad, sir,” bit back his assistant, glaring at him with a mixture of fury and disgust. She knew exactly who was to blame, for all of this, for the deaths of every man and woman down below. “We can't get out.”

“You said we could seal the vault,” suggested the Doctor instead.

“It was designed to be a bunker in the event of nuclear war. Steel bulkheads,” Van Statten told him, rushing over to his computer and beginning to work at the keyboard.

“There's not enough power, those bulkheads are massive,” argued his assistant.

“Well we have to do _something_ ,” Hartley replied, voice hollow with shock from the day's events. They would get out of this. They would fix it all. They had to – for the sake of humanity itself.

“We've got emergency power. We can re-route that to the bulkhead doors,” the Doctor interjected.

“We'd have to bypass the security codes. That would take a computer genius,” argued Goddard shortly.

“Good thing you've got me, then,” deadpanned Van Statten, and they all turned to look at him in vague surprise.

“You want to help?” the Doctor asked skeptically, as though trying to consider the possible ulterior motives behind the action. Hartley couldn't help but do the same. Had he discovered some way to make money out of helping them stop this thing? That was the only motivator she could think of that made sense for someone like him.

“I don't want to _die_ , Doctor. Simple as that,” he muttered back with a nod, like he was convincing himself. And that made more sense – survival was the perfect motivator for anybody, money-hungry or not. “And nobody knows this software better than me.”

On the far wall the screen flickered to life, revealing the lone Dalek, standing amongst its fallen victims, water raining down on its metal casing. Hartley's mouth went dry, and she inhaled sharply, bringing her arms up to curl around her middle like it might help to comfort her. It didn't.

“ _I shall speak only to the Doctor_ ,” it said in its cold, lifeless, robotic voice.

Hartley glanced over at the Doctor to see him staring at the screen like a man might stare at his worst nightmare come to life. She wondered what was going through his head, what he was thinking in that moment, and whether he was as terrified as she was.

“You're going to get rusty,” was all he said in the end, voice forcefully casual.

“ _I fed off the DNA of Rose Tyler. Extrapolating the biomass of a time traveller regenerated me_.”

“What's your next trick?”

“ _I have been searching for the Daleks_.”

“Yeah, I saw - downloading the internet. What did you find?”

“ _I scanned your satellites and radio telescopes_.”

“And?” the Doctor prompted.

“ _Nothing_ ,” it answered tinnily. There was a long pause. “ _Where shall I get my orders now_?” it finally asked, sounding so lost and alone that Hartley felt something dangerously close to pity.

“You're just a soldier without commands,” the Doctor drawled. He sounded nearly _giddy,_ disturbing her almost more than the bodies littered on the screen before them.

“ _Then I shall follow the Primary Order, the Dalek instinct to destroy, to conquer_ ,” it proclaimed loudly.

“What for? What's the point? Don't you see it's all gone? Everything you were, everything you stood for,” the Doctor said, losing projection as he spoke, the weight of his words hitting him hard. Hartley's chest felt thick, and she wanted to step forwards, comfort him in some way, but it wouldn't help. This wasn't something a hug from a friend would fix.

“ _Then what should I do_?”

“Alright, then,” he said, a sort of spark reappearing in his eyes, but Hartley decided it was anything except comforting. “If you want orders, follow this one. Kill yourself.”

Stifling a gasp of shock, Hartley's brow furrowed almost to the point of pain, and her eyes burned. It was all wrong, it was all so _wrong_.

“ _The Daleks must survive_!” the creature before them cried out robotically.

“The Daleks have failed!” the Doctor shouted, a fury overtaking him that made Hartley take a step back, her heart leaping into her throat. “Why don't you finish the job and make the Daleks extinct? Rid the Universe of your filth! Why don't you just _die_!” he bellowed, enraged and full of an ancient pain.

The room went silent, the Dalek saying nothing, just staring back through the monitor in a heavy, discomforting quiet.

“ _You would make a good Dalek_ ,” it eventually droned, words disjointed and rough, before the video feed disappeared, rendering them blind once more.

The Doctor's breaths were still heavy, and there was a pregnant pause before he snapped, “seal the Vault.”

But nobody moved, everyone staring at him warily, even Hartley, who knew nothing except that she'd never seen the Doctor so emotional, so affected by an attack before. Whatever atrocities hid in his past, Hartley was beginning to think she'd never fully be able to understand them, not even if he actually told her.

“Do it,” he ordered again, spinning around to glare at them. Van Statten quickly got to work.

“I can leech power off the ground defences, feed it to the bulkheads,” he muttered, typing as quickly as he could. “God, it's been _years_ since I had to work this fast,” he added in a gleeful undertone.

“Are you enjoying this?” the Doctor scowled. Hartley wasn't listening, thinking of their other screaming problem as she anxiously chewed on her thumbnail.

“Rose?” she asked the room at large. Her voice was muted and scared, making her feel like a pitiful child, but she was too concerned with her friend's safety to care.

“She's still down there,” Goddard said, a glimmer of concern on her pretty face.

Hartley's eyes widened as she glanced over to the Doctor, who looked similarly alarmed. “Call her,” he ordered her in a rush, fingers still moving at a dizzying pace over the keyboard. “Now, Hartley,” he barked, and she realised she hadn't moved.

Her hands shook as she dug in her pocket, yanking her phone free and hitting speed dial 1, dialling Rose. She held her breath, then released it when her friend answered after the first ring.

“ _This isn't the best time, Hart_!” Rose shouted through the line, and Hartley put it on speaker so the Doctor could hear.

“Where are you?” he asked in a bark.

“ _Level forty-nine_ ,” she replied, sounding heavily out of breath.

“You've got to keep moving. The vault's being sealed off up at level forty-six,” he explained shortly, but Hartley could see the anxiety in his eyes.

“ _Can't you stop them closing_?” she puffed.

“I'm the one who's closing them,” he revealed tightly. “I can't wait and I can't help you.”

“Rose, you need to _run_ ,” Hartley shouted, holding her phone in such a tight grip that her knuckles were turning white.

“ _I'm going_ ,” Rose promised thinly.

“Go faster,” she said, jaw clenched in her terror, teeth grinding together.

“Done it,” proclaimed Van Statten suddenly, sitting back in his chair like a businessman who'd had a good day in the stock market. “We've got power to the bulkheads.”

“The Dalek's right behind them,” cried Goddard nervously.

“ _We're nearly there_!” promised Rose loudly. “ _Give us two seconds_.”

There was a beat, then Van Statten was saying, “Doctor, I can't sustain the power. The whole system is failing.” Hartley could barely breathe around the lump in her throat.

“Rose, hurry, please!” she begged desperately, adrenaline coursing through her veins as she watched the little dot on the screen move faster and faster; it was the Dalek, getting closer to her friend with every passing tick of the clock.

Had it only been an hour or so ago that they'd been laughing in the TARDIS, complementing one another on their outfits, laughing at the Doctor's expense? The thought of never seeing Rose again made her very bones ache, and she sucked in a sharp breath of pain.

“Doctor, you've got to close the bulkheads,” hissed Van Statten in frustration as the Doctor hesitated.

“No, Doctor!” Hartley shouted, stepping forwards and hovering over him as though she might somehow be able to overpower the Time Lord himself. “You _can't_!” she cried, eyes stinging with unshed tears.

She could see the war happening behind his eyes, the turmoil of the impossible decision he was facing. But she knew he couldn't _possibly_ sacrifice Rose. It wasn't even conceivable.

But then he said, “I'm sorry.”

“No!” Hartley screamed, but the Doctor had already pressed the button that had doomed Rose to death. She whipped away from him, yelling into the phone with unhinged desperation. “Hurry! Rose, please! _Hurry_!”

Rose said nothing, she could only hear her pants of exertion as she ran. Hartley held her breath, heart slamming almost painfully against her ribs.

“The vault is sealed,” Van Statten declared a moment later, and Hartley's eyes continued to burn.

The Doctor was already standing, ripping the phone from Hartley's frozen hand and holding it up to his face. “Rose, where are you?” he demanded anxiously, an edge of terror to his voice that Hartley understood, her own sense of dread rising with every passing heartbeat. “Rose, did you make it?” he pressed when she didn't answer, and Hartley began to grow sure she would pass out from a lack of oxygen.

“ _Sorry, I was a bit slow_ ,” Rose's voice was shaky, wavering in her emotion. Suddenly Hartley wasn't just holding her breath, she actually couldn't breathe at all.

“Rose,” she said, the word coming out strangled and thick, full of a grief that hadn't yet properly hit.

“ _Hart, it's okay_ ,” Rose said with a small sniffle. Even at her death, Rose was more worried about her being upset. Another strangled cry came unbidden from Hartley's lips. “ _It's okay. You're my best friend, yeah_?” There was a pause, and the Doctor could only stare at the phone in abject horror. “ _See you, then, Doctor_ ,” Rose continued weakly but sincerely. “ _It wasn't your fault. Remember that, okay? It wasn't your fault. And do you know what? I wouldn't have missed it for the world_.”

Then, before Hartley could even say goodbye, the Dalek was yelling, “ _EXTERMINATE_!” and the line went dead.

Hartley's knees nearly gave out on her, and she grasped the edge of the table to keep herself upright. The Doctor dropped the phone and it fell to the floor with a clatter. Nobody moved to pick it up.

Nothing felt right, it was like she was living inside of some kind of nightmare. She reached up to slap herself in the face, hoping it would snap her out of it, that she'd wake up in the media room of the TARDIS to find Rose napping beside her, the closing credits of a cheesy rom-com playing in the background and the room smelling of salted popcorn.

It didn't work. This nightmare was all unfairly, terrifyingly real.

“Rose,” she whispered brokenly, gripping a handful of her own hair and yanking, the pain a nice distraction from the gaping hole that had been dug out of her chest.

“I killed her,” the Doctor said it like he couldn't quite believe it to be true.

“I'm sorry,” Van Statten apologised, but in the back of her mind, Hartley couldn't help but doubt his sincerity.

“I said I'd protect her,” the Doctor continued, whirling around on the human collector with a thunderous glower. Van Statten had the decency to look at least a little bit terrified. “She was only here because of me, and you're _sorry_? I could've killed that Dalek in its cell, but you stopped me,” he snarled.

“It was the prize of my collection!” he argued as though it mattered.

“Your _collection_?” the Doctor parroted furiously, his rage frothing, bubbling over his sides, threatening to drown them all. “But was it worth it? Worth all those men's deaths? Worth _Rose_? Let me tell you something, Van Statten. Mankind goes into space to explore, to be part of something greater,” he hissed.

“Exactly!” the human exclaimed, pushing to his feet defensively. “I wanted to touch the stars!”

“You just want to drag the stars down and stick them underground, underneath tons of sand and dirt, and label them. You're about as far from the stars as you can get,” he snarled, and Van Statten blinked, like this had actually gotten through to him. For the first time that night, Hartley knew he felt some semblance of shame. “And you took her down with you,” the Doctor breathed, pain cracking his voice. “She was _nineteen_ years old.”

Hartley let out a loud, shuddering breath, one hand still tugging at her hair in an effort to drive away the despondent feeling clinging to her insides like a virus.

There was a pause, and then the Doctor began to approach. She looked up from her feet, meeting his eyes. He reached out, gently prying her fingers from the chunk of her own hair, bringing the hand down and pulling her into a surprising embrace.

She let out another shuddering breath, holding onto him as tightly as she could. She wasn't crying, she refused, even though her eyes burned like acid with the need to. She pressed her face to his shirt, wrapping her arms around him and accepting the hug. She breathed him in, smelling some kind of unfamiliar aftershave – probably alien – motor oil, and bananas. It was comforting, and she clung to him tightly, afraid of what might happen if she let go.

Unfortunately, she was forced to find out. The doors at the far end of the room opened with a whirr and the English boy from before stumbled into the room. The Doctor pulled away sharply, striding over towards him, already berating him harshly.

Hartley's hands hung uselessly in the air, and she quickly pulled them in, wrapping her arms around herself again in a search for comfort. She never found any.

“You were quick on your feet, leaving Rose behind,” the Doctor barked at the kid.

“I'm not the one who sealed the vault!” the English boy shouted back confrontationally.

Hartley was about to interject, stop a physical fight from breaking out if need be, when she caught sight of the television across the room flickering to life. “ _Open the bulkhead or Rose Tyler dies_ ,” the Dalek droned, but Hartley wasn't listening, too focused on the fact that Rose was _alive._ There she was, standing gingerly beside the Dalek, just as alive as Hartley herself.

“You're alive!” cried the Doctor in shock.

“ _Can't get rid of me_ ,” she replied through the screen, attempting a smile that fell flat. Relief flooded Hartley, strong and bright. She felt like she would have been able to weep from the force of it.

“I thought you were dead,” said the Doctor in a tone of sheer relief.

“ _Open the bulkhead_!” the Dalek demanded before Rose could reply.

“Don't do it!” Rose shouted.

“ _What use are emotions if you will not save the woman you love?_ ”

Hartley was stunned into silence. She'd never even considered...was the Doctor in _love_ with Rose? She couldn't believe she hadn't thought about it before. They had a connection, that much was true, one that exceeded anything herself and the Doctor shared, beyond the whole 'cosmic magnetism' thing. The thought was dizzying, and she stared at the grainy image of Rose with curiosity. She knew Rose loved _him_ – how could she not? – but did _he_ love _her_?

“I killed her once,” the Doctor said suddenly, and Hartley looked away from Rose to stare at him, watching as he strode over to the keyboard, a look of devoted conviction on his face. He knew his next move was the wrong one, but damned if he could keep himself from making it. “I _can't_ do it again,” he told them regretfully, then slammed his finger down on the button, opening the bulkhead and allowing the Dalek through.

“What do we do now, you bleeding heart?” Van Statten yelled, furious at the Doctor's decision. “What the _hell_ do we do?”

“Kill it when it gets here,” the English kid said like it was obvious.

“Because that worked out so well for all those soldiers down below,” said Hartley, voice colder than she'd expected, betraying her negative feelings for the boy.

Goddard seemed to agree. “All the guns are useless, and the alien weapons are in the vault,” she hissed, apparently just as irritated.

“Only the catalogued ones,” the kid responded, and Van Statten turned to shoot him a dark look that nearly made him cower.

“Show me,” the Doctor demanded. Van Statten looked like he wanted to argue, but decided at the last second that it wasn't worth it and shut up, silently nodding for them to go. “Hart, you stay here,” the Doctor ordered her as he left through the door after English Boy.

“What? No, I'm coming with you,” she argued quickly. The last thing she wanted to was to be stuck in a small room with Van Statten, separated from the Doctor, unable to do anything to help.

The Doctor huffed in frustration, then strode forwards, ducking his head so he could speak to her without being overheard. “I need someone to keep an eye on them,” he muttered lowly, catching her gaze with his own as he jutted his chin in Van Statten's direction. “You're the only human I trust for the job.”

She wanted to keep arguing, to not give in and remain stubborn, but he was staring at her so imploringly, so beseechingly, that all she could do was nod obediently.

“Good,” he said with a nod, as close to a 'thank you' as she was likely to get. Turning, he disappeared from the room, leaving her alone with Van Statten and his assistant.

The doors shut with a note of terrifying finality. The three humans were left in a suffocating silence, and Hartley wondered who would be the first to break it. She was surprised when it ended up being Goddard, who spoke up in a shaky voice.

“Who are you people?” she asked, tone betraying her sheer bewilderment.

Casting a glance over at her, Hartley hesitated, trying to come up with an answer that didn't sound certifiably insane. Because the truth certainly wasn't it.

“Just your typical...nomads,” she finally said, cringing at the lame words coming from her mouth. “Just looking for a good time, really,” she added with a self-conscious sniff.

“And so you came _here_?” she asked, incredulous.

“Yeah...” Hartley allowed as she reached up to tug at a lock of her hair, giving a tired, rueful sort of smile, “not our smartest move, I'll give you that.”

“The Doctor,” said Van Statten, but when Hartley turned to look at him expectantly, he said no more.

“What about him?” she prompted, casting a wary glance at the monitor, where the Dalek seemed to be climbing into the lift.

“What is he?” he asked, desperate for answers.

“Alien,” she deadpanned.

“But what _kind_? Where is he from?”

“You wouldn't _know_ it,” she pointed out flatly, then bit her lip to smother a laugh. The conversation was happening just as it had when they'd taken Rose on that first adventure, only Rose was replaced with Van Statten, the Doctor with her.

Van Statten looked at her like she were utterly insane for laughing at a time like this. It only made her want to laugh some more.

“Sir,” interjected Goddard, and both Hartley and Van Statten turned to look at her expectantly. “The Dalek's heading straight for us,” she told them in a trembling voice. “It's three floors down.”

As one, they all spun around to stare at the lift doors, which were still and unmoving. Hartley's heart was in her throat, and she grasped the edge of the table to keep herself stable, letting the feel of the cool glass under her skin ground her. Sweat gathered on her brow, but she ignored it, staring at the doors, wondering whether she was really seconds away from _extermination._

The lift dinged, and the doors rolled open to reveal a weary looking Rose standing beside the unmoving Dalek. Nothing happened for a long moment, and it was all rather anticlimactic. Rose's eyes flickered to her, and relief shuttered over both their expressions, glad to see one another alive and well – for now, at least.

“Don't move. Don't do anything,” Rose warned them all, looking away from Hartley to glance cautiously at the Dalek. “It's beginning to question itself.”

Slowly, it began to move, rolling out of the lift and deeper into the office. “ _Van Statten_ ,” it said in that chilling, lifeless, robotic voice. “ _You tortured me. Why_?”

“I wanted to help you. I just, I don't know. I was trying to help,” Van Statten stuttered, nearly tripping over himself in his haste to back away, fleeing from the approaching Dalek. “I thought if we could get through to you, if we could mend you. I wanted you better. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry! I swear, I just wanted you to _talk_!”

“ _Then hear me talk now_ ,” it droned darkly. “ _Exterminate! Exterminate! Exterminate!_ ”

“No!” Hartley shouted, throwing herself between Van Statten and at the Dalek, eyes squeezed shut tightly, silently berating herself for such a stupid, foolish move.

“Don't do it!” Rose yelled, and everything went silent. “Don't kill them!” she shouted, and Hartley gingerly cracked open one eye to see the Dalek's eyestalk focused on Rose, its blue glow shining upon her pretty, pale face. “You don't have to do this anymore. There must be something else, not just killing. What else is there?” she asked it, the compassion in her voice heavy. “What do you _want_?”

It was silent for a long minute, the quiet stretching out, only the humans' sharp breaths filling the room, the Dalek unnaturally silent. Its eyestalk moved from Rose to Hartley, then over to Van Statten, before finally swivelling back to Rose, who stared back unflinchingly.

“ _I...want...freedom_ ,” it revealed stiltedly, much to everybody's shock.

Hartley reasoned that it wasn't so unbelievable. Surely that was the wish of every living thing, in the end? To be free?

“We can't just let it _loose_ ,” hissed Goddard from behind the desk, fear glinting in her cold eyes.

“It just wants to be _free._ Wouldn't you?” Hartley replied, uncharacteristically hard, and it as enough that the woman fell silent, looking properly chastised. “Besides,” she added, voice growing soft with her acceptance. “I don't think we actually have much of a choice.”

Van Statten lifted a trembling hand, pointing to a set of doors off to the right. Rose hesitated, meeting Hartley's gaze, looking for something. She wasn't sure what, but she nodded anyway, and Rose ducked her head, leading the Dalek away. “Come on, then,” she said, gentle and kind.

The Dalek gave a mechanical whir, then it turned and began to roll after her. Hartley hesitated, her own heartbeat loud in her ears. Rose glanced over her shoulder, and she knew this time what she wanted. _Come with me,_ her eyes said, and Hartley nodded, walking away from Van Statten and his assistant, following Rose and the Dalek out of the office and into a large, empty, industrial hallway.

They were silent, both young women walking alongside the Dalek, and Hartley wondered what it might have been like for the poor thing. She understood it had killed, but she also understood that it knew no other way. Nobody in this universe was innocent – a lesson she had begun to learn; maybe she'd been right before. Maybe everyone deserved a second chance, even a Dalek.

The alien suddenly shot out a beam, blasting a hole in the roof above them. A corridor of shimmering golden sunlight fell upon them, bathing the girls and the Dalek in its glow.

“You're out. You made it,” Rose said with a smile, before turning to look at the shining light with a sad, pensive expression. “I never thought I'd feel the sunlight again,” she admitted quietly, almost to herself. Hartley had almost forgotten how close Rose had come to death, and she stepped forwards, slipping her hand into hers and squeezing tightly, a reassurance that she was there, that they were together and alive.

“ _How does it feel_?” the Dalek asked in its cold, robotic drone.

“Like freedom,” Hartley answered with total honesty, the warmth of the light on her skin sweet and comforting. She supposed it couldn't understand, stuck in its metal cage.

No sooner had she had this thought than the Dalek's casing was coming apart with a metallic groan. It peeled away, folding back to finally reveal the living creature within.

It was small, slimy and pale in colour. It reminded Hartley an unshelled crustacean, only mutated, disfigured, like nature had made some kind of horrible mistake. One single eye sat in its middle, and it extended a tentacle towards the sunlight, as though wondering if it might be able to touch it. Such an innocent, _human_ movement, it made her eyes feel wet.

“Get out of the way!” the Doctor's panicked voice shouted all of a sudden, breaking the calm atmosphere that had appeared between the three of them. Hartley spun around, laying eyes on the Time Lord, who was standing across from them, a massive weapon of some kind held in steady hands. Acting on instinct, Hartley shifted ever so slightly in front of the exposed Dalek, shielding it from harm. “Rose, Hartley, get out of the way _now_!” the Doctor ordered them furiously.

“No,” Rose replied, voice calm but holding a hint of imprudence. “I won't let you do this,” she said defiantly.

“That thing killed hundreds of people,” he argued.

Rose was completely composed as she countered, “it's not the one pointing a gun at us.”

“I've got to do this,” the Doctor cried without missing a beat. “I've got to _end_ it. The Daleks destroyed my _home_ , my _people_. I've got nothing left.”

“You've got _us_ ,” Hartley said, peaceful and imploring, her voice holding the weight of the truth of her words. The steely gleam in his eyes didn't diminish, and she felt unexpectedly disappointed by the lack of reaction.

“Look at it,” Rose attempted, stepped back and gently guiding Hartley to do the same. She reluctantly stepped away, allowing the Doctor to see the Dalek, still enraptured by the golden glow of the sun's rays. It didn't seem to be afraid of the Doctor's ire, or the gun he still held in too-steady hands.

“What's it doing?” the Doctor was nonplussed, but his weapon didn't drop, remaining aimed at the exposed alien before them.

“It's the sunlight, that's all it wants.”

“But it can't-” he didn't seem to know what to say.

“It couldn't kill Van Statten, it couldn't kill me. It's _changing,_ ” Rose said, conviction layered in her voice. “What about you, Doctor?” she asked, voice like iron. “What the hell are _you_ changing into?”

Finally the Doctor's weapon dropped, hanging uselessly at his side, all but forgotten. “I couldn't-” he tried to say, but cut himself off, eyes full of a pained turmoil that left Hartley aching for the man. “I wasn't-” he tried again, but he couldn't gather the words. “Oh, Rose,” he finally said, thick with a grief that Hartley couldn't even begin to understand. “They're all _dead_.”

The quote came to her without thought, as they usually did, and she didn't debate whether or not to speak it, just letting the words pour from her lips, unbidden. “ _History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake_ ,” she said, utterly gentle, the softness in her eyes almost too much for the old Time Lord to bear. “Maybe this is the first step,” she added quietly, hopefully, and there was a spark to his gaze, like something about what she said had meant something to him.

“ _Why do we survive_?”

The Dalek's droning, robotic voice cut through the quiet, and all three companions turned to look at it, its wet skin gleaming in the sunlight. The Doctor swallowed before answering. “I don't know,” he said, hopeless.

“ _I am the last of the Daleks_ ,” it said, and now that she could see beyond the metal casing, Hartley might have even said that it seemed _sad._

“You're not even that. Rose did more than regenerate you,” the Doctor began to explain. “You've absorbed her DNA. You're mutating.”

“ _Into what_?”

“Something new,” he said, laced with undeniable pity, “I'm sorry.”

“Isn't that better?” Rose asked, unable to understand. Hartley herself was struggling, too.

“Not for a Dalek.”

“ _I can feel so many ideas. So much darkness._ ”

“Unfortunately, that's a side effect of humanity,” Hartley told it in her most gentle voice, leaning down to look at it properly, though still taking care not to stand in front of its view of the sky. She could never deny it that. “It's not all bad, though. Imagination? Free will? It can be beautiful,” she tried to convince it, tried to restore its will to live. The big, wet eye blinked once, and she wondered whether she was imagining the pain she saw within its shiny, pale depths.

“ _It is wrong,_ ” it told her, believing his own words. “ _Rose_ ,” it added, flat and dark. Hartley felt a wave of grim defeat. “ _Give me orders. Order me to die_.”

She stepped back, bringing her arms around herself like a barrier. It may have been a Dalek, but it was still a life. A life that was asking to die.

“I can't do that,” Rose murmured weakly.

“ _This is not life. This is sickness. I shall not be like you. Order my destruction_!” it demanded in a fit of blind desperation. “ _Obey_! _Obey_! _Obey_!”

“Rose...” Hartley began to say, but she realised there were no words she could find that would help, and stopped talking, shuffling back further and staring at the pair regretfully.

“Do it,” her friend finally said, voice wavering with emotion and guilt shining in her eyes.

“ _Are you frightened, Rose Tyler_?”

“Yeah,” Rose whispered.

“ _So am I._ _Exterminate._ ”

Then its eyes shut and its casing began to wrap around it like a cocoon of armour. Rose reached out, grasping Hartley's wrist and pulling her away. The pair stumbled across the rubble splayed on the ground from the hole in the wall, Hartley nearly tripping as they went, until they came to a stop beside the Doctor, who stood stock still, staring at the Dalek with indescribable eyes. It began to rise into the air, the spheres on its lower body spread out around it, creating a sort of forcefield. Then, without any fanfare, it imploded, the blast contained in the forcefield it had created.

The trio remained silent, staring at the place the mutated Dalek had stood only moments before, each feeling their own varying degrees of shock.

“We should go,” the Doctor finally said.

“Doctor––” Hartley began, although she wasn't sure what she could possibly say, what could possibly help.

“Need to get back to the TARDIS before Van Statten _collects_ it,” he continued as though she hadn't spoken. Sighing in acceptance, Hartley nodded, tightening her arms around her middle and following the Doctor down the hall. The gun fell from his grip, clanging to the cement beneath them like a piece of trash, and they were quiet as they walked back towards the lift bay around the corner.

The museum (if it could be called as much) was still and lifeless when they arrived, the silence was stifling, almost loud as they padded back towards the TARDIS, which stood tall and untouched in the centre of the large room.

“There she is,” the Doctor said, unmistakeably fond as they approached, reaching out to stroke his fingers down the blue, wooden exterior. “A little piece of home. Better than nothing,” he added, a cheerful, however fake, smile on his lips.

“Is that the end of it, the Time War?” Rose asked gently, shoving her hands deep into her back pockets.

“I'm the only one left,” he told her with a drop of his shoulders. “I win,” he added derisively. Hartley felt a shiver travel down her spine at the words. “How about that?”

“But the Dalek survived,” Rose said quietly.

Hartley caught on to what she was saying immediately. “Yeah,” she nodded, pressing her weight against the side of the TARDIS, its familiar surface like a balm to her wounds. “If it could survive, maybe some of your people did too?” she asked, naïve hope colouring her voice.

But the Doctor was already shaking his head. “I'd know,” he said plainly, “in here,” he tapped his temple, the look on his face so despondent, so melancholy, it made Hartley's chest ache with painful sympathy. “Feels like there's no one,” he finished simply.

“Well then, good thing we're not going anywhere,” Rose told him immediately, bumping her hip with Hartley's and attempting a comforting smile. The Doctor copied it, affectionate and full of a fond gratitude.

“Yeah,” he said softly, his sky coloured eyes flickering between the two of them.

“We'd better get out,” said the voice of the boy, the one whose name she still didn't know. He was rushing up to them, panting from exertion, and she turned to look at him in surprise. “Van Statten's disappeared. They're closing down the base. Goddard says they're going to fill it full of cement, like it never existed,” he exclaimed.

“About time,” Rose muttered, and Hartley had to agree.

“I'll have to go back home,” the kid sighed reluctantly.

“Better hurry up then. Next flight to Heathrow leaves at fifteen hundred hours,” the Doctor said offhandedly, and Hartley tilted her head back to shoot him a disapproving frown.

“Adam was saying,” Rose began, and Hartley was just glad she now knew the lad's name, “that all his life he wanted to see the stars.” Understanding what she was hinting at immediately, both of Hartley's eyebrows shot upwards.

“Tell him to go and stand outside, then,” the Doctor drawled callously.

“He's all on his own, Doctor, and he did help,” Rose argued gently. She was right, he had helped, and far be it from her to deny anyone the same opportunity she'd been given. The boy wanted to see the stars; they could take him. She failed to see how it would be a bad idea. Surely 'the more, the merrier' still applied.

“He left you down there!” the Doctor cried.

“So did _you_ ,” she bit back.

“That's a good point,” Hartley agreed, pointing at Rose who nodded, and the Doctor turned to scowl at her.

“Whose side are you on, exactly?” he asked tartly.

“Rose's,” she replied with an expression of the utmost innocence. “I thought that was obvious.”

“What're you talking about?” Adam interjected in sheer exasperation. “We've got to leave!”

“He's a bit _pretty,”_ the Doctor continued as though he hadn't spoken, sneering the word like an insult.

“I hadn't noticed,” Rose denied immediately, but the lack of hesitation gave her away. Hartley snorted, her skepticism obvious, and Rose shot her a glare that lacked any real heat.

The Doctor rolled his eyes, giving in, because when had he ever been able to deny Rose anything? “On your own head,” he warned her, turning and pushing his way back into the TARDIS.

“I for one, welcome the addition,” Hartley said with a smile that Rose copied, and she ducked into the ship after the Doctor, Rose following after her.

“What're you doing?” Adam's voice echoed from outside the TARDIS. “She said _cement_. She wasn't joking. We're going to get sealed in.” None of them replied, walking up to the console and waiting for him to follow.

“Doctor? Hartley? What're you doing standing inside a box? Rose?”

Hartley turned to grin at him, watching as he crept inside the TARDIS after them just in time, for the Doctor had already sent them off into the vortex. Adam's bag dropped from his fingers, falling to the grating beneath him with a thud. His jaw dropped and he stared at the large console room, its area certainly too big to fit inside the tiny little wooden box he'd just stepped into.

“It's, it's-” he stammered unintelligently.

“Bigger on the inside?” Hartley finished for him cheekily. He nodded wordlessly. “Yeah, we get that a lot.”

He exhaled sharply in shock, the Doctor rolled his eyes, Rose grinned widely, and Hartley idly wondered what on Earth could _possibly_ go wrong.


	11. Cavemen at the Ballet

“ _Beauty is power, a smile is its sword_.”

John Ray

* * *

“You want to go see the Ballet?” the Doctor seemed bemused, leaning against the console and watching Rose with curiosity in his eyes. He didn't seem to understand, which Hartley found odd. It was like something about it didn't compute: perhaps it was the sheer simplicity of the request?

“My mum always promised to take me, but we could never afford it,” Rose admitted, a small, slightly embarrassed smile on her lips. Hartley looked up from the pamphlet for mud baths offered on the planet Midnight – which, she had to admit, sounded pretty amazing.

“I'd love to see the ballet,” she offered, shooting Rose an encouraging smile. “I haven't been in years,” she told them, and Rose shot her a grateful beam at the words. “Besides, the TARDIS has plenty of dresses to choose from,” she added with a sly grin. “It'll be a chance to dress up and drink wine that didn't come from a box.”

Rose laughed, and as one the pair turned to the Doctor who was watching with raised brows. Their combined stares were enough to sway him, but he kept up the act, grunting like they were asking some impossible favour as he turned and began to set a course.

“Go on then,” he prompted them with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Go paint chemicals on your faces and stick uncomfortable shoes on your feet, if you feel you must.”

“That's the plan!” Hartley grinned excitedly, dropping the pamphlet and reaching out to hook an arm through a grinning Rose's. “What era will we be visiting?” she asked before they left.

“France, early 2000's,” he told them, and without a glance back the pair took off, heading through the door and into the winding halls of the TARDIS.

“Have you always wanted to see the ballet?” Hartley asked Rose conversationally as they walked, moving through the twisting corridors towards the excessively large wardrobe that spanned several floors and multiple rooms.

“Yeah,” Rose nodded with a faint smile. “I even went to ballet lessons as a kid, but I had to choose between that and gymnastics, and I liked gymnastics more.”

“I did ballet too,” Hartley revealed quietly, turning a corner and scanning the doors to see if they were getting close to the wardrobe. “For over ten years.”

“Really?” Rose sounded surprised.

“Yeah, I loved it. But life got in the way, I guess,” she murmured quietly, continuing to pull her friend along. “So, is there one ballet in particular you want to see?” she asked curiously, finally stopping at the wardrobe doors and pushing them open in one smooth move, revealing the hundreds upon hundreds of racks holding thousands upon thousands of gowns, as though she knew what they were looking for. The TARDIS was sneaky like that. “The Nutcracker maybe? Or Swan Lake?” she continued, unwinding her arm from Rose's and wandering over to a rack holding an array of soft pink dresses.

“I don't have any particular one in mind,” Rose replied, already elbow deep in a rack of extravagant ballgowns. “I don't know much about them to begin with, though.”

“Do you think this is my colour?” Hartley asked, holding up a stark grey dress.

“I think it's a bit plain,” she admitted, and Hartley agreed, putting it back and returning to her search. The pair were quiet for a few moments, each lost in thought.

A realisation struck Hartley suddenly: she knew a lot about Rose, but not nearly as much as she would like. They were friends, but so much of their time was sucked up by running for their lives and solving mysteries with the Doctor that it left little time for general chatter about themselves.

“So, you didn't have much money, growing up?” she asked Rose softly, her eyes on her task but paying hardly any attention as she fingered her way through the rack. She was too focused on Rose's answer.

“Not really,” she responded with a shrug, her voice distant as she thought back to her younger years. “Mum had it tough, working in a shop to support us both. But we had enough for the necessities, so we got by.” Hartley was quiet, trying to image what that might have been like. “What about you?” Rose inquired curiously as she stared at a soft gold dress for a long minute before gently putting it back.

“My mum came from old money – plus she was the CEO of a publishing company,” Hartley revealed, her voice lacking warmth as she spoke about her mother. “I think she had more money than she knew what to do with.”

If Rose was jealous of this fact, she didn't show it. “You must have had _everything_ then,” she murmured thoughtfully, no bitterness about it, like she were just stating a simple fact.

“Not really,” Hartley admitted with a grimace. “When I was a baby, sure, but once I grew up and learned to think for myself... Well, it turned out we didn't see eye to eye on most things,” she shrugged like it didn't bother her, when really the memories were like a knife to the chest. “I stopped wanting things from her – her money always came with strings attached.”

“Were you still living with them; before this, I mean?”

“Nah,” Hartley shook her head, plucking out a green dress and spinning around to face one of the many mirrors places around the room, holding the fabric up against her front and eyeing herself thoughtfully. “I moved out when I turned nineteen.”

“Oh my God,” Rose exclaimed abruptly, and Hartley whirled around to look at her in surprise. The blonde's eyes were open wide in shock. “I just realised, I have absolutely no idea how old you are!”

Hartley laughed, amused by both her question and her horror at not knowing such an important piece of information. “I'm twenty-five,” she divulged with a quirk of her lips.

“Really?” Rose murmured in surprise. “You look young.”

“Which means that, with any luck, when I'm forty I'll still look thirty,” she joked, giving a sarcastic flip of her hair that made the younger girl giggle. “Ooh,” she said suddenly, spying a beautiful, blue coloured gown amongst the rest of the masses of material hung around the room. “Look at this one,” she murmured, lifting the long frock up off the rack and holding it up for Rose to view.

“You'd look great in that!” the blonde told her enthusiastically.

“It's for you, silly,” she corrected her playfully. Rose's eyes went wide as she looked from the shimmering blue material to the smirking redhead.

“Hart, there is _no way_ I can pull that off,” she said, leaning to the right so she could glance at the back, which was mostly open and would leave her rather exposed.

“Don't know till you try,” Hartley told her cheerfully, stepping forwards and pressing the dress against her until she caught it, then waved her off towards the divider in the corner where she could change in privacy.

“I'm not even sure this is my colour,” Rose argued weakly from behind the screen.

“Every colour is your colour, Rose,” Hartley laughed, going back to her own search.

They were silent for a long few minutes, each lost in their own task, before Rose suddenly groaned, the sound stubborn. “I can't wear this, Hart,” she complained, and Hartley heard the sound of a zipper being tugged as she began to take it off.

“At least show me,” Hartley told her sternly, and with a reluctant grunt Rose reappeared, the shimmering electric blue fabric hanging delicately over her voluptuous curves.

“Rose, you look downright spectacular,” she told her honestly, and Rose turned a soft pink.

“I think I'm showing too much cleavage for the ballet,” she argued feebly.

“It's _France_ , Rose,” Hartley laughed, putting back a short red dress with a crinkle of her nose. “There's no such thing as too much cleavage.”

Despite it all, Rose had to laugh, only for the sound to cut off as she peered back down at herself warily. “I don't know, Hart,” she murmured. “I don't want to look ridiculous – like a little girl playing dress up.”

“Rose Tyler,” Hartley began, sounding frighteningly stern. “You couldn't look less like a little girl playing dress up if you tried,” she said with an air of scolding that made Rose feel meek. “You look stunning,” she assured her, tone dropping into a reassuring tone. Rose still didn't look convinced. “ _Beauty is power, a smile is its sword_ ,” she quoted with ease, and the blonde looked confused. “John Ray,” she added, frowning when she realised that Rose didn't recognise it. “He was an English naturalist in the seventeenth century-”

“You're such a nerd,” Rose laughed suddenly, put at ease in the way that only Hartley could ever seem to accomplish. “Honestly, you're worse than the Doctor sometimes,” she giggled, and although the words were bemusing, Hartley grinned all the same. “Okay, I'll make you a deal,” Rose said mischievously. “I'll only wear this if _I_ can pick something for _you_.”

“Deal,” Hartley agreed instantly. She didn't honestly care that much what she wore, as long as it wasn't booty shorts and a tank top, she'd be fine.

Rose grinned impishly, rushing forwards on bare feet to reach the closest rack, beginning to sort through the different gowns with the concentration of a woman on a mission. “I feel like white might wash you out,” she murmured, more to herself than to Hartley. “But black would be too bleak...” Finally, after a long few minutes of looking, Rose fished out a lovely floor-length gown, the colour a soft peach with pink and amber feathers seeming to fall from the bodice to the skirt. “Go on,” Rose beamed, handing the gown over and pushing her in the direction of the screen.

Hartley rolled her eyes but did as ordered, disappearing behind the divider and peeling off her simple jeans and shirt, carefully pulling on the pretty frock, reaching behind herself with skill to zip the thing up.

It was much more modest than Rose's dress, and she found she liked it quite a lot, even if the material _was_ kind of itchy.

“Come on, then,” Rose prompted her, and Hartley stepped out into sight, glancing over at the blonde who was sat on a stool, squishing her feet into some small and tasteful high heels. “Ooh,” she murmured, hazel eyes sweeping her friend up and down.

“Do I pass the test?” Hartley questioned playfully, and Rose snorted, nodding her head.

“You look unfairly gorgeous, Hart,” she assured her lightly. Hartley rolled her eyes at the words but smiled nonetheless. “I found these for you,” she added, holding up a pair of rather tall heels. Hartley raised a dubious eyebrow. “I figured you could use the extra height,” she added with a teasing tongue-in-teeth grin.

“I'm not _that_ short,” Hartley grumbled, snatching the heels from her and plopping down on another cushioned stool, hiking up her full skirts to reveal clean feet, her toes bare of polish. She began to slip the complicated shoes onto her feet.

“ _It's been_ three hours _since you left, what in Orion could be taking so long_?” the Doctor's irritated voice echoed around the room, and Hartley couldn't help but chortle in amusement.

“It's barely been a half hour!” she yelled back, aiming for the roof were she assumed the speakers were. She looked back at Rose who was halfway through rolling her eyes. “For a Time Lord, he sure is bad at keeping track of time,” she added to her friend in an undertone, who snorted at the quip.

“ _I heard that_ ,” the alien muttered over the speakers.

“Good!” she called back, and Rose laughed loudly. “Come on,” Hartley prompted her, rolling her own eyes at their irritating pilot and leading Rose from the wardrobe and towards her room. The TARDIS had moved her door closer to the wardrobe, as well as added another seat in front of Hartley's large, vintage vanity.

Hartley began to run a brush through her hair, casting a glance over at Rose, whose expression was a little distant, like she were thinking of something disappointing. You didn't need to be a genius to figure out what was on her mind. “Still thinking about Adam?” Hartley asked her gently, idly deciding to put her hair up in a simple braid.

Rose gave a weak smile. “Can't help it,” she admitted. “I guess I'd just expected better.”

“Not everyone's cut out for this sorta life,” Hartley said, quiet but honest.

“I know,” Rose nodded, still staring distractedly in the mirror.

“Lord knows, the Doctor didn't think I was at first,” Hartley added with a small, wry sort of chuckle.

“What is it with the two of you, anyway?” Rose asked as they each took a seat, reaching for the generous array of products lining the vanity. Hartley got the feeling Rose didn't wanna talk about Adam any more, and was happy to comply. “Why do you spend so much of your time bickering?”

Hartley shrugged helplessly. “I dunno,” she said, simply honest. “We can just grate on one another's nerves sometimes, I think,” she added, beginning to run a brush through her hair,

“I don't think it's that,” Rose argued gently, beginning with her makeup first, painting foundation over her creamy skin. “I think...” she trailed off, and curious, Hartley gently prompted her to continue. “Well, you met him first, yeah?”

Bemused by the question, Hartley nodded. “Right,” she said slowly. “Obviously.”

Rose rolled her eyes. “Well, you must have met him almost directly after the Time War,” she murmured, returning to her thoughtful tone. “He said it was only a few weeks before I met him, and you met him a few weeks before that... The timeline fits.”

Hartley was quiet for a moment, considering this carefully. “I guess I'd never considered it before,” she admitted softly, finishing off her braid with a flick of her wrist, securing it with a small elastic.

“What was he like, back then?” Rose was curious.

“Grumpy, rude, altogether unpleasant,” she confessed, “though I suppose, now, I understand why. All this time, I thought it was just me.”

Rose gave a rueful sort of smile. “I think you met the Doctor at the point when he was at his lowest, and well, you have to have noticed that you're kind of a walking ray of sunshine,” she said with a grin.

“What?” Hartley blinked in surprise at the comment that she was hoping was a compliment. She knew she was a positive person, but to be called a walking ray of sunshine? It seemed a bit much. “Really?”

“You practically _ooze_ light,” Rose gave a small, knowing smile. “I can imagine that when you first met him, just after he'd lost everything, it wasn't something he knew how to handle,” she said, and it was so insightful that Hartley found herself without words.

“Oh,” she said lamely, because even her Masters in literature wasn't enough to help her know how to respond.

“I think you make the Doctor want to be a better person,” Rose continued offhandedly, as though everything she was saying wasn't completely changing Hartley's life perspective. “And I think that, sometimes, he kind of hates you for it.”

Hartley's chest felt strangely hollow. “How do you know?” she asked quietly.

“Because you make me wanna be a better person, too,” said Rose, easy and casual, ignoring the way Hartley's cheeks went pink at the compliment.

“Big words to be throwing around,” she said playfully, applying her blush over the top of the natural colour on her cheeks. “I might come to think you sort of love me, Rose Tyler.”

Rose grinned back at her through the mirror as she began to apply some light eyeshadow, her tongue peeking through her teeth. “Maybe I do, Hartley Daniels,” she replied lightly. “Now shut up and help me with my eyeliner.”

They worked in silence for a few minutes, Hartley painstakingly drawing on both of their eyeliner while Rose worked on her highlighter.

“You know, I've come to like all the bickering,” Rose began as they each leaned towards the mirror to paint on their lipstick. “It doesn't feel like a proper adventure without the two of you squabbling over something or other.”

“Speak for yourself,” Hartley chuckled quietly, putting down her peach lipstick and dabbing at the edges of her mouth. “I could do without the constant snarky remarks.”

Rose smiled like she knew something Hartley didn't. “Sure,” she said, anything but convinced. Hartley decided not to waste time wheedling it out of her.

They finished their careful work, checking their faces were immaculate before shrugging on delicate shawls and clicking their way back towards the console room.

“It's so nice to dress up for once,” said Rose, almost giddy.

“We dressed up that time we met Charles Dickens,” Hartley argued.

“Yeah, but this time we don't have to worry about _corsets_ ,” she replied with a grimace of distaste.

“You're right,” Hartley smiled. “I can definitely enjoy going without the corset.”

“Finally!” the Doctor exclaimed when they appeared, barely giving them a second glance as he raced around and began to land the ship. “I thought you'd gotten lost or something,” he continued, beautiful wheezing filling the room as the TARDIS shook violently. Hartley reached out to grasp the railing, worried she wouldn't keep her balance in her towering heels.

The shaking had barely stopped before the Doctor was heading for the doors. “Wait a minute, you're wearing _that_ to the ballet?” Rose called after him, and Hartley ran her eyes over his usual outfit, dark pants and his loose, black leather jacket. He certainly looked underdressed to them.

“Yes,” he replied impatiently, cracking open the doors and hurriedly waving them out into the room they'd landed in. “Now come on, or we'll miss the start.”

Hartley and Rose glanced at one another before doing as they were told and hurrying out into France, 2002.

They'd parked in a hidden corner of the fancy bar of a prestigious theatre. Nobody so much glanced their way as they filtered into the room, which was overflowing with the French elite. They might as well have been completely invisible; which, in their chosen lifestyle, was usually a good thing.

“Drinks?” Rose asked hopefully, nodding her head towards the fully stocked bar.

“Can't go to the ballet without having a few drinks,” Hartley agreed, winding her arm through Rose's, steering her in the direction of the glistening mahogany bar and the cute young waiter stood behind it.

The Doctor trailed after them, somewhat of a lost puppy. For as good as he was with people, he could really have trouble in social settings. It was moments like this that reminded Hartley that he really was an _alien._

The pair of friends came to a stop by the bar, where the bartender was serving an older woman with sharp features and inky black but slightly greying hair. She was taking a sample of wine from the man behind the bar, swishing it around in her mouth before swallowing it with a disdainful tut. “Do you have anything _not_ from this century?” she asked derisively, handing back the glass, which he took with a subservient smile.

“This is a 1988 bottle, ma'am,” he told her, perfect cordial, but her face still hardened in fury, like he'd shown her great disrespect.

“Well then, get me something better,” she barked like she were giving a command to a dog. The bartender flushed as he turned around, obeying her ridiculous request. The old woman, dressed in a deep red gown that seemed to sparkle in the light but was, however, far from age-appropriate, turned to look at Hartley and Rose with a small, conspiratorial smile, as though they were sharing some kind of joke. “You'd think such an establishment would employ better help, wouldn't you?” she asked them in a low, snide tone of derisive amusement.

Neither girl agreed, but before they could say anything the woman was speaking again, holding out a jewel-encrusted hand that Hartley honestly believed was overkill.

“Katherine,” she said, and not wanting to be rude, Rose took her hand. Hartley watched as Katherine's beady little eyes flickered down to Rose's fingernails, a small sneer of plain disgust appearing on her cracked, red painted lips.

“Rose,” Rose replied, seeming to have also noticed the motion, pulling her hand away uncomfortably. “And this is Hartley,” she said, and Hartley took the older woman's hand, shaking without hesitation, making sure to squeeze just slightly harder than usual. Katherine winced but otherwise didn't comment.

The bartender reappeared, a new glass of wine for Katherine to sample. She took it, sipping on it obnoxiously and frowning in thought before swallowing and carelessly handing the glass back. “Yes, I suppose it will do,” she said snidely, turning away without barely acknowledging him. He must have been used to it, and simply moved to complete his task in silence. “Is this your first time at the ballet, then?” she asked Rose in the tone of somebody who clearly already knew the answer.

“Yeah,” nodded Rose, tapping her unclean fingernails on the pristine countertop. “But I used to take ballet lessons as a kid,” she added, making polite conversation despite her desire to leave. Hartley thought it was commendable. “So did Hartley,” she said, gesturing to the woman herself, who turned with a civilised smile.

Katherine's narrowed eyes trailed down over the girls' bodies, their curves clearly visible under their tight dresses, a judgement in her beady gaze that irritated even the most patient of all of them – Hartley. “Is that so?” Katherine finally asked, a disparaging disbelief in her voice.

“I don't suspect you'll be performing any pirouettes yourself any time soon, Katherine,” interjected the Doctor's voice, dry yet also perfectly pleasant. The sound of it made Hartley bite back a grin. “Although you do look good for your age. How're your eighties treating you?”

The aging Frenchwoman's lined face pulled into something echoing with fury as the Doctor clearly overshot her age by at least a decade. But before she could retaliate the bartender was leaning over the bar with Katherine's glass of red wine. “Here you are, madame,” he said loudly, perhaps having sensed the brewing argument and decided to intervene.

Katherine took the glass and turned, storming away with the clicking of her heels against the floor. Rose smirked after her before turning her smile onto the Doctor, who was now busy scanning a drink menu propped against the bar.

“What'll it be, ladies?” asked the cute bartender with a smile, bouncing back rather quickly from his encounter with the rude old woman, but Hartley supposed that was something he encountered regularly in a job such as his.

“I don't know about you, but I'm feeling like champagne is the way to go,” she murmured to Rose in an undertone. Rose replied with a nod of vigorous agreement. “Two glasses of your finest champagne, please,” she said to the bartender, raising her voice to be heard over the low hum of the gathered theatre-goers.

“Er – your cheapest, actually,” argued Rose, a blush of embarrassment turning her cheeks pink as she began to dig in her purse for some spare change.

The bartender didn't react poorly, however, merely smiling at her gently. “It's an open bar, madame,” he said politely. Rose's cheeks remained red, but she still smiled back dazzlingly as she put her purse away. “I have an unopened bottle of Billecart-Salmon Brut Rosé,” he offered with that kind smile still in place.

“That sounds lovely, thank you,” Hartley told him graciously, and he turned to fix them their drinks.

“I have no idea what that means,” Rose whispered to her, eyes on the bartender as he worked.

“It's nice,” Hartley murmured back distractedly, running her fingertip down the length of the menu, idly noting their large array of cocktails on offer. “It's a very crisp champagne with black cherry, chalk, rose petals and damson plum. Creamy yet light on the finish, focused and direct with a pleasant astringency and pretty much perfect balance. One of my favourites, actually,” she said, tapping a finger against the menu for a final time before looking up at Rose, who was staring back at her in surprise. “What?” she asked, self-consciously reaching up to touch her hair.

“How d'you know so much about wine?” asked Rose, not quite an accusation, but also not without suspicion.

“Is it a crime to enjoy a nice glass of bubbly every now and again?” countered Hartley, hedging around the question with only a hint of awkwardness.

“No, but you sound like one of those fancy-pants wine tasters who write reviews on blogs that no one reads,” she replied with a small laugh.

“They're just words,” Hartley shrugged like it were no big deal. “You know how I am with words.”

This wasn't the whole story, of course – it was barely even any of it at all – but the last thing Hartley felt like doing was nosediving into the hell-scape that was her propriety-soaked past. It had been torture enough living it once. Rose knew now that she came from old money, but she didn't quite know the full extent of her high-class childhood. And Hartley was hoping to keep it that way.

The bartender reappeared, handing over two flutes of soft pink, bubbling champagne. The girls took them with murmurs of thanks just as there was the small ringing of a bell. Suddenly, as if trained, the entire room began to flood towards the doors, heading inside the theatre.

  
Hartley looked over her shoulder at the Doctor. He was standing with a younger fellow, the kid's phone in his hand, sonic screwdriver hovering over its screen. “You're not giving total strangers universal roaming now, are you?” she asked, amusement in her voice as she appeared beside him, pulling her shawl more tightly around her shoulders.

“Christoph here had a signal problem,” said the Doctor, face lit up by the blue glow of his sonic, “I'm just helping out.” He then leaned closer to his companions, impish excitement in his eyes. “And if it happens to be able to access the internet half a decade too early, well that's neither here nor there,” he added with a large, goofy grin.

“Well, the theatre's open now,” Rose interjected before the boy could ask what he meant, grabbing ahold of the phone and giving it back to him with a kind smile. He took it back with pink cheeks, and then the trio of travellers turned to follow the flow of foot traffic into the theatre.

Rose was practically vibrating with excitement as they found their seats. Hartley wondered idly where the Doctor had gotten ahold of the tickets – good ones, only two rows from the very front – but she decided not to ask, privately enjoying the mystique of it all.

“Which show are we seeing, again?” asked Rose in a polite whisper, leaning to her left where the Doctor was sat, toying with a loose thread at his cuff. Reaching into his pocket, the Doctor extracted a booklet, handing it over to Rose, who took it gingerly. “A Midsummer Night's Dream,” she read from the cover of the programme. “Isn't that a book?”

“It's a Shakespeare play,” Hartley corrected her eagerly, unthinking as she all but snatched the programme from Rose's hands, flickering through it excitedly. “ _Brilliant_ piece of work, one of his most popular and mainstream still to this day. The story centres on the events around the marriage of Theseus and Hippolyta, former queen of the Amazons-”

The programme was abruptly snatched from Hartley's hands, and she cut herself off, blinking up at the Doctor in surprise. He was leaning over Rose, frowning at her in mild annoyance. “How about you let Rose watch and see for herself?” he suggested in a way that wasn't really much of a _suggestion_ at all.

“But there's no dialogue in the ballet,” Hartley argued righteously. “She'll miss the true majesty of it all if I don't tell her now.”

“Just let her watch the dancers dance, Hartley,” he huffed.

“But as wonderful as the ballet is, she needs to understand the basic premise to be able to fully enjoy the-”

“Do either of you care about what _I_ want?” Rose interjected sternly, and both Hartley and the Doctor turned to look at her, equally sheepish. Rose didn't look mad; in fact there was a glint of amusement in her eyes. Hartley was reminded of her words from earlier, and felt herself comforted by them again.

“Sorry,” she and the Doctor apologised at the same time, like sulking children being forced to do so by their mother.

Rose's lips twitched upwards at the pair of them. “Hart, give me just the basic overview,” she offered with that pretty, toothy smile in place. “But no spoilers,” she warned.

Hartley nodded sombrely, trying not to grin as the Doctor scowled petulantly. “Scout's honour.”

The show began five minutes later, the lights dimming and the buzz of the audience dropping away into nothing. Rose gasped, reaching out to grasp Hartley's arm in excitement as they waited for the first performers to come out onto stage.

When they finally appeared, Rose was enraptured, staring at the dancers in awe. Hartley grinned at her stunned expression, face lit up blue in the lights from the stage. Hartley looked back to the performance and lost herself in the narrative. Her extraordinary memory began to supply the dialogue to the progression of the story, and her smile grew as she watched it, glad the Doctor had chosen a ballet she could appreciate the most – even if it was purely coincidental.

They were only about a quarter of the way into the performance when there was a large noise, much like a piece of paper being torn, only amplified by about a thousand. It cut across the orchestra's symphony, and both the musicians and the dancers on stage faltered for a moment, only to pick up again and continue performing like true professionals.

But the audience wasn't so quick to overlook the strange occurrence, everyone in the theatre beginning to mutter among one another, questioning the source of the loud, intrusive noise.

There was moment where Hartley had hope that the incident might fade into nothing and things would simply continue on as normal, but that hope disintegrated when a loud cry cut across the flow of the music. This sound wasn't like the one before; this one was utterly human.

Bristling, the audience gasped as one when a strange man tripped onto the stage. He was hunched over and thick, wearing what looked like some kind of animal pelt, a massive branch held in his hand as he clomped across the stage. The ballerinas all began to scream, abandoning the performance and running offstage as the strange man hurtled towards them, using all four limbs like some kind of humanoid monkey.

“Wild stab in the dark, here,” began Rose, calm voice raised to be heard over the panicked screams of the audience, “but A Midsummer Night's Dream doesn't actually include any cavemen, does it?”

Hartley sank down in her seat, back of her skull tapping against the headrest of her seat. “No, it most certainly does not,” she confirmed with a heavy sigh. Why couldn't they just have one night out that _didn't_ involve some grand mystery to solve? Some grand evil to stop? Was a quiet night on the town in France, 2002, just _too_ much to ask for?

“Come on,” said the Doctor quickly, already on his feet.

“Where're we going?” Hartley asked as she leapt from her chair, shifting out of the way of a couple who were both screaming at the tops of their lungs in terror. Up on the stage, the caveman was now bashing his club against the floor with loud, animalistic grunts. He seemed oblivious to the chaos around him.

“Up there,” the Doctor answered like it were obvious, voice raised to be heard over the shouts of the fleeing audience.

“Onto the stage?” Rose echoed, standing beside them, eyeing the caveman above them warily. “Are we even allowed?”

The Doctor shot her the driest look imaginable, and her cheeks went pink again. “I think they'll bend the rules, given the circumstances,” he told her with just a tad of amusement as he strolled towards the stairs at the edge of the long lip of the stage. Hartley and Rose exchanged a hesitant glance before hoisting up their skirts and following along.

As they quickly climbed the stairs, Hartley began to deeply regret her choice of footwear for the evening. The towering heels may have given her some much needed height, but her feet were already beginning to ache something fierce.

The caveman on the stage was grunting repeatedly, the sound not unlike that of a monkey. He kept smashing his club against the stage floor, the once polished wood now cracked and splintered from the attack.

“Oi!” cried the Doctor to get the caveman's attention. Ineloquent though it may have been, it worked, and the caveman looked up to see the Doctor and his two companions slowly approaching. The Doctor had his hands held out, like he were approaching a nervous animal, and the girls followed behind, gripping their skirts and smiling at the wildly out of place, pre-historic human. “It's okay,” their designated driver assured the caveman gently. “My name's the Doctor.”

The caveman only grunted, lip curled back to reveal pointed, decaying teeth. He lifted his club, swinging it threateningly in their direction. The Doctor merely leaned out of its path, ducking the attack with ease. He slowly began to walk around the caveman, who eyed him warily before getting distracted by his club and the stage floor once again.

“How'd you get here?” the Doctor asked the caveman, staring at him like he were the most exciting puzzle he'd ever encountered. “Where've you come from?”

The caveman made no indication that he'd heard or even understood. He only gave a low, distracted grunt, bashing at the wooden flooring some more.

“Why isn't the TARDIS translating?” Hartley asked, growing anxious as she watched the caveman scratch at his thick, matted hair.

“Can't translate what isn't there,” the Doctor told her, still circling the caveman slowly, intelligent eyes soaking up everything. “He must be _old_ ; brought here from a time before basic language,” he said, just a little giddy. He was like a dog with a bone, only instead of a dog he was a 900 year old Time Lord, and instead of a bone it was a great, big, trans-temporal mystery.

“Right,” said Rose slowly. “So, then how do we get him _back_?”

“Good question,” he said brightly.

“So, what you're saying is, you have no idea,” Rose deadpanned, more than unimpressed.

“No idea,” he agreed cheerfully, reminding Hartley of that time they'd stood on the footpath, watching as Big Ben disappeared in a cloud of smoke right before that whole Slitheen debacle in Downing Street. He hadn't known what was going on then, either, and he looked just as chuffed by the mystery of the situation now as he had back then. Hartley rolled her eyes at his predictability – it was strangely endearing.

From the side of the stage where the caveman had materialised there was a sudden burst of frightened shouts. The Doctor looked up sharply, his sonic screwdriver already held out, carefully assessing the situation. Hartley watched as a myriad of considerations flew across the Doctor's icy blue eyes, before he quickly came to a decision, turning to Rose and Hartley expectantly.

“You two, follow those screams,” he ordered them briskly.

“And you?” Rose asked.

“I'll be along in a moment,” he assured her, attention returning to the caveman, who was still banging his club against the stage, the loud, repetitive noise echoing throughout the almost empty auditorium.

Hartley spun around so fast that she very nearly toppled over in her sky-high heels. Letting out a squeak, she grasped ahold of Rose's arm to steady herself before the pair darted into the wings, following the sounds of the crew's terrified shouts.

Hartley had never been in a play, but she'd seen plenty in her life and always wondered what it might be like behind the curtain, in the wings where the hard labour was done. She didn't imagine her first taste of the backstage would be at a ballet in past France, one which had been rudely crashed by a caveman that predated the spoken word.

Pushing their way through the curtains, the two girls found the wings mostly empty, for all except two people. They were both tall and dressed in black, gaping in pure shock at a dark square in the back of the room.

Hartley looked between them and the square, not understanding what was so shocking about it, but then something catapulted out of it with a squeal like that of a monkey. Rose yelped, leaping out of the way as the new caveman threw himself around the small space like some kind of caged animal.

Hartley realised the dark square wasn't a prop of any kind – it was a door, a gateway to another time. Rose chased after the newest caveman while Hartley leant around the side of the square, finding it to be hovering in midair, rather than held up by anything concrete.

“What's going on?” demanded a voice, and she spun around to see one of the stagehands gaping at her in sheer bewilderment. He was tall, with a square jaw and dark hair. Beside him was a woman of Asian decent, tips of her black hair dyed a blazing red. “Who're you?” he pressed when Hartley didn't immediately answer. “What is that thing?!” he was quickly growing hysterical.

Hartley couldn't blame him – it wasn't exactly a textbook situation.

“Dude!” hissed the woman to his right, reaching up to slap him in the arm in reprimand. “Get ahold of yourself.”

“Are either of you in charge?” Hartley asked them in a clear voice, and the woman's eyes narrowed.

“And who're you?” she asked sharply.

“Hartley,” she replied without so much as a blink. “I'm here to help. What are your names?”

The woman still looked skeptical, but she probably figured they had bigger problems at hand. “That's Hugo, he's our stagehand,” she revealed with another slap of her friend's arm. “And I'm Chloe, Stage Manager.”

“Great,” Hartley said, shooting them a smile and doing her best to ignore the shouts of Rose and the Doctor as they struggled to get ahold of the roaring cavemen from behind her. If she screwed her eyes and head up a little, it was kind of like something from one of the bad sitcoms she watched religiously during university. “Where did this doorway come from?” she continued as though nothing were wrong. “How did it appear?”

Hugo and Chloe exchanged a glance. “It's so dark back here, we never saw it appear,” Chloe told her slowly. “One moment there was nothing, and the next it was just...there.”

“Getting anywhere?” the Doctor appeared by her side, and Hartley practically slumped with relief. She had no idea what she was doing, and besides, she needed the Doctor to hear it all if they were to make any headway.

“They said it seemed to just materialise,” she told him.

“And they are...” he trailed off, icy blue eyes darting between the humans curiously.

“Hugo and Chloe. Stagehand and Stage Manager.”

“Good to meet you,” said the Doctor, cheerful even as he paid them no attention, turning on his heel and striding over to the strange box hovering in the air. Upon a closer inspection, Hartley saw that around its boundary was a faint golden glow. It vaguely reminded her of something, but she couldn't put her finger on what.

The Doctor had already produced his screwdriver, holding it to the gateway into prehistoric Earth, its soft buzzing filling the room. “Where's Rose?” Hartley asked him as he worked.

“Overseeing the theatre's security team as they contain the cavemen,” he told her promptly. “Hey, do me a favour – stick your hand inside the square?”

Hartley blinked in surprise. “Put my hand _where_?”

“It probably won't hurt you,” he told her casually as she clutched her right hand protectively to her chest. The Doctor rolled his eyes in annoyance. “Oh, would you just stick your hand inside the trans-temporal hole already, Hartley?” he said like she were just being difficult for the sake of being difficult.

Despite not wanting to do any such thing, she knew the Doctor wasn't going to let anything bad happen to her. So with a wince she reluctantly outstretched her arm, gingerly pressing her hand into the ominous square to nowhere. The Doctor watched on, leaning around the side of the hole with a furrowed brow, tapping the end of his sonic screwdriver against his lips like a scientist might with a pen.

Once her hand was inside the hole, she could feel an icy breeze against her skin. “It's cold,” she relayed to the Doctor, feeling the chill rattle up her arm and pierce her insides. She shivered against the horrible sensation.

“Okay, move back,” he ordered her, and she did as she was told, snatching her hand back from the great beyond, grasping it with her other one and rubbing, trying to bring feeling back to her cold, numb fingers.

“What is it?” she asked him, ignoring the way Chloe and Hugo were whispering between one another, seeming to be having some kind of a hissed argument from behind her.

“Exactly what I said,” he replied, still scanning the hole with his sonic. “Trans-temporal hole.”

“But what does that _mean_?” she pressed persistently. Before the Doctor could answer, the sound of heels against the stage met their ears and Rose skidded to a stop before them, panting with exertion.

“What's happening?” she asked quickly. “Do we have answers yet?”

“I was just getting to that part,” the Doctor said calmly, and Rose steadied her breathing, nodding her head. “This is what I'm calling, for simplicity sake, a trans-temporal doorway,” he began again, voice steady and reassuring. Chloe and Hugo crept closer to be able to hear. “It's basically a doorway between two separate points in time. Very rare – and you need a lot power to generate one, _particularly_ one this far back.”

“So that's a doorway to, what? The time of the dinosaurs?” Chloe asked skeptically, voice raised to catch the Doctor's attention.

He looked surprised that she and Hugo were still there, likely having forgotten about them the moment he'd turned away. “Common misconception, that,” he told her cheerfully. “Dinosaurs, or at leas the non-avian sort, died out at least 66 _million_ years before the first cavemen were ever around.”

Hartley frowned as she tried to piece together the mystery before them. “So then, where does this door lead to, exactly?” she asked him quickly.

“Oh, not too far back,” said the Doctor, still utterly merry, the cadence of his Northern accent bright and cheerful. “Only about 20,000 years or so.”

There was a low squeak and a groan followed by a loud thumping noise as Hugo's body hit the cork flooring. They all blinked down at his unmoving form in surprise. Chloe hesitantly kicked him in the arm, but there was no response.

Frowning, Hartley dropped to his side, gently pressing her fingertips to his jugular. “It's okay,” she told the others evenly. “He's just fainted.”

Bemused, the others returned to their discussion, and Hartley stood back to her feet, dusting the dirt from her dress.

“Where're our prehistoric friends now?” the Doctor was asking Rose keenly.

“Security has them under control,” she told him.

“For now,” replied the Doctor evenly. “Have they called the police?”

“No,” she said. “It's weird, actually. Some bloke in a fancy suit strolled in and told them not to. Said he'd handle it on his own.”

“Did he have a bad beard and smell like cigarettes?” asked Chloe quickly.

“That's the one.”

“That's Mr. Bouton,” she told them hurriedly. “He owns the theatre.”

“Sounds like he's trying awfully hard to cover this whole thing up,” Hartley mused, crossing her arms over her chest and looking back to the Doctor. “Think it's just the publicity he's worried about?”

“I'd be willing to bet it goes a little deeper than that,” the Doctor replied. He turned back to Chloe, pocketing the sonic. “Where can we find this Bouton fellow?”

“His office is up the stairs and to the right,” she told him quickly. “But what about that doorway thing?” she asked, eyeing the square hole hanging in midair with caution. “We can't just leave it there. Isn't there some way to seal it?”

The Doctor produced his sonic again, holding it to the gateway for a long moment, the blue tip buzzing as it always did. After a moment he huffed, dropping his arm defeatedly. “Nope, no way to shut it on this end,” he told them plainly.

“Does that mean you have to go through? Shut it from the other side?” Rose asked.

“And risk getting stranded 20,000 years in the past? I think I'll review my other options first,” he sniped, but it wasn't completely unkind. As it was, Rose just rolled her eyes.

“What about the TARDIS?” Hartley suggested.

The Doctor was already shaking his head. “We're part of events now,” he said simply, and although she didn't completely understand, she still respected it, nodding her head. He was the expert, after all.

“So, what are we meant to do?” asked Chloe, voice a little shrill as she tugged at the bright red ends of her dark hair. “Just, just stand here, _guarding_ the freaky time hole?” she stammered, just a touch hysterical.

“Good idea,” the Doctor grinned, bending over to reach a small crate of props from one production or another where it sat in the corner. He fished around for a moment before producing a long, metal fire poker, its end glinting in the low lighting of the backstage area. “Here you go,” he said cheerfully, handing it off with a sunny beam.

Chloe took it, staring at it in confusion. “What am I meant to do with this?” she asked him sharply.

“Guard the freaky time hole,” he echoed her with a casual wave of his hand towards the doorway in time.

“What if a – a mammoth or, or a sabre-tooth tiger comes through? What am I meant to do then?” she stammered, voice shrill with just an edge of panic. She'd begun to lose her cool from before, but Hartley understood. It wasn't every day something like this happened to you.

The Doctor shrugged. “Shout.”

Chloe looked about ready to scream and at the sight of the panic in her kind eyes, the Doctor's frosty, all-business demeanour melted a little.

“You'll be okay,” he told her with a touch more sincerity, but Hartley knew he shouldn't have been making promises he couldn't absolutely keep. “You two, with me,” he added to his friends, spinning on his heel and heading off in the direction of this suspicious _Mr. Bouton_ character's office.

Hartley met Rose's eyes, and then as one they hurried after the enigmatic Time Lord.

“What do you think caused the hole?” asked Rose, skirts held in her hand as she climbed the stairs, just a few steps behind the Doctor. Hartley brought up the rear, one hand pressed tightly to the railing in an effort to keep herself balanced in her towering heels.

“Something that's generating a hell of a lot of power,” the Doctor replied over his shoulder. “It's not easy to punch a hole through time. And it's not typically something that can be done by accident.”

The door at the top of the stairs was large and wooden with a large nameplate that told them in flowery cursive that the office belonged to _Gabriel Bouton – Owner._

From beyond the door there was a voice shouting, loud and angry, and the three friends looked at one another warily before the Doctor reached out to try and turn the handle. It was locked, so he pulled free his sonic, aiming it at the lock until it clicked and the door popped open on its own.

The Doctor stepped in first, Rose after him and Hartley taking up the rear. Bouton was tall and thin, with a large, hooked nose and a balding spot on top of his head. Chloe had been right, his beard was awful, bushy and greasy at the same time, utterly repulsive. He was shouting into his phone, furious with whomever was on the other end.

“I don't care what they promised you – fix it. _Now_!”

He turned to the left, caught sight of the trio of travellers standing innocently in his doorway, and promptly slammed his early 2000's flip phone shut.

“Who the hell are you?” he demanded in a crisp French accent.

“I'm the Doctor,” their alien leader said cheerfully before jerking his thumb over his shoulder in their direction, “that's Hartley and Rose. We heard that you're the guy to come to about the rupture in space and time down on your stage.”

“If you don't leave, I'll have to call security,” Bouton threatened, his beady little eyes narrowed at them in nervous contempt.

“I think they're a little busy with the cavemen running rampant downstairs,” said Rose, a hint of a teasing grin on her face. Hartley never imagined she'd ever be able to say that cavemen at the ballet would be old hat at this point – or any – in her life, but that was what it had come to, wasn't it?

Bouton went pale and a thin sheen of sweat seemed to appear at his brow. He pulled free a small, monogrammed handkerchief and began to dab at the moisture. “We have it under control,” he said, utterly unconvincing, his voice still trembling with nerves. “If you'll be so kind as to evacuate the building––”

“Nah,” said the Doctor easily. “If I left, how'd you be able to fix that spacial-fissure downstairs?”

“Spacial-fissure?” asked Bouton, dabbing again at his sweaty forehead. “You know what it is?”

“I do,” the Doctor said confidently. “Only thing I _don't_ know is how it got there. But I have a feeling that's something you _do_ know.”

Bouton's expression wavered, and for a moment Hartley thought he was going to crack and spill everything. But then there was a loud shouting from through the open door, and the wall behind his eyes shuttered back into place.

“I really must insist you leave,” he said, polite but stern.

The Doctor looked like he were holding back a heavy sigh. “I can help,” he persisted, taking a small step forwards. “I'm something of an expert with these sorts of things,” he said with a wry smile that only Hartley and Rose understood.

“How can you be?” countered Bouton, skepticism in his watery eyes.

“I have some prior experience,” he replied, reaching into his pocket and pulling free the psychic paper, holding it out for the man to see.

Bouton snatched it from his hand, staring down at whatever it said with a wary scowl. His head snapped back up, but instead of relief or reassurance, Hartley found only panic in his eyes. “You're from UNIT?” he asked in a furious hiss.

The Doctor's face fell. “Why's that a bad thing?”

“They'll _kill_ me if they find out I let a bunch of UNIT agents come snooping around,” he sneered, shoving the psychic paper back into the Doctor's hands. Beads of sweat lined his brow, and he mopped at them with the cuff of his dress shirt.

“Who?” asked Hartley, stepping forwards with her hands held up, the gesture that universally meant _calm down._ “Who will kill you?”

Bouton seemed to go from white to purple and back again. “I'm dead,” he muttered to himself, dropping his face into his hands and sitting himself down heavily in his comfortable-looking leather chair. “Oh God, this is how I die.”

“All right, mate,” said Rose reproachfully. “Stop being such a drama queen and just tell us what happened.”

Bouton looked like that was the last thing he wanted to do, but he glanced from the Doctor to both of his companions and suddenly reminded Hartley of a ferret – twitchy and untrustworthy.

The Doctor stepped forwards, looking exceptionally tall now that Bouton was collapsed into his desk chair. Hartley had never really thought of the Doctor as physically intimidating before, but in that moment Bouton did. He gulped, loud and nervous, and rolled backwards slightly on the squeaky wheels of his chair.

“All right, all right,” he said, mopping at his sweating forehead once again. “But, but if I tell you, I get immunity. Right? I can make that deal. I demand immunity,” he muttered unconvincingly.

“Sure. Okay, you have immunity,” said the Doctor flippantly, saying whatever it was the guy needed to hear. “Now tell us everything.”

Bouton took a deep, steadying breath. “They're called the Underhanders,” he finally said, voice trembling over the name.

“Underhanders,” echoed the Doctor. “Right. Who are they?”

“I dunno,” Bouton insisted, and the Doctor's expression soured. “No! Honestly, I don't know! Nobody does!”

“Well, what _do_ you know?” Hartley asked him. She was widely (among the three of them) considered the most tolerant member of Team TARDIS, but even _her_ patience was beginning to wear thin.

“They're like the mob – like the honest to God mob. I'm talking _Godfather_ levels of mob,” Bouton told them hurriedly, voice hushed as though the walls themselves had ears. “They run this part of town, own nearly everything in a ten-block radius.”

“So?” asked Rose curtly.

“ _So_?” Bouton squawked. “ _So_ , the Underhanders come asking you for a favour, let me tell you, you bloody well do what they ask!”

“What was the favour?” the Doctor prompted him, arms crossed over his chest.

Bouton reached up to his terrible, wiry beard, gripping it in his fist like a child might hold a security blanket. “They're paying me extra – it's all I can do to keep this place afloat! Without it, I'd still be in debt––”

“What was the favour?” the Doctor repeated himself sternly.

Bouton gulped. “There's this weird thing, down in the basement – it's a sort of generator. We had to soundproof the whole lower level to keep out the sound of it.”

“A generator?” Hartley asked, blinking in surprise. She wasn't sure what she'd been expecting, but that hadn't been it.

“What's it doing down there?” added Rose curiously. “What do they use it for?”

“They don't,” said Bouton, still pulling compulsively at his beard. “They just wanted me to store it for them – somewhere no one would think to look for it.”

“And they never come visit it?” pressed the Doctor.

“Never,” he swore.

“Then why's it running?” asked Hartley critically. The others turned to look at her curiously. “He said they needed to soundproof the basement, meaning it's still running. But if no one's using it, why not just let it collect dust?”

The Doctor looked somewhat impressed by the observation, and Hartley tried not to feel chuffed.

“It's self-sustaining,” said Bouton, lowering his voice even further, eyes shifting from one end of the room to another, like some part of his mind was desperately working on an escape plan. “Goes without any sort of fuel or oil changes. It just runs and runs.”

The Doctor's expression was grave as he turned towards the girls. “That shouldn't be possible,” he muttered to them quietly. “Not in this time period.”

“You're thinking time travel?” asked Hartley.

The Doctor shot her the most dry look she'd ever received. “Judging by the cavemen wreaking havoc downstairs, I'd say yes,” he said slowly, like she were an idiot. Her cheeks felt warm, and her earlier pride disappeared, replaced by embarrassment. Rose rolled her eyes at the Doctor's unnecessary sarcasm. Ignoring her, the Doctor turned back to Bouton, who was now mopping up the sweat that had appeared on the back of his neck, his cuffs nearly soaked through. “Take us down to the generator,” the Doctor ordered him curtly.

Bouton looked taken aback by the command. “Can't, I mean, aren't you going to do something about the, the _thing_?” he stammered instead.

“You mean the fissure in time and space down there on your stage?” asked the Doctor in a deadpan.

“Y-yes, that,” said Bouton nervously.

“To fix that, I'll need to understand why it's there, which means I _need to see the generator_ ,” the Doctor told him with deliberate force, a tightness to his eyes that told Hartley he was trying very hard not to say something rude. He knew how they hated it when he was rude.

“Okay,” Bouton agreed, yanking open a drawer in his desk and pulling out a small ring full of keys. He stood up, walking over towards the door. His entire body seemed to be vibrating with nerves, and Hartley wondered if he was always so twitchy, or whether these Underhanders were more trouble than they were giving them credit for.

The theatre was empty now, apart from the small handful of bewildered guards chasing after the loose cavemen. There were more of them now, all four prehistoric figures clunking around on the stage, making dull grunting sounds and growling whenever someone got too close.

Someone had had the good sense to shut and lock the doors to the theatre, meaning that, for now, the cavemen were stuck within the auditorium. Bouton ignored them, scurrying past with his head ducked down low until they came to a service door off to the side.

His hands shook as he struggled to find the right key, and about five seconds passed before the Doctor had had enough and manhandled him out of the way, pulling out his sonic and aiming it at the lock. The door clicked open, and Bouton gaped at him in shock.

The stairs leading down to the basement were small and rickety, and it was dark. Hartley reached for Rose's arm, the pair steadying one another in their heels as they slowly made their way down into the basement after Bouton and the Doctor.

Once they were all down, Bouton flicked a switch and the basement filled with light. Before them sat a giant generator, the thing easily the size of a small caravan. It took up nearly all of the space in the basement, the walls all coated in soundproofing foam, just as Bouton had said. It was unlike any kind of generator Hartley had ever seen, but that wasn't saying much.

The machine itself was noisy, working with a loud hum that made Hartley's body vibrate the closer she got to it.

The Doctor already had his sonic out again, but its familiar buzz was drowned out by the hum of the generator. “What is it?” Rose asked, voice raised over the noise. “Where's it from?!”

“Like he said; it's a generator. And it's from here and now,” the Doctor told them. “The technology is well beyond the capabilities of this time, but it's been made with materials exclusively from modern-day Earth.”

“So someone's come back and built it here?” Hartley surmised. The Doctor nodded. “Why?”

“Dunno,” he said, rocking back on his heels, considering. “Where can we find these Underhander people you were talking about?” he asked Bouton, who was anxiously wringing his hands together in front of him.

“You don't find them,” he replied ominously. “They find you.”

Hartley looked over at Rose, both rolling their eyes as one. From above them there was a loud scream that filtered down through the still-open door at the top of the stairs. The Doctor looked up sharply, concern on his face. “Want me to check it out?” Hartley offered, and he nodded in agreement.

“Be careful,” said Rose, and Hartley smiled before turning and heading back up the rickety staircase, careful not to overstep in her heels.

Stepping back out into the theatre, Hartley made her way up onto the stage only to come to a rearing halt as she realised something was terribly, seriously wrong. All four of the cavemen were unconscious on the floor, sprawled out like forgotten litter. The guards were on their knees, hands held behind their heads, and Chloe was being held by the hair by a man who wasn't totally human.

He was tall, with skin that was half flesh and blood, half metal and wiring. One eye was perfectly human while the other was a sort of lens, glowing a deep, unsettling green. There were others, too. Four of them stood on the stage, weapons built into the flesh of their arms aimed at the heads of the guards.

“Let her go!” Hartley heard herself say, then sucked in a sharp breath of shock when all the attention flew to her.

The man – or not-man, whatever it was – looked up at her, a scowl on his leathery lips. “Bouton,” it demanded like some kind of neanderthal (oh, irony was a funny thing).

“He's not here,” Hartley lied unflinchingly. She'd learnt from the Doctor that, in situations such as these, it paid to take the higher status from the get-go.

“Bouton will show himself,” spat the one holding Chloe hostage.

“I speak for Bouton,” she countered with bravado she didn't actually have. “If you want to negotiate, you'll let the woman go,” she insisted, trying to force as much authority into her voice as she could.

The aliens – or whatever they were – seemed to pause, glancing at one another in question. They appeared to be communicating telepathically, because they were talking without Hartley being able to hear. As they spoke, she wondered how best to get the Doctor's attention.

Because, let's face it, Hartley was going to be bullshitting her way through these next few minutes, and she never _had_ been any good in drama class in school.

Something came to her, and she hurried to blurt it out before they could talk any more. “In accordance with the laws put forth by the … Shadow Proclamation,” she said, stumbling a little over the name, hoping it meant what she thought it meant, “you're to leave this planet and its people, or risk the wrath of … the Shadow Proclamation,” she finished lamely, struggling not to drop her face into her hands in sheer exasperation at herself.

The half-man half-robot before her hardly looked impressed, even without making any kind of expression. He jerked his head at one of his crew, and next thing Hartley knew her arms were pulled taut and she was forced down to her knees like the others. She let out a cry, eyes wide as she watched the one who seemed to be in charge move closer, his movements sharp and robotic.

“You're – you're an Underhander, right?” she scrambled for something, anything to say before he attacked her. “Judging by all the tech, I'd say you're not from around here, yeah?” she said quickly, her mind speeding up, thoughts seeming to race inside her head at the speed of the time vortex. “You're from the future. My guess is, you're a long, long way from home,” she blurted out nervously.

The half-robot before her narrowed his lens-like eye thoughtfully. “You know of the Shadow Proclamation,” it said in its raspy, stern voice. “You are not from here, also.”

“That's right,” she jumped at the chance to communicate, trying to put aside the terror vibrating in her bones and focus on the problem at hand. “I'm far from home too.” The half-robot's eyes seemed to widen just slightly, and suddenly something occurred to her, like a puzzle piece clicking into place. “You're just trying to get home, aren't you?” she asked, breathless with the realisation.

The one in charge was still, no twitch in his expression to give anything away, but somehow Hartley still knew she was onto something.

“I can help you get home,” she told him fervently, clinging to the hope that this could all end peacefully, that they would all make it out of this theatre alive and well. “My friend, he has a time machine. He can get you back to where you're supposed to be.”

Chloe and the guards were all staring back at her with wide eyes, probably wondering just exactly how crazy she was. She could imagine that, from their side of things, she was sounding pretty certifiable right about then. “Time machine?” asked the half-robot in charge, human-like lips pursed in thought.

“Let me get him,” she said quickly. “He's just downstairs.” None of them argued, so she opened her mouth and shouted, “Doctor!”

The half-robot holding her abruptly slammed his metal fist into the side of Hartley's head. She gave a grunt of pain, head snapping to the side, eyes watering from the blow. It was enough to shut her up, but luckily her shout had seemed to do the trick.

“Hartley?” came the Doctor's voice, and a moment later he appeared down near the front row, brow furrowed in concern. His eyes darkened at the sight of Hartley restrained by the half-robots, and he went very still. Hartley knew then that this wasn't going to end well for the Underhanders. The Doctor took an attack on one of his friends very seriously indeed. “I suppose you'd be the Underhanders we've heard so much about, then,” said the Doctor, and Hartley watched as Rose reappeared beside the Doctor, staring up at the Underhanders warily.

She met Hartley's eyes in the low lighting of the stage, and Hartley just barely inclined her head, a silent reassurance that she was okay.

“I've gotta say, I wasn't expecting you to be cyborgs,” said the Doctor with a kind of easy nonchalance that put Hartley at ease. He didn't seem too worried for her safety, but then again, that didn't mean the danger wasn't still there. “Go on, then,” he continued conversationally, “what d'you need the generator for?”

The lead cyborg – as Hartley now realised they were – tilted his head, silently processing the question. A long few moments passed, and still he made no move to answer.

“They're trying to get home,” Hartley told him quickly, only to receive a tug at her arms in punishment. She winced at the uncomfortable pull at her shoulder joints.

“And where is home?” the Doctor continued casually, slowly beginning to climb the stairs leading to the stage. The Underhanders didn't move a muscle, watching him cautiously, like statues made from a mixture of flesh and metal. “Judging by the tech, I'd say roughly a hundred-thousand years in the future?” the Doctor asked, intelligent blue eyes darting between the group of cyborgs and the humans they held in too-tight grips.

“Who are you?” asked the leader in a growl.

“I'm like you,” said the Doctor. “A man out of his own time.” Again, the cyborgs didn't respond, the Doctor receiving nothing in reply but a cold, stony silence. “Okay,” he told then with a shrug. “I s'pose I'll do all the talking. From what I can tell, that generator down there is fused with time-warping capabilities. Rudimentary technology at best, but then again, humans never did properly unlock the secrets of time travel.” He paused, considering. “But that's just it, isn't it? You're not entirely human.”

None of the cyborgs answered, staring back without emotion. Hartley's arms began to ache something fierce, and she tried to school her expression so she was giving none of her pain away.

“You're trying to open a window to the future, in an attempt to get back home,” said the Doctor in a sure, clear voice. “But instead of the future, you've accidentally set it in reverse. Easy mistake to make. To a rudimentary time-warping device, there's not much difference between backwards and forwards.”

“What are you even talking about?!” asked Chloe suddenly, her voice growing shrill with panic, eyes wild and afraid. The head cyborg, the one still gripping her by the hair, didn't seem to react to her outburst. “Will you just do something already?! Call the police!”

“Why're you holding them hostage, huh?” the Doctor continued as though she hadn't even spoken. “Let them go and we can work something out. I can get you home.”

The lead cyborg cocked his head, and if he weren't holding Chloe by the hair, Hartley might have thought the action to be almost innocent. “There must be no witnesses,” he said in his mechanical, robotic voice.

“Those aren't words I like to hear,” the Doctor muttered to Rose, who was still stood at the base of the stairs. The Doctor was on top of the stage now, his hands held out in the universal gesture of peace.

He was only a few feet away from Hartley, but the space between them felt like miles when her life was in the hands of a purposeful, desperate cyborg. All it would take would be one punch to her spine, or one twist of her neck, and it was over for her. She tried not to tremble with the force of this realisation.

“Why can't there be any witnesses?” the Doctor asked the one in charge, voice easy and casual, like they were discussing the stock market over brunch. Nobody answered him, but it turned out they didn't have to. “Unless you're doing something illegal,” he continued, pieces clicking together in his head. “In fact, the only people in your time who have access to time-travel capabilities are…” he trailed off, eyes glowing as he figured it out. “You stole this technology from the Time Agency, didn't you?”

Hartley didn't know what the Time Agency was, and judging by Rose's confusion, neither did she.

“But why buy up all of this infrastructure?” he continued, struggling to figure out the last few loose ends. “Bouton said you all but own this side of town. _Why_?”

But the cyborg in charge had finally had enough. “It is time,” he said stoically, and the other cyborgs took it as the command it was. Long blades shot out from their metal hands, and Hartley yelped, struggling desperately in the cyborg's grip.

But then there was the loud buzz of the sonic, and the cyborg holding her hostage seemed to freeze up, like somebody had locked its joints together. “Run,” ordered the Doctor, and Hartley didn't hesitate. She leapt free of the frozen cyborg's hold, rushing straight for Chloe who seemed to have been cemented to her spot in terror.

“Come on,” she said, gripping the stage-manager's hand and pulling her away from the lead cyborg, which was slowly beginning to move again. Chloe let herself be tugged along, eyes wide with fear as she did as she was told, letting Hartley manoeuvre her like she were a puppet.

“Down there,” the Doctor commanded, pointing at the doors leading down to the basement where the generator sat. Hartley didn't stop to ask why, she just wrapped an arm around Chloe and pulled her hurriedly down the stairs before the cyborgs could reanimate fully.

The security guards had all fled as well, and for lack of a better place to go they all flooded down the stairs towards the generator. Hartley urged Chloe down with them, and they disappeared down into the damp.

Hartley paused at the top, leaning around the corner as the cyborgs began to unfreeze, internally fixing whatever damage the Doctor's sonic had caused. “I lied before,” said the Doctor staying where he was, unafraid of the murderous cyborgs. “I know why you've bought up everything in a ten-block radius. It's not hard to figure out. I just wanted to give you the opportunity to admit it.”

The lead cyborg's eye was flickering on and off, slowly coming back to life – if his existence could even be called a 'life'.

“When this thing goes critical, finally able to generate enough power to take you all the way forwards to the hundred-and-third century – it's going to rip a hole big enough to take out – well, roughly the nearest ten blocks,” he said, expression a mesh of confidence and disapproval.

“But no more,” said the cyborg, the only one so far to speak, voice low, more of a growl than anything else.

“Right, because you've put containment spheres around the ten-block radius,” snapped the Doctor. “That's what you needed it for. Like a nuclear containment zone. Only that's not good enough, because all those people are still going to die.”

The cyborg cocked his head, considering. “Better the few than the many,” he said like he were quoting some kind of screwed-up proverb, and Hartley realised that in the short time since she'd first seen him, he'd never looked less human.

The Doctor seemed to sigh. “This is your only chance. Stop this now, before I stop it for you,” he warned them, voice ringing with promise. He wouldn't allow this to happen, and the Underhanders would be fools not to heed his warning.

But apparently, they were. The leader turned to one of his men.

“Eliminate the human,” he ordered, low and commanding.

And before Hartley could blink, the cyborg to the right had shot something in the Doctor's direction – some kind of energy burst, a futuristic weapon. “Doctor!” Hartley cried out in a panic, but she needn't have worried.

  
The Doctor ducked the attack like some kind of ninja. He stood back up to his feet, a disgruntled look on his face. “So, just to clarify, there's no chance you'll reconsider?”

The cyborg shot again, and the Doctor dodged it with surprising skill, leaping off the stage and hurriedly ushering his friends into the basement below.

“Shouldn't we be heading for the exit, instead?!” Rose asked as the Doctor shut the doors, sonicking them to be safe. There were a series of loud bangs on the locked doors, and although they didn't give, Hartley knew it was only a matter of time.

“Nah,” said the Doctor as he threw himself down the stairs two at a time. “Exit doesn't have one of these,” he added, thrusting his hands out towards the generator before them, large and obstructive. Chloe and the banged up security guards stood around it, pure bewilderment on their faces. They had no idea who those cyborgs were, what this giant generator was, or what the hell was going on.

“How's that gonna help?” asked Rose critically.

“Hear that hum?” asked the Doctor, and Hartley nodded her head, suddenly noticing that the humming from before had grown to the point where it was almost like a horde of locusts hovered above them; a deadly plague from a vengeful god.

“It's louder,” Hartley said, reaching up to tap at her ear, the volume of the hum making her feel slightly unbalanced.

“That's 'cause it's building up. Full of kinetic energy that's charging itself more and more with every second that ticks by.”

“Building up to what?” asked Rose warily.

The Doctor grinned, although his eyes remained dark. “Boom,” he said, both sincere and detached in the same moment.

“Can you stop it?” asked Hartley, the next logical question.

“No,” he told them grimly.

“No?” asked Bouton, appearing from the back of the room, much to Hartley's surprise. She'd forgotten he was even there. “Then we're doomed!”

From up above the bangs against the metal doors were getting louder, an almost furious quality to them. She had no doubt that they wouldn't last for long. They were working to a clock.

“I said I couldn't stop it,” the Doctor said, calm as could be. “I never said I couldn't _change_ it.”

“Change it?” Hartley leapt onto the distinction. “Change it how?”

“Well, it's been created to become self-sustaining, to generate an enormous wave of energy. But its _purpose_ , what it uses that energy _for –_ that's all in its coding.”

“You're saying you can rewrite it to do something else?” asked Rose. “Something like what?”

The Doctor moved over to a small panel on the side of the generator, the small crowd parting for him like the Red Sea parted for Moses. He pressed his fingertips to it, and suddenly a small keypad and monitor appeared, glowing in the darkness of the basement.

“Something like an EMP,” he said brightly, fingers whizzing across the keypad as he worked.

“EMP?” echoed Hartley in question.

“Electromagnetic pulse,” he supplied without breaking his pace. “It's what I did to the cyborgs before – temporarily stopped their mechanical parts from working.”

“But this one will be bigger?”

“Much bigger.”

“What will it do?” asked Bouton warily, eyeing the Doctor with severe distrust. “Will it hurt anyone?” he asked, and Hartley thought it was rich that _he_ was the one asking as much.

“No,” the Doctor assured them all as he still worked, typing furiously at the miniature computer in the generator. Its humming was growing louder now, to the point where Hartley's ears began to hurt, her whole body vibrating at nearly the same frequency. “Only the cyborgs … and every electrical circuit within a ten-block radius,” he added quickly, rather like ripping off a bandaid. “But honestly, small price to pay.”

“You mean we'll have no power? For how long?” Bouton demanded, as though this side effect were simply unacceptable; too big of a price to pay.

“Week or two, at least,” the Doctor told him.

Bouton spluttered in shock. “It's either that or get blown to pieces,” Rose reminded the Frenchman curtly. “Take your pick.”

Bouton shuffled backwards sheepishly, head ducked as Chloe gave him a frosty, furious glare.

“I told you, it was built to create power. Now it's gotten to the point of self-sustaining. There's nothing I can do except channel that power into another source,” the Doctor muttered, attention mostly on his task. Everything he was saying was just an afterthought.

“And it'll kill the cyborgs?” asked one of the security guards, leaning over the Doctor's shoulder as if checking his work. Hartley nearly balked at the idea of a human knowing more about this than the Doctor, but instead focused on his answer.

The Doctor's hands froze on the keypad as if something horrible had occurred to him.

Hartley shifted forwards, a frown on her face. “Doc?”

“No,” answered the Doctor, voice already full of remorse, and he hadn't even done anything yet. “No, the initial wave won't kill the cyborgs – just the mechanical parts of them. Whatever human organs remain will stay alive,” he said, grim and dark, “but not for long.”

Rose swallowed thickly. “Why not?” she asked hesitantly, as though almost too afraid to hear the answer.

“The machinery is hardwired into their systems,” explained the Doctor, resuming his furious typing, struggling to remain detached but knowing he had a task to complete. It was a handful of homicidal cyborgs versus what was potentially hundreds of innocent humans in the ten-block radius of modern-day France.

It was like the trolley problem, only on a much larger, much more real, scale.

“The organic can't work for long without the synthetic,” he continued, and Hartley refocused on the conversation. “They're too tightly intertwined.”

Hartley understood what this meant – they were, essentially, killing these people. Cyborgs or not, that's what they were at their base level; _human._

But if it was a handful of cyborgs and the lives of hundreds of innocent humans in France, well, she just didn't see a way out of this situation where one group didn't leave unscathed. That was life, she supposed – when somebody won, there was always somebody else who lost.

The banging at the top of the stairs was growing furious, even louder than the near-deafening hum of the generator. They were so desperate to get inside, to get to their machine. Hartley wondered whether they somehow knew what the Doctor was going to do. Wondered whether they knew they weren't getting out of this alive.

“How much longer will the reprogramming take?” asked Bouton, reaching up to again tug anxiously at his horrible beard. The Doctor didn't immediately answer, and suddenly a loud bang echoed throughout the basement that was acting as a sort of bunker for them all. “Doctor!” squeaked Bouton nervously. “They're going to get in any moment! How _long_?!”

“A few moments,” said the Doctor curtly. “But I might have already finished if you weren't distracting me.”

Face flushing, Bouton angled himself away, still tugging at the wiry hair of his beard like it were an anxious tic. But he didn't have to wallow in being told off for long. There was another bang from the top of the stairs, this one louder and tangled with the ominous creak of metal being bent out of shape.

“Ah!” cried Chloe, her shrill voice loud over everyone else's. Hartley whipped around to see that the cyborgs had finally managed to break through the doors. Light shot down through the holes they'd made in the metal, stabbing at Hartley's eyes like bullets.

“We're out of time, Doctor!” shouted Rose, who had herded everyone into the furthest corner of the small basement, so they were partially hidden behind the bulk of the generator. It wouldn't do any good, she knew, but it was worth a try.

The cyborgs kept beating at the doors. Now that they'd broken through once, they were able to peel sheets of metal away from the holes, tearing into the doors with spine-tingling, metallic noises, like someone dragging a key across the outside of a car.

“Doctor!” Hartley shouted in warning as the lead cyborg thrust his head through the gap he'd created. “We're out of time!”

“Just five more seconds!” he called back, working furiously to save them all.

“We don't have five more seconds!” she shouted back, watching with a mounting panic as the cyborg wrestled his way into the basement, arm held out, the barrel of a small weapon protruding from his index finger.

“Doctor!” Rose screamed, gripping Hartley's arm and yanking her forcefully out of the path of the cyborg's energy blast. More of the Underhanders were flooding through the hole made in the door, trailing their way down the rickety staircase, the sounds of their heavy footsteps like gunshots to Hartley's ears.

“And … _done_!” the Doctor mercifully exclaimed. Hartley didn't feel anything out of the ordinary, no proof it had worked except for how the low lighting above them suddenly disappeared, knocked out just like the cyborgs, who all abruptly collapsed to the floor, some falling the rest of the way down the stairs like lifeless, wooden marionettes.

Hartley yelped, leaping backwards to avoid getting hit by the lead cyborg – the one with the creepy green eye – as he rolled to a stop at her feet.

His glowing green eye was gone now, nothing but an empty lens. With it gone Hartley noticed his real eye – his human one. It was brown and full of pain, his mouth opened in a silent scream. Hartley felt her eyes sting with a sheen of remorseful tears.

And suddenly she felt it was all rather anticlimactic. The cyborgs were dead – dying – the lights were out, and it was all over. The danger was eliminated, but Hartley felt no sense of victory.

“Rose, get everyone out,” said the Doctor, pulling a small torch from his bottomless pockets and handing it over. The security guards were stunned into silence, and Chloe was gaping at the dying cyborgs like she were expecting to wake up from this horrible nightmare at any moment. “Take them up top and make sure they can all get home okay.”

“What about you?” asked Rose, flicking on the torch, its white light illuminating the cramped, stuffy basement.

“I'm on clean up duty,” said the Doctor, and maybe it was meant to be lighthearted, but it was deadened by the dull note in his voice. “Go on,” he prompted her when she didn't move. “Help them. They need it.”

Rose nodded, turning and beginning to take charge, addressing the humans as a whole, leading them over the collapsed bodies of the Underhanders, taking them slowly up the rickety stairs back into the theatre.

The Doctor hadn't told Hartley to go with them, so she assumed he had another job in mind for her. She waited until the last of the security team – who, she had to admit, probably deserved a raise – had filed up from the basement, through the human-sized hole in the torn-apart doors.

Hartley realised suddenly that it was disconcertingly quiet. It took her a moment to realise why. “The generator?” she asked, turning to look at it curiously.

The Doctor reached out, rapping his knuckles against its aluminium casing. “Dead,” he confirmed.

“And the fissure up on the stage?”

“Gone. No power to feed into it, now.”

“And them?” she pressed, turning to glance at the cyborgs littering the floor. The Doctor's expression shuttered, and Hartley felt guilt twist painfully in her stomach.

“Dying,” he said, grim and sad as he approached the leader – the only one whom they'd heard speak. He knelt to the hard cement floor, and the cyborg's human eye rolled in his head a moment before he finally locked onto the Doctor, confusion and pain in his gaze. “I'm sorry it had to end this way,” said the Doctor, voice thick with regret. “I wish there'd been another way.”

The cyborg's lips – at least, the side that wasn't covered by metal plating – tipped upwards in something reminiscent of a smile. “We, we were already dead,” he wheezed. “This is … a release.”

Hartley wasn't so sure she understood, staring down at the dying cyborgs whom had once been men with the kind of pity one only reserved for the dying.

“Thank you,” whispered the cyborg.

“Don't thank me for killing you,” said the Doctor, grimacing in disgust that was aimed at himself.

“Give us … a human … burial...” he wheezed, breaths coming harder now, like it burned to breathe air into his own lungs.

“What year?” asked the Doctor compassionately.

The cyborg replied in broken numbers, and the Doctor nodded his head softly. “You'll be buried in the soil of the Earth in your own time.”

“We … only wanted … to get home,” the cyborg breathed, lone eye beginning to roll uncontrollably in its socket as he slowly lost his grip on consciousness. “It was … our … programming … to …” he couldn't seem to get the last few words out.

“I know,” whispered the Doctor, head bowed in sorrow. “Rest easy,” he said gently, the words and sentiment brimming with meaning, and the once-human cyborg died, eyes sliding shut, finally finding his eternal peace.

* * *

The Doctor dug their graves by hand. He insisted on it.

After taking the dazed and confused cavemen back to their time, they completed the morbid task of collecting the cyborg's bodies. They travelled roughly a hundred-thousand years to future Earth, where the Doctor found a nice, grassy knoll and set to work.

Hartley and Rose had tried to help, but he stubbornly waved them back into the TARDIS, meeting neither of their eyes as he did.

“He's taking it hard,” Rose murmured to Hartley, the pair of friends standing in the kitchen. Hartley was making some fresh lemonade, if only to give her hands something to do.

“I don't blame him,” Hartley replied softly, watching her own hands as they stirred the cup of sugar into the water and lemon juice mix. “Five people are dead because of what happened in France.”

“They were _cyborgs_ though, and it's not like he murdered them in cold blood,” Rose said, halfheartedly watching as Hartley poured more water into the mix to even out the concentration. “It was for the greater good.”

And Hartley could see her point, agree with it even, but there was still a hollow feeling in her gut that told her it was much more complicated than Rose seemed to understand. It wasn't about the action _itself,_ but rather the lasting impact it would have on the Doctor.

This wasn't something to be taken lightly. What he'd done, as necessary as it was, was also wrong, and there was no denying it.

Hartley fixed up a glass, putting a sprig of mint on top of the lemony drink as garnish, then handing it off to Rose, who took it with a vague smile.

“I think I'll take one out to the Doc,” Hartley said, pouring up another glass.

“I don't think he wants company,” said Rose with a frown.

“Sometimes it's not about what he wants – it's about what he needs,” Hartley replied simply. Rose didn't look convinced, but she also wasn't going to argue. Hartley smiled, pouring out one final glass before picking them both up and heading through the labyrinthine halls of the TARDIS until she found the control room.

It had been roughly four hours since they'd first landed and the Doctor had gotten to work. Hartley wasn't sure what to expect when she stepped out the doors, but was still surprised to find the Doctor digging in the dirt.

He was still on his first grave, stood in the hole to his waist. The sun was beating down on his back, but he'd yet to shed his leather jacket. Hartley could only imagine how hot he was, but he just kept digging, a fierce determination on his face. He didn't look up as she approached.

“You should take a break,” she said. The Doctor didn't react, thrusting his shovel into the lumpy earth and tossing the dirt into the growing pile beside him. “You haven't even finished one yet,” she continued, voice laced with kindness, “if you keep going at this pace, you'll burn yourself out.”

“I'm not a human, Hartley,” the Doctor grunted, leather of his jacket crinkling as he worked. “I can do this for longer than you'd think.”

“That doesn't mean you _should_ ,” she countered gently. The Doctor didn't respond, maybe because of his pride, or maybe he was just so lost in his own sea of swirling emotions that he couldn't find it in him to argue the point. “I brought you some lemonade,” she added, slowly lowering herself to the ground and crossing her legs, holding out his glass of lemonade expectantly.

“Not thirsty,” he grunted back, kicking the end of the shovel as he met with a particularly rough patch of earth.

“Come on,” she said, waving the glass under his nose enticingly. “I made it fresh myself.” The Doctor didn't react. “Doc,” she said, dropping the sweetness and instead frowning at him, stern and imploring. “You can't punish yourself like this.”

“I'm not punishing myself,” he asserted, but he wasn't fooling anyone – least of all himself. “I'm responsible for their deaths, Hartley. I need to do this. They wanted a human burial, and so they're going to get one.”

Hartley had to admire him, standing out in the sun, digging graves for five half-humans who, not five hours ago, had been willing to let hundreds of people die for their own selfish gain. It was noble, she realised with a start. It wasn't an adjective she'd thought to give him before now, but looking at him, digging five graves for people he didn't even know without a single complaint – it was downright _honourable._

“At least have a drink,” she said quietly, and something about her tone finally gave the Doctor pause. He leant his weight on the shovel, turning to look at her, icy eyes narrowed in thought. Hartley silently held out the glass of lemonade and the Doctor's gaze flickered between them for a few moments before he finally gave up and took the glass.

He gulped down a healthy mouthful, and Hartley sipped hers quietly, turning to look over the place they'd landed.

The grassy knoll the Doctor had chosen as a burial sight for the Underhanders was a break in rows of crops the went on for miles and miles. The odd farmhouse dotted the expanse of fields, like freckles might dot a person's face.

“Where are we?”

“Wyoming,” said the Doctor quietly.

“America?” she asked in surprise. He nodded. “Nice to know there are still farmlands in the world this far into the future,” she continued gently, thinking about how, in her time, the world seemed to be spiralling towards environmental collapse. It was a relief to see they didn't. When she looked back over at the Doctor, it was to see him frowning into his half-full glass of lemonade, brows pulled together in thought. “You don't have to feel guilty, Doc,” she told him, and he turned the ferocity of his frown onto her. “What I mean is, you don't _have_ to feel guilty, but you do anyway. It's a good thing to grieve; to feel remorse.”

The Doctor didn't look surprised by her words. In fact, his entire demeanour held a sort of grim acceptance, an age-old exhaustion that came from years of feeling the same way. It made something occur to her, and she instantly wished it hadn't.

“Doctor,” she said, voice small, and he looked back to her expectantly. “This isn't the first time you've been responsible for someone's death, it it?” she asked quietly.

He turned away, putting his glass down on the grass beside him and returning to his digging with a renewed intensity.

“You can tell me,” she told him softly. “I'm not going to judge you for it.”

“How can you know that?” he countered, whipping back around to glare at her. “How could you possibly know how you'll react when I tell you what I've done?”

“I know because you're my friend,” she said with conviction. “Whatever secrets you bear in your past, they won't affect the friendship we have now.”

“Don't make promises you can't keep, Hartley.”

“I'm not,” she replied, steadfast in her belief.

The Doctor whirled around suddenly, his eyes hard and sharp, like little flecks of resentful ice. “You wanna know how I destroyed my own people?” he asked hotly. “You wanna hear all about how it's _my_ fault they're gone? How it's _my_ fault they all burned?”

Hartley, to her credit, didn't react. She peered back at him without wavering, keeping her expression carefully schooled, giving none of her thoughts away. On the inside her heart was racing, and her nails were biting into her palms as she fought back the panic that came with his hissed confession.

At her impassive reaction, the Doctor seemed to wilt. He collapsed against the handle of his shovel, the fight draining from him quickly. Hartley was quiet, letting him process what he needed to before continuing.

“The Time War was unlike anything you've ever known – anything you can even _imagine_ ,” he began, slow and steady and full of a self-hatred that rang in his voice like a bass note. “There was just no end to it … and what the Time Lords were preparing to do … the sins they were willing to commit to win … the cost was too high … the whole of creation at stake...”

He spoke in sentence fragments, seeming to struggle to thread his thoughts into one straight line. Hartley reached out, gently pressing her hand over his, which were clutching his lemonade glass with enough force she was worried it might shatter.

His skin was cool against hers, even despite the unforgiving sun blearing down on them, and she squeezed his hand, the look in her eyes calm and encouraging. The Doctor swallowed loudly.

“I had a chance to end it all,” he said, voice now barely a whisper. “But it meant everything had to die. Daleks and Time Lords alike.”

Hartley said nothing, just holding his hand and waiting for him to find the words.

“It was them or the universe,” he murmured, shoulders drooping with defeat. “And the cost was that I survived. The only one left standing in the war to end all wars, staring down upon the destruction I'd caused in my search for peace.”

Hartley got the sense he had finished speaking, and thought on his words a moment before replying. “What it sounds like to me, is that you saved more people than you killed,” she said quietly, ducking her head in an effort to catch his eyes.

“There were children on Gallifrey,” the Doctor replied without hesitation, head still hung, eye scrunched shut tightly, as though if he opened them he might find himself back there again at the end of all things. “Billions upon billions of children, Hartley. And they all burned because _I_ played God. Because _I_ pressed a _button_.”

And suddenly Hartley understood why the events at the ballet had spurred this conversation onwards. Gallifrey died when the Doctor had pressed a button; the Underhanders had died the exact same way. Her heart clenched in her chest, and she grit her teeth against the unavoidable wave of sorrow that crashed over her, sadness for her friend welling in her eyes.

She wondered what to say, what she _could_ possibly say. There were no words that could fix this, no words that could glue all the broken pieces of the Doctor back together.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered, the only thing she could possibly offer him. He finally opened his eyes, looking up to meet her gaze, remorse glittering in his icy eyes. “I'm sorry you have to keep being the one to press that button,” she told him with more sincerity than she'd ever felt before in her life.

“Yeah,” said the Doctor, quiet and lacking his usual strength.

She understood now why he had to dig these graves. Gallifrey had burned, there was nothing left to bury. This time, however, there were bodies to put in the ground, evidence of his sins for him to deal with. He couldn't bury all those billions of children – but he _could_ bury these cyborgs. And that was exactly what he was going to do.

It wasn't enough to atone, but it was as close to a start as he could think to get.

“I'll bring you something to eat a little later,” said Hartley warmly, silently climbing to her feet and collecting his near-empty glass, the ice cubes within rattling against the sides.

The Doctor seemed surprised by her sudden show of support, but he said nothing, nodding as he got a better grip on his shovel. Hartley watched as he turned back to his task, moving the earth to make room for a man he didn't know, whom he'd killed for the greater good.

And a final thing passed through her head as she walked back towards the TARDIS: they hadn't even known their names.


	12. The Empty Child/The Doctor Dances

“ _You are a mystery to me, yet so familiar. Like a song I've never_

 _heard before, and a tune I've known my entire life._ ”

Pavana पवन

* * *

Travelling with the Doctor was without a doubt the most brilliant, exciting thing Hartley was ever likely to experience. But even despite this, it could still be downright _scary._ Unexpectedly landing in the middle of the London Blitz, for instance, was enough to make anybody tremble in their boots.

It was difficult to predict which adventures would be tame and which could potentially be disastrous. So, in a slight error of judgement, Hartley had foolishly allowed Rose wander off on her own.

It stared out innocently enough. The bar was in full swing when they stepped inside, and Hartley beamed excitedly, peering around at all the beautiful clothing and the jazz band playing music on the stage that made her itch with the urge to dance.

“Perfect,” the Doctor said gladly under his breath, eyes scanning the small crowd as he considered their next move. “Now, how to get their attention...?” he trailed off before taking notice of the microphone on the stage. “This is how you get things done, Hartley,” he added with a sure nod, then made a beeline for the microphone.

She watch in mild exasperation as he hopped up onto the small stage just as the beautiful singer stepped away, glancing over at him with curious eyes as she moved. The Doctor tapped on the microphone, checking it worked before he began to speak. “Excuse me. Could I have everybody's attention just for a mo? Be very quick.” He paused, and the group of lively partygoers slowly but surely fell silent, staring up at the Doctor expectantly. “Hello! Might seem like a stupid question, but has anything fallen from the sky recently?”

The silence lingered for a beat, only for amused titters of laughter to follow. The Doctor was more than a little confused by the reaction, and Hartley frowned in confusion. Had they unknowingly stumbled upon some kind of a vintage, standup comedy night?

“Sorry, have I said something funny?” the Doctor asked in bewilderment, eyes sweeping the crowd. “It's just, there's this thing that I need to find. Would've fallen from the sky a couple of days ago––” he was interrupted by sirens as they suddenly cut through the quiet, and immediately the people began to scatter in a nervous yet orderly fashion.

Realising with a start exactly what was happening, Hartley caught sight of the posters on the far wall and wanted to smack herself in the face for being so obtuse. The Doctor watched on in utter confusion, and she had to marvel at how someone so clever could at the same time be so laughably thick. She reached up a hand, waving her hand in the air to get his attention, before gesturing to the poster glued to the opposite wall, boldly declaring that _Hitler Will Send No Warning._

“Oh,” the Time Lord murmured to himself, brow crinkling in realisation. He took a moment to shake his head before looking down at his still relatively new friend with a hint of worry. “We should go,” he said seriously, and Hartley couldn't have agreed more.

There were lots of places she wanted to visit – in fact, she could probably count the list of places she _didn't_ want to visit on a single hand. Coincidentally, the middle of the London Blitz happened to be one of them.

They moved with the dispersing crowd, heading back out into the night, much to the consternation of the people behind them who were all rushing to squeeze into the bomb shelter. “Your funeral,” muttered a judgemental redhead with a beak-like nose, and Hartley frowned at her as they passed.

“Rose?!” the Doctor called out once the pair were in the open, heading up the ramp towards where the TARDIS was parked. When no reply came, Hartley grew concerned. The sirens still rang out, loud and jarring as they pierced the night air like the very bombs they were warning of. Chills broke out across her skin, and she crossed her arms over her chest to try and stave off the cold.

The Doctor huffed, reaching up to run a hand over his buzzed hair with a well contained anxiety.

“You know, one day, just one day, maybe, I'm going to meet someone who gets the whole 'don't wander off' thing,” he muttered to himself, shooting glances up and down the alleyway, looking for any sign of the blonde girl with the Union Jack plastered across her front. “Nine hundred years of phone box travel, it's the only thing left to surprise me,” he added to Hartley under his breath.

She chuckled as she absently glanced up at the sky, the laugh fading into nothing as she remembered that bombs could begin dropping onto the city at any moment. They enemy might not have been able to see anything in particular to aim at, but all that really meant was that they were _all_ targets. They were at the whim of fate.

The silence only lasted a short moment, interrupted suddenly by the shrill ringing of the TARDIS telephone. Hartley flinched as it grated on her frayed nerves. She blinked at it in surprise, not having realised the phone box could actually be used as a, well, a phone box.

“How can you be ringing? What's that about, ringing?” the Doctor seemed more irritated than surprised, stalking up to the blue box and glaring at it in annoyance, as though it had somehow slighted him. “What am I supposed to do with a ringing phone?” he asked Hartley idly, glancing over at her with a befuddled frown.

“Usually you'd answer it,” she replied, withholding a laugh at the bewilderment in his expression.

“When is anything with me ever 'usual'?” he countered, and she was forced to concede that he had a point.

“Don't answer it,” a voice cut across the alley. Hartley flinched at the unexpected interruption. “It's not for you.”

Hartley turned to observe the newcomer closely, eyes flickering over the girl quickly, taking in her shabby, holey clothes, shaking fingers and the look of dread on her pretty, youthful face. “And how do you know that?” the Doctor was exceedingly calm, as always, staring back at the younger girl with patience in his eyes.

“'Cause I do,” she responded in a defensive snap. “And I'm telling you, don't answer it.”

“Well, if you know so much, tell me this – how can it be ringing?” he asked her bluntly, turning back to the phone.

Hartley kept her eyes on the girl, who met her gaze with a steady, pained glance that she didn't completely understand before turning and walking from the alley. Hartley watched her go, arms still crossed over her chest against the cold, then turned back to the oblivious Doctor.

“It's not even a real phone. It's not connected, it's not-” the Time Lord was muttering, and he turned around only to abruptly realise he and his companion were once again alone in the dark, shadowed alleyway. “Where'd she go?” he asked Hartley, but she merely gestured vaguely over her shoulder, making the Doctor roll his eyes.

“You gonna answer it?” she prompted him, pointing at the ringing phone. The girl's warning had seemed sincere, but then again, what harm had ever come from answering a phone?

He huffed again, hesitating only a beat before popping open the compartment and reaching inside, plucking out the phone and holding it to his ear. “Hello?” he spoke carefully, a confused frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. “This is the Doctor speaking. How may I help you?”

To Hartley there was only silence, and she wondered what the person on the other end could possibly be saying, because he certainly looked more than confused.

“Who is this? Who's speaking?” the Doctor demanded, growing impatient. “How did you ring here? This isn't a real phone. It's not wired up to anything.” He was more than perplexed as he pulled the receiver away from his face to glare at it accusingly, like he might be able to scare it into replying.

“Who was it?” Hartley asked pointlessly, really just for something to say, words to fill the suffocating silence of the alley.

But the Doctor said nothing, slipping the phone back into place inside the small compartment on the front of the TARDIS before reaching over to knock on the wooden doors. “Rose? You in there?” he called, but there was no answer.

He spun around, opening his mouth to say something to Hartley, only for a loud and jarring noise to rip their attention away, directing it to the street across from the alley. Hartley flinched at its volume, but it didn't sound like she imagined a bomb would, so she took comfort in that, at least.

“What now?” the Doctor groaned up at the blackened sky, as though asking the universe itself. With a reluctant expression he spun around and raced towards the mouth of the alley.

Hartley steered herself after him, the only sound in her ears her sneakers slapping against the concrete. “Wait up, Doc,” she whisper-shouted, worried she'd lose him and miss the whole adventure. He was fast for such a stocky guy, and she was still getting used to all the running that was included in what she and Rose affectionately referred to as the Companion's Lifestyle.

The Doctor disappeared around a bend, and panic licked at Hartley like a flame.

“Doctor!” she hissed again, pushing her legs as fast as they could go, panting from exertion as she ran. She tripped around the same corner, eyes narrowed as she peered through the darkness of the shadowed city, desperately searching for the Doctor's tall form in amongst the shadows. But he was nowhere to be seen.

Hartley exhaled sharply, reaching up to brush a lock of hair from her face. “Crap,” she cursed under her breath, teeth grinding together in frustration. What was she meant to do now? Surely she couldn't go storming into every house on the block looking for the one into which the Doctor had disappeared.

There was a yelp from behind her, and she startled, twirling around with her hands held up in preparation for a fight she wouldn't have been able to win. She was surprised, then, to see it was only a small child whom had fallen to the ground, holding his knee where his trousers were ripped and stained with blood.

“Are you all right?” she asked as she took a step forwards, but he flinched backwards, away from her as she reached out to touch him. “It's okay!” Hartley assured him quickly, hands held up to try and prove she wasn't a threat. He was young, maybe eight, and desperately underfed, threadbare clothes hanging loosely over his small frame. “I'm not going to hurt you,” she promised him in her sweetest voice. He only eyed her with distrust, hands pressed protectively around the nasty graze on his knee. “My name's Hartley,” she offered gently. “What's yours?”

The child said nothing, staring back at her, lip wobbling in the shadows of the night. The sirens kicked back to life, blearing throughout the otherwise silent night. Hartley glanced up at the sky where she could just make out the distant shapes of the planes flying overhead. A shiver travelled down her spine, her stomach swooping with fear.

“We need to get off the street,” she whispered. “Can you walk?” He didn't move, and she shifted closer to try and pick him up. He flinched back again, big eyes watering with terror. “I promise I won't hurt you. I just want to help.”

The boy said nothing, but he stopped edging away, and she took that as a sign to continue, shifting closer and grasping him gently, scooping him off the ground with a muted huff of exertion. He clung onto her tightly, sniffling sadly as she hurried off the street and out of the open. There was a house to her left, and she struggled to shift the boy's weight and tried to open the door. It was blessedly unlocked, and she practically sagged with relief, pushing her way inside, the door clicking shut behind her. She assumed it was empty, everybody hiding away in bomb shelters until the threat had passed.

The house was set up typically for the 40's, and Hartley moved into the sitting room when nobody appeared to shout at her to get out. She put the injured boy on the sofa with a sigh of relief, her arms already beginning to ache. He was small for his age, which helped, but she still wasn't particularly strong. All the exercise she got was of the cardio variety, rather than any sort of muscle building.

There was an old sheet hanging over the back of the sofa, and she grasped it, struggling for a few moments before ripping off a small section and approaching the child, who watched her like she were a rabid dog he was expecting to bite. “What's your name, then?” she asked him again, keeping her voice soft and kind as she began to mop up the blood smeared on his grazed knee.

“Tom,” he finally answered, little voice shaky with nerves. There was another spike in the sirens, and he flinched like a nervous kitten. Hartley waited for him to calm down, then kept dabbing at his injury, taking care not to hurt him.

“Nice to meet you, Tom,” she told him, smiling reassuringly. “Where were you off to in such a hurry?”

Tom looked wary to answer, but eventually gave in, lifting his wiry shoulders in a shrug. “I was running from the boy,” he said in a trembling voice, and the glint of haunted fear in his eyes was unmistakeable.

“What boy?” she pressed gently.

“The empty one.”

It didn't actually make any sense, but Hartley nodded slowly anyway, as if she were following without issue. “And where do you live, Tom?” she asked instead.

He grimaced again, ducking his head as though ashamed, lifting his shoulders in a non-committal shrug. Suddenly she understood why he looked so malnourished and dirty – he was homeless.

“Is there somewhere I can take you? Anyone who looks after you?” she asked him gently.

Tom seemed to consider it for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Nancy.”

“That your sister?” Hartley asked casually. Tom shook his head. “Well, where can we find this Nancy?” The boy could only shrug. “Is there somewhere you can go, somewhere you know she'll find you, once the air raid's over with?”

“There's a shack, near the train tracks,” he told her meekly. Just as he spoke, the sirens above them fell quiet, and Hartley smiled at the boy with forced cheerfulness.

“Well, we'd better hurry along then, hadn't we? Don't want to keep Nancy waiting.”

Tom grew more comfortable with her as they walked, holding onto her hand tightly, pulling her through the abandoned streets quickly and quietly, like he'd been navigating them his whole life, constantly striving to remain unnoticed. They didn't talk, keeping silent and under the radar, until finally they ended up at the train tracks. They followed them for a long few minutes before Tom suddenly took off at a run for a tiny, nondescript shack nestled in between some dying shrubs.

“Nancy!” he called out as he entered, and Hartley sped up, stepping inside just in time to see him hugging an older girl tightly around the waist.

The girl, presumably Nancy, looked over at her with suspicion, and Hartley held her hands up again in silent assurance that she wasn't a danger to either of them. Hartley realised she recognised her – it was the girl from before, the one who'd warned the Doctor against answering his phone. How did she fit into all of this?

“This is Hartley,” Tom was telling Nancy excitedly, personality shining through now that he wasn't so terrified. “She saved me.”

“Are you all right?” Nancy asked immediately, pulling back to stare down at Tom in concern.

“It was just a grazed knee,” Hartley spoke up, and Nancy look back up at her, expression carefully blank, like a perfectly constructed mask. “I hardly deserve a medal of honour, but I couldn't just leave him bleeding on the street,” she added, trying to judge the younger woman's reaction.

She looked like she very much didn't want to say it, but in the end Nancy mumbled a weak, “thank you,” and stroked her fingers maternally through the younger boy's hair. Hartley smiled at the pair of them, thinking of how awe-inspiring it was to find such beauty and kindness even in war times such as these. Nancy looked up again and gasped at something behind Hartley, who flinched and spun around, her fist flying into her would-be attacker.

“Whoa!” the Doctor's familiar accent washed over her as he caught her fist in one of his large hands. “No need to go around throwing punches.”

She grimaced at him even, making it perfectly clear that she didn't appreciate his sudden materialisation. “And _you_ don't need to go sneaking up on people in the middle of an air raid,” she replied sternly. The Doctor rolled his eyes like she were being the unreasonable one. Something suddenly occurred to her, and she looked back at Nancy in surprise. “You two know each other?” she asked mildly.

Leave it to the Doctor to make friends with the head street-rat within the first twenty minutes of their trip. It definitely sounded like something he'd do.

“No,” Nancy argued, frowning deeply as she turned to address the Doctor. “How'd you follow me here?” she asked defensively, an arm curled protectively around Tom, who had swiped a loaf of bread from Nancy's rucksack and was shoving chunks into his mouth with gusto.

“I'm good at following, me. Got the nose for it,” the Doctor replied cheerfully.

“People can't usually follow me if I don't want them to,” Nancy said, cool and measured.

“My nose has special powers.”

“Yeah? That's why it's...?” she trailed off, looking away pointedly.

“What?” the Doctor asked.

“Nothing,” Nancy shook her head.

“What?”

“Nothing!” she insisted, and there was a beat before, “do your ears have special powers too?”

Hartley snickered and brightly told him, “oh, I _like_ her!” The Doctor looked at her sourly, so she tried to school her features into something more appropriate, but she caught sight of the tiny lift of Nancy's lips and couldn't quite smother her grin entirely.

“What are you trying to say?” the Doctor asked Nancy, who shook her head dismissively.

“Goodnight, Mister,” she said with a note of finality, turning back towards Tom who had curled up on the floor to continue eating, downing the food as quickly as he could. It was as though he wasn't sure when he was ever going to get another chance to eat again, and Hartley watched on sadly, tugging at the sleeves of her jumper and listening as the Doctor spoke.

“Nancy, there's something chasing you and the other kids,” he began seriously, and Hartley would have had to have been blind to miss the grimace of pain that crossed the young girl's face. “Looks like a boy but isn't a boy, and it started about a month ago, right? The thing I'm looking for, the thing that fell from the sky, that's when it landed. And you know what I'm talking about, don't you?”

Nancy looked like she desperately didn't want to say anything, like she was caught between a rock and a hard place. “Please, Nancy,” Hartley begged her, thinking of the fear in Tom's voice when he'd told her of the empty boy he'd been running from. Nancy relented, shoulders hunched over against the cold.

“There was a bomb,” she told them reluctantly, still standing ever so slightly in front of Tom, a protective stance that was thoughtless and instinctual. “A bomb that wasn't a bomb. Fell the other end of Limehouse Green Station.”

“Take me there,” the Doctor ordered her gently.

“There's soldiers guarding it. Barbed wire,” she shook her head. “You'll never get through.”

“Try me.”

Nancy looked wary, glancing down at a distracted Tom as she considered his words. “You sure you want to know what's going on in there?” she finally asked, looking back up at the two travellers, eyes full of skepticism.

“We really want to know,” the Doctor promised.

Nancy seemed to relent, although there was still an glint of disapproval in her eyes. “Then there's someone you need to talk to first,” she told them lowly.

“And who might that be?”

Nancy took a breath, as though the next words were hard to say. “The doctor,” she spoke surely, but for a moment the words didn't make sense. Hartley glanced over at the Doctor, whose eyes eye wide with surprise. “Come on, I'll show you to the hospital,” she finished, reluctance clear on her face before she bent down to Tom's level and began murmuring something to him quietly.

“What's the plan?” Hartley asked the Doctor once the attention was off of them, leaving them free to talk.

“Follow her,” he answered simply. “We need answers, and I've a feeling this is the only way we're gonna get them.”

Hartley had concerns, but by now she knew enough about how this worked that she knew the only way they were going to get anywhere was by following the clues they'd been given. Besides, the Doctor would stay with her – and there was no way anything bad could happen with him around. Right?

“Okay,” said Nancy in a decisive voice, straightening back up. “It's this way.”

She turned and led them out towards the tracks again, but Hartley paused before leaving. “You okay, Tom?” she asked, because she had to be sure. The little boy nodded from where he was now tearing off chunks of ham from the bone. She smiled gently, glad to see he was happy, however briefly that happiness may have lasted, and followed the others out into the night.

The hospital wasn't far away, only about a five minute walk, and once they got there and crouched behind some cover, the Doctor pulled a set of binoculars from his pocket to scan the area. “That's where the bomb fell?” Hartley asked Nancy softly, eyeing the large tarp covering something in the centre of a ring of fences.

“It's under that tarpaulin,” she confirmed. “They put the fence up over night. See that building? The hospital? That's where the doctor is. You should talk to him.”

“For now, I'm more interested in getting in there,” the Doctor shook his head, gesturing to the guarded fences surrounding the 'bomb'.

“Talk to the doctor first,” Nancy insisted.

“Why?” the Doctor's voice held an edge of suspicion.

“Because then maybe you won't want to get inside,” she replied tonelessly before standing from her crouch and turning to walk away.

“Where're you going?” the Doctor called after her as loudly as he dared.

“There was a lot of food in that house,” she answered him sharply. “I've got mouths to feed. Should be safe enough now.”

“Can I ask you a question?” he continued before she could leave, and it was with an irritated sigh that Nancy turned back around, staring at the Doctor expectantly. “Who did you lose?”

Hartley was as surprised by the question as Nancy, and they both stared at him without words, each stunned in their own way. “What?” Nancy finally asked, her voice weak and breathy, like the words had caused her pain.

“The way you look after all those kids... It's because you lost somebody, isn't it?” the Doctor said wisely, and Hartley knew he was spot on by the way Nancy's expression twisted with pain. “You're doing all this to make up for it,” he pressed. Hartley watched the war of emotions play out on the girl's expression before it finally settled into something like resignation.

“My little brother, Jamie,” she eventually revealed, a deep suffering to her voice. Hartley and her sister may not have gotten along, but if anything ever happened to her, she wouldn't have been able to handle it – of that much she was certain. She'd be absolutely devastated, and she could see that same pain, that same responsibility, reflected in Nancy's dark eyes. “One night I went out looking for food. Same night that thing fell. I told him not to follow me, I told him it was dangerous, but he just,” she cut herself off, agony in her voice. “He just didn't like being on his own,” she said like she was trying to convince them it wasn't his fault. And it wasn't, but that didn't make it hers, either.

“What happened?” the Doctor asked her gently.

“In the middle of an air raid?” Nancy scoffed. “What do you _think_ happened?”

Hartley closed her eyes, trying her hardest not to think about a little boy, probably a lot like Tom, scared and alone in the middle of an air raid, only to meet his end with a bomb dropped from the endless shadows above.

“Amazing,” the Doctor murmured, and Hartley opened her eyes to stare at him. “1941,” he said, as though they might have forgotten what year it was. “Right now, not very far from here, the German war machine is rolling up the map of Europe. Country after country, falling like dominoes. Nothing can stop it. Nothing. Until one, tiny, damp little island says no. No. Not here. A mouse in front of a lion,” the Doctor sounded in awe, his words giving Hartley a new perspective on their species, on who they were as a people and a planet. “You're amazing, the lot of you. Don't know what you do to Hitler, but you frighten the hell out of me.”

He grinned then, bright and cheerful, the expression in great contrast to the dark circumstances they found themselves in.

“Off you go then; do what you've got to do,” he finished, waving her off kindly, “save the world.”

Nancy stared at the pair of mysterious strangers for another moment before finally shaking her head and scurrying off into the night, Hartley knew the Doctor's words were ringing in her ears, much like they did her own. She wondered if it would have any effect.

“So, hospital?” the Doctor asked Hartley cheerfully, turning and leading the way up the hill towards the looming gates of the hospital. The streets were disturbingly still, filled with the kind of silence that was born from terror, rather than peace.

The Doctor's words weighed heavily on Hartley's mind as they walked, and if only to break the oppressive hush that had befallen them, she spoke her thoughts aloud. “Is that really what you think of us?”

“What's that?” he asked distractedly, looking up from where he was fiddling with the settings of his sonic.

“You think humans are amazing?” she repeated.

“Of course I do,” he agreed without reservation. “How could I not?”

Hartley lifted her shoulders in a shrug, shoving her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. “I guess I just figured, well, there're millions upon billions of different races and civilisations out there,” she said with a pointed glance up at the sky. “Why should we matter in the grand scheme of things?”

The Doctor was quiet for a minute as they walked, and just when she was convinced he was going to pretend she hadn't spoken, he answered her. “Humans matter more than you think, more than anyone thinks,” he told her passionately. “Why do you think I keep coming back to Earth?” he asked, and she had to admit this was a fair point. “I think you're absolutely, undeniably, perfectly _fantastic_. And that's the truth of it.” A beat. “You matter, Hartley,” he added with a little less fervour, this time sounding more sincere than enthusiastic.

She smiled down at the gravel beneath her boots. “I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me,” she muttered playfully, and the Doctor gave a scoffed reply.

“Don't get used to it.”

The pair of travelling companions stepped into the hospital together, the silence inside even worse than that of out in the street. There were no lights, the entryway dark and still. She could just make out two large doors on either side of the room.

“This way,” the Doctor said decisively, and she followed him through the door on the right.

“How d'you know?” she asked, wondering if there was something in his Time Lord genetics that let him see through the dark. She wouldn't have put it past him.

“Played _eenie-meenie-miney-mo_ in my head.”

She paused, absorbing this information before an amused grin appeared on her face that was swallowed by the shadows before he could catch sight of it.

They walked for only another couple metres before the Doctor stopped, suddenly pushing open a set of swinging doors and stepping out of the long hallway, into a large ward. “What in Kasterborous...?” the Time Lord murmured to himself unthinkingly, but Hartley caught it and another smile flickered at her lips.

That was until she caught sight of what was inside the shadowed ward. Dozens of people were laying on beds, completely and utterly still. Lifeless. Hartley's breath caught in her throat and she unthinkingly stepped closer to the Doctor, grasping onto his arm with her hand, sticking close to his side as they edged deeper into the darkened room.

She wondered whether they were all dead – but it seemed like an awfully strange sort of morgue, even for the 40's. They weren't breathing, that much she could tell for certain, but they also weren't decomposing, so they weren't corpses – the thought alone made her feel ill.

“You'll find them everywhere,” a voice spoke abruptly, and she spun around to find the source – an older man with greying hair sat still in a chair in the very middle of the room. He peered back at them evenly, no hint of a waver in his clouded, milky eyes. “In every bed, in every ward. Hundreds of them,” he said in a rasp.

“Yes, I saw,” the Doctor replied quickly, taking the sudden appearance in his stride. “Why are they still wearing gas masks?” he asked, and with a start Hartley realised he was right. Gas masks were attached to the faces of every single patient there, hiding their features from view. Hartley wondered suddenly whether anyone would ever get to see their faces again.

“They're not,” the mysterious man told them, the words making no sense; which surely he knew. “Who are you?”

“I'm, er...” the alien hesitated, casting a glance over at Hartley before continuing on fluidly, trying to get around giving a name. “Are you the doctor?” he asked instead.

“Dr. Constantine. And you are?” the old man asked smoothly.

“Nancy sent us,” the Doctor responded, just as smooth.

“Nancy? That means you must've been asking about the bomb.”

“Yes.”

“What do you know about it?”

“Nothing. S'why I was asking. What do you know?”

“Only what it's done.”

“These people, they were all caught up in the blast?”

“None of them were,” Constantine responded cryptically as he chuckled, only for the sound to break off into heaving, painful coughs. Hartley moved forwards on instinct, hands held out to steady the trembling old man. “No!” he warned, stumbling backwards in his haste to get away. Startled but also not about to go against his wishes, Hartley flinched back, hands dangling uselessly by her sides. The man collapsed into the chair behind him, wiping at his mouth with a wrinkled, waxen hand.

“You're very sick,” the Doctor quietly stated the obvious.

“Dying, I should think,” Constantine countered bluntly. “I just haven't been able to find the time. Are you a doctor?”

“I have my moments.”

“Have you examined any of them yet?”

Hartley watched the Doctor work, standing back against a filing cabinet, her dark blue eyes sweeping over the victims, that sick feeling remaining in her gut like bad, curdling milk. The Time Lord raced around the room, working himself up into more and more of a panic as he realised the sickening truth.

“How did this happen? How did it start?” the Doctor demanded with wide eyes.

“When that bomb dropped, there was just one victim,” Constantine told him gruffly.

“Dead?”

“At first. His injuries were truly dreadful. By the following morning, every doctor and nurse who had treated him, who had touched him, had those exact same injuries. By the morning after that, every patient in the same ward, the exact same injuries,” Constantine spoke matter-of-factly, his expression grim. “Within a week, the entire hospital. Physical injuries as _plague._ Can you explain that?” The Doctor couldn't, but this didn't seem to surprise the other man much. “What would you say was the cause of death?”

“The head trauma,” the Doctor replied straightly. 

“No.”

“Asphyxiation,” Hartley said, and both glanced at her. “It has to be – because of the masks,” she explained hurriedly.

The Doctor seemed sold, but Constantine only shook his head. “No.”

“The collapse of the chest cavity,” the Doctor huffed.

“No.”

“All right,” the Doctor relented with an air of impatience. “What was the cause of death?”

“There wasn't one,” the old man revealed mysteriously, making the Time Lord's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Hartley grimaced, keeping her eyes on the two men, refusing to glance at the victims in the beds. “They're not dead.” He hit the bin beside him with his cane, causing a loud, sharp sound that made Hartley flinch at the same time as every patient in the ward sat up in unison, staring unseeingly in front of them and not moving another inch. Hartley flinched again, this time moving closer into the Doctor, his presence a reassurance in her mind.

She wasn't sure what was going on, all she knew was this was the things on the bed were dead without being _dead_ , and the only possible connection she was making was 'zombies' and she was just about mortally terrified.

“It's alright. They're harmless,” Constantine assured them calmly, coughing into his hand once more, but Hartley didn't feel particularly reassured, not with the way they were just sitting there like bred cattle, staring unseeingly ahead of them, completely lifeless – _soulless._ “They just sort of sit there. No heartbeat, no life signs of any kind,” he continued with a grimace, tracing his beady eyes over the rows and rows of patients. “They just _don't_ _die_.”

“And they've just been left here? Nobody's doing anything?” the Doctor was outraged. Hartley hadn't considered that side of things – she'd only been thinking of what this meant for everyone else, she hadn't stopped to think that these mindless zombies might have actually had _feelings_.

“I try and make them comfortable. What else is there?” Constantine sounded defensive, and Hartley was inclined to agreed. She'd seen enough zombie horror-films to know how this story ended. What more could one man do for them? Besides, the bloke was on his last legs at it was, barely able to hold himself up without collapsing under his own weight.

“Just you?” the Doctor was in disbelief. “You're the only one here?”

“Before this war began, I was a father and a grandfather. Now, I am neither. But I'm _still_ a doctor.”

Hartley's heart bled for the poor man. She couldn't imagine the sort of loss he'd endured. She could sympathise in one respect – she had no family with her either; but at least she knew hers were alive and well, if only lost to her, for now. She had to ponder his logic. She'd always thought once you were family, you never stopped being so; but perhaps she'd been wrong all along.

Were you still a friend when you had none? Were you still a daughter if your parents were unreachable?

The biggest identity crisis known to man hit her in the space of a split second, and she inhaled sharply at the force of the blow. She didn't have time to ponder who she was, however, she had to get through this next adventure alive, _then_ she could look out at the stars and yell 'who am I?' as dramatically as she so wished.

“Yeah. I know the feeling,” the Doctor was saying, and she took a moment to process that. Was he saying he knew what it was like to be a Doctor, or that he knew what it was like to lose the only family you had?

Her gut told her it was both.

“I suspect the plan is to blow up the hospital and blame it on a German bomb,” Constantine told them hoarsely, resting his weight on his cane.

“Probably too late,” the Doctor commented.

“No. There are isolated cases. Isolated cases breaking out all over London.” He broke into a violent coughing fit, and this time it was the Doctor who stepped forwards to offer assistance. “Stay back, stay back!” he hissed through another cough. “Listen to me. Top floor. Room eight-oh-two. That's where they took the first victim, the one from the crash site. And you _must_ find Nancy again.”

“Nancy?” the Doctor sounded bewildered by the sudden onslaught of vital information.

“It was her brother,” he divulged, beginning to shake more violently. “She knows more than she's saying. She won't tell me, but she might...” Constantine coughed again, cloudy eyes turning glassy as he stared at them unseeingly. “M-Mummy,” he stammered brokenly. Fear stabbed through Hartley like an icicle, and she stared in mute horror at the scene happening before her, like something out of a low-budget horror film. “ _Are you my mummy_?”

Looking very much like he was about to throw up, the old man heaved. But instead of vomit, the front of a gas mask spat from his mouth, beginning to melt over his skin like plastic on an open fire. Hartley stepped closer to the Doctor, grasping his arm instinctively as she watched, unable to move her eyes from the horrific sight. She dug her fingertips into the cool material of his leather jacket, swallowing the bile climbing her throat.

Travelling with the Doctor brought her more joy and beauty than any one person ever got to see in a lifetime, and while she wouldn't have given it up for the world, sometimes it also brought her more horror and dread than she thought she could handle.

But, as she always did, Hartley compartmentalised and pushed away her revulsion just in time to hear a blessed voice call from the hallway. “Hello?”

Deliberately turning away from the ghastly sight in front of her, Hartley let go of her vice-like grip on the Doctor and turned to the doors, pushing through them and forcing a tight smile at Rose, who was rushing up to meet them. Only she wasn't alone.

A man was jogging beside her, and he was so roguishly handsome that Hartley very nearly forgot about the zombies filling the building, and instead simply blinked at the man, who was grinning back charmingly.

“Good evening. Hope we're not interrupting,” the man himself was saying as he came to a stop in front of them. “Captain Jack Harkness,” he introduced himself, reaching a hand out to the Doctor. “I've been hearing all about you both on the way over.”

“He knows. I had to tell him about us being _Time Agents_ ,” Rose said with deliberate emphasis, catching the Time Lord's eye meaningfully. The Doctor gave no indication of noticing, but Hartley knew he was too clever not to.

“And it's a real pleasure to meet you, Mr. Spock,” Jack continued brightly before turning his attention to Hartley while Rose and the Doctor began to bicker from behind them. “And you must be Ms. Daniels,” the charismatic man drawled in that lilting American accent, taking her hand in his before bringing it up to his lips and pressing a kiss to her skin.

“Just Hartley,” she corrected with an easy smile and a fluttering heart, blinking up at him eagerly. Why did he have to be so damn appealing? Now wasn't the time to swoon over a pretty guy in a nice coat. They had work to do.

Jack merely beamed in response before pressing his hand to the small of her back and gently urging her back into the ward after Rose. Even though that ward was the last place Hartley wanted to be, she went willingly, knowing she didn't actually have a choice.

They stepped into the room, and Jack was taken aback by all the victims laying still on the beds, probably not having expected it.

“What's going on?” Jack asked Hartley, bewilderment on his handsome face. “Who are all these people?” Hartley didn't have an answer, so she said nothing. “Hello?” Jack moved towards the closest one, leaning down over the unmoving body and reaching out to touch them.

“Don't touch them!” Hartley warned quickly.

Jack withdrew his hand, turning to stare at her in surprise. “What? Why?”

“I dunno,” she replied, arms crossed over her chest. “Doctor Constantine warned us not to. I think it might be contagious.”

“What might be contagious?” he asked, confused.

Again, Hartley found she couldn't answer. “What's happening?” the Doctor demanded suddenly, barging into the room with a bang of the double doors, holding no regard for Hartley's frayed nerves.

“Sorry?” the Captain asked in polite confusion, turning to frown at the alien in bewilderment. “I have no idea what you're talking about,” he said, and as far as Hartley could tell, he certainly _sounded_ genuine. But just to be safe she shifted away from him, just on the off chance he was at fault.

“This has something to do with you and that Chula ship,” the Doctor said accusingly, jabbing a finger in Jack's direction.

“I assure you, it doesn't,” the American snapped back before pausing as he realised one important factor. “And what exactly _is it_ that I'm being accused of, exactly?” He gestured to the lifeless bodies with raised brows and incredulity on his face. “How could I possibly have done … whatever _this_ is?”

“Scan them,” Hartley spoke up, glad her voice was steady. Jack turned to her in surprise. Her gaze was gentle and patient, a far cry from the Doctor's steely glare, promising retribution once he knew the truth. “Any one of them. Go on,” she told him with growing confidence. Jack shot her a skeptical look before complying, hurrying over to a bed on the right and beginning to run his hand over the patient, device on his wrist glowing a deep blue.

“Okay, what does this prove, exactly?” the Captain asked dubiously.

“Scan another,” the Doctor ordered him in a snap.

Jack sent him an irritated glance but still did as he was told. The annoyed expression on his face faded as he took further readings, staring down at his device with growing disbelief. “This just isn't possible. How did this happen?” he asked aloud, rushing over to another of the lifeless forms, running his technology down their body. They were all the same, down to the very last atom.

“What kind of Chula ship landed here?” the Doctor demanded again, the look on his features screaming that he sure as _hell_ had better say the right thing, or there'd be hell to pay. Hartley had been on the receiving end of the same look before. She knew how awful it could be.

“What?” Jack asked dumbly.

“He said it was a warship,” Rose spoke up, turning to speak to the Doctor before casting Jack an utterly unimpressed look. “He stole it, parked it somewhere out there, somewhere a bomb's going to fall on it unless we make him an offer.”

“What kind of warship?” the Doctor growled.

“Does it matter?” Jack snapped, beginning to lose his cool. “It's got nothing to do with this.”

“This started at the bomb site,” the Doctor hissed, infuriated. “It's got _everything_ to do with it. What kind of warship?” It was clear he wasn't going to like having to ask _again_. Hartley wouldn't want to be around for that fallout.

“An ambulance!” the Captain finally yelled, holding out his wrist so his device was on full display. “Look,” he said pointedly, pressing a button and making a small hologram appear over the watch-like device. “That's what you chased through the Time Vortex. It's space junk. I wanted to kid you it was valuable. It's empty. I made sure of it. Nothing but a shell. I threw it at you,” he was beginning to panic, the calm façade melting like butter. “I saw your time travel vehicle, _love_ the retro look by the way, nice panels,” he added to retrieve what was left of his coolness. He sighed, throwing his hands into the air when he got no positive reaction. “I threw you the bait,” he admitted with a grumble.

“Bait?” Rose asked, perplexed.

“I wanted to sell it to you and then destroy it before you found out it was junk.”

“Oh _my God_ ,” Hartley muttered in sheer disbelief. This guy wasn't just an idiot, he was an _intelligent_ idiot. And everyone knew that was the most dangerous kind.

“You said it was a war ship,” Rose was frowning.

“They have ambulances in wars,” Jack played the defensive before apparently deciding it was too much effort. “It was a _con._ I was _conning_ you,” he explained slowly, like he was talking to a group of toddlers. Hartley threw her hands up in the air, turning away from him in an attempt to keep from calling him a bad word. “That's what I am, I'm a con man. I thought you were Time Agents. You're not, are you?”

Hartley turned back to the others, exchanging a flat look with Rose who murmured, “just a couple more freelancers.”

“Oh. Should have known,” Jack said snidely, lashing out now that he'd lost control of the con. “The way you guys are blending in with the local colour? I mean, Flag Girl was bad enough, but U-Boat Captain? Not to mention, _Hartley_? Talk about a bad alias.”

Hartley was affronted, turning to stare at Jack in unadulterated annoyance. She'd gotten enough flack for her name in her old life, she didn't need it in this one too.

He seemed to care very little for her insulted expression, huffing as he turned to face the Doctor properly.

“Anyway, whatever's happening here has got _nothing_ to do with that ship,” he finished with a note of finality, adding in a sharp nod for effect; Hartley was surprised he didn't stamp his foot along with it. He certainly seemed the type.

There was a lengthy pause, and Hartley drifted over to one of the bodies closest to her, taking care not to get near enough to touch it, merely staring down at the still form. She was young, in her teens and wearing a pretty floral dress, but the thick, grotesque gas mask on her face made her seem like a monster, and Hartley looked away with a grimace.

“And what exactly _is_ happening here, Doc?” she asked instead, ready to get some answers and solve this whole mess as quickly as possible. She just wanted to curl up in bed with some tea and a book, was that too much to ask for?

“Human DNA is being rewritten – by an idiot,” the Doctor responded grimly, but this didn't actually clear anything up for Hartley.

“What d'you mean?” Rose pressed, just as lost.

“I don't know,” he admitted reluctantly. And Hartley knew how much he hated say that. “Some kind of virus converting human beings into these things. But _why_? What's the point?”

“Can we study them? Maybe we'll be able to find something the doctors of the 40's couldn't?” Rose suggested, reaching up to adjust her Union Flag shirt.

The Doctor opened his mouth to respond, only to be interrupted by the patients, every single one of them shooting up into a sitting position. Rose jerked backwards with a small shout, nearly stumbling into Hartley, who grasped her firmly, just barely keeping them both from tumbling onto one of the beds and spreading the infection further.

“Mummy. Mummy? Mummy,” the bodies all began to sing as one, climbing from their beds and shuffling closer to the quartet. Hartley's pulse thudded in her head, and she gasped as she and Rose scurried backwards, away from the danger. It was like something out of a bad horror movie, and she swallowed, gripping Rose tightly.

“What's happening?” her friend asked anxiously, allowing Hartley to pull her away until they were against the wall, as far away from the 'zombies' as they could possibly get in the small, enclosed space.

“I don't know,” the Doctor replied helplessly as he and Jack moved with them, pressed against the wall as they stared out over the sea of half-dead, zombie-like patients. “Don't let them touch you,” he added quickly, hands balling into fists as he desperately tried to figure out what to do.

“What happens if they touch us?” Rose asked tightly, eyes wide as she stared out, hand clutching Hartley's, who squeezed back just as firmly.

“You're looking at it,” the Doctor told them grimly, and Rose gripped Hartley's hand even tighter in terror.

The patients got closer and closer, their calls for 'mummy' getting louder and more singsong as they approached. Hartley's flesh broke out in goosebumps, and not the good kind. She glanced at the Doctor, waiting for him to save them. Because surely he was going to? Surely he'd think of something, and they'd all walk away from this, completely and utterly unscathed?

Fear gripped her when the Doctor continued to say nothing, and her own hand shot out to curl around the fabric of Jack's coat, clutching it tightly. She may have been enough support for Rose, but she certainly wasn't enough for herself. Jack didn't flinch away from the contact, but when she glanced up at him he looked momentarily surprised, only to melt back into worry when he looked back towards the approaching horde.

  
Were they staring into the face of their future? Was this what was destined to become of them? Gas-mask zombies, unfeeling, breathless and calling out for a mummy they'd never find, forever?

“Go to your room,” the Doctor shouted so suddenly that the others all started in surprise. The patients came to an abrupt stop, staring back at the Doctor unseeingly. There was a pregnant pause. They weren't coming any closer, but they weren't going away, either. “Go to your room,” he continued with renewed vigour, finding hope in their hesitation. “I mean it. I'm very, very angry with you. I am very, _very_ cross. _Go_ to your _room_!” he bellowed at them, and just when Hartley was sure it was over and they were only delaying the inevitable, something miraculous happened.

Each patient hung their head in shame, like they were the child they all seemed to have regressed into, turning and slowly shuffling away from the relieved quartet. Each zombie went back to their own beds, looking very much like scolded toddlers who'd been told they were naughty.

The Doctor exhaled loudly, a pleased grin spreading across his lips. “I'm really glad that worked,” he told them, contrastingly cheerful. “Those would have been terrible last words.”

Hartley rolled her eyes, used to this kind of reaction. Jack looked more confused by the odd behaviour, but he said nothing. Once the patients were all back on their beds, Hartley finally let go of the Captain's coat, but continued to hold Rose's hand, knowing the girl was more than a little shaken up over the whole thing. She herself was terrified – as far as near misses went, this one was nearer than most.

“Well, that escalated quickly,” Hartley muttered aloud, and Captain Jack made a sound of agreement.

“How'd you know that would work?” Rose asked the Doctor curiously, pushing away from the wall and wandering back over to one of the occupied beds. She squeezed Hartley's hand once more before sending her a grateful smile and pulling away.

“Huh,” the Doctor made a sound that wasn't quite a chuckle and wasn't quite a scoff. “That's funny,” he said lightly, a goofy grin on his face.

Rose looked confused. “He didn't _know_ it would work,” Hartley murmured to her quietly, a hint of amusement sitting on her lips. “Bastard,” she added softer, only slightly joking, so just Rose and the Captain could hear. Rose rolled her eyes with a hysterical kind of laugh before turning to stare at one of the many lifeless bodies. Jack was still in shock, the whole thing seeming to have come from nowhere. The Doctor was, as usual, completely oblivious.

“Just once I'd like him not to get into these situations without a plan,” Rose complained to Hartley quietly, although the twitching of her lips gave away her true feelings. “Why are they all wearing gas masks?” she asked louder, so the Doctor could actually hear.

“They're not,” Jack was the one to answer, dropping into an empty chair and kicking his feet up onto the supplied desk. The astonishment from the situation had faded, giving way to what she assumed was his usually-calm disposition. “Those masks are flesh and bone,” he told them casually.

Rose looked repulsed, grimacing at the patient beside her. Hartley eyed the masks critically, wondering how on Earth that had happened. Were they in an episode of the _X Files_? Or the _Twilight Zone_? She supposed it was more than that, more than an episode of fiction – this was life with the Doctor.

“How was your con supposed to work?” the Doctor asked Jack without preamble, shooting the Captain a stern glare that would make a lesser man shake in his boots.

“Simple enough, really,” Jack began conversationally, arms crossed lazily over his chest. “Find some harmless piece of space junk, let the nearest Time Agent track it back to Earth, convince him it's valuable, name a price. When he's put fifty percent up front; _oops_! A German bomb falls on it, destroys it forever. He never gets to see what he's paid for, never knows he's been had. I buy him a drink with his own money, and we discuss dumb luck. The perfect self-cleaning con,” he said with a pleased grin, as though this were something to be proud of.

Hartley cringed at the same time as the Doctor sarcastically muttered, “yeah, perfect.”

Jack sobered some, clearing his throat, having the decency to look at least a little bit ashamed of himself.

“The London Blitz is great for self-cleaners,” he began again in that conversational tone. “Pompeii's nice if you want to make a vacation of it, but you've got to set your alarm for volcano day,” Jack laughed, blinding beam fixed into place. Nobody else's mouths so much as twitched. The Doctor glared at the man, unimpressed and disparaging. “Getting a _hint_ of disapproval,” Jack said, shooting Hartley an intensified look of exasperation, as though they were somehow already friends.

“Take a look around the room,” the Doctor spat at him in disgust. “ _This_ is what your harmless piece of space-junk did!”

“It was a burnt-out medical transporter. It was empty,” Jack argued hotly.

The Doctor scoffed in his direction before jerking his head in the direction of his two companions. “Rose, Hartley,” he said, and knowing better than to argue, the pair of women followed his command, trailing after him out of the room.

“Are we getting out of here?” Rose asked hopefully, and Hartley cast a glance back at the lifeless bodies on the beds, suppressing a shudder.

“We're going upstairs,” the Doctor said curtly.

“I even programmed the flight computer so it wouldn't land on anything living!” Jack argued, shouting after them to be heard, shooting to his feet defensively and scurrying after them. “I harmed _no-one_. I don't know what's happening here, but believe me, I had _nothing_ to do with it!”

“I'll tell you what's happening,” the Doctor responded snidely, a rare snarl to his voice as he whirled back around to address the Captain, who had now gone pale. “You forgot to set your alarm clock. It's volcano day.”

The shrill sound of another loud siren pierced the air, and Hartley flinched again at how shocking the noise was in contrast to the quiet of the ward. “What's that?” Rose asked warily.

“Must be the all clear,” Hartley told her, glancing out the window at the city, glad to see that at least German bombs weren't just another threat to add to the rapidly growing pile of threats they were in danger of drowning in.

“I wish,” the Doctor growled, throwing the door open and storming out into the hallway, disappearing before any of the trio left behind could follow.

“Dammit, not again,” Hartley mumbled in frustration. “Come on,” she said louder, directing the others after him. “We don't want to lose him, trust me.” Jack paused before following, and Hartley sent him a levelled expression, letting him know the invitation was open, but not for much longer. He seemed to change his mind, racing after her quickly. They all spilled out into the hall, glancing up and down, searching for the energetic Time Lord. “Doc?!” Hartley yelled, picking a random direction and beginning to run.

“Mr. Spock?” Jack yelled, none the wiser to the Doctor's name.

“Have you got a blaster?” they heard, and Rose came to an abrupt stop, turning and backtracking until she spied the Doctor halfway up a staircase to the left. Hartley did the same, and they quickly followed after him.

“Sure!” Jack replied enthusiastically, practically shoving the girls over in his haste to get to the top of the stairs. The two women rolled their eyes, following him up to where the Doctor was waiting in front of a secure looking metal door.

“The night your space-junk landed, someone was hurt,” the alien revealed darkly, casting him an angry look before the expression was wiped, as though it had never been there in the first place. “This was where they were taken,” he said sombrely.

“What happened?” Rose asked, a sadness in her voice.

“Let's find out. Get it open,” he ordered the Captain, who yanked his blaster from its holster and eagerly held it at the ready. With the press of a button the weapon fired, disintegrating the metal around the lock in a square formation. The ex-Time Agent grinned cockily, spinning the blaster around on his finger. Hartley wasn't one for weapons, particularly guns, but even she had to admit it was at least a little bit cool.

“Sonic blaster, fifty first century,” the Doctor recognised it instantly. “Weapon Factories of Villengard?”

“You've been to the factories?” Jack seemed surprised.

“Once.”

“Well, they're gone now, destroyed,” he murmured morosely, seeming to regret this fact. “The main reactor went critical. Vaporised the lot.”

“Like I said: once,” the Doctor responded, and Hartley bit her lip to stifle a smirk – she wasn't sure what she'd been expecting, but the reality was almost certainly better. “There's a banana grove there now,” he grinned cheerfully, the brewing storm gone from his eyes like writing wiped off a board. “I like bananas. Bananas are good.”

“I'll take bananas over weapons any day of the week,” Hartley agreed audaciously, and the Doctor shot her a pleased smile. She practically preened under the weight of it.

“Nice blast pattern,” Rose commented as she followed the Doctor through the door. “Squareness gun.”

“Yeah,” Jack nodded proudly.

Rose gave her tongue-in-teeth grin. “I like it,” she told him cheekily before disappearing after the Time Lord.

Hartley paused, waiting politely for Jack to move through the doorway, only to realise he'd paused in the jamb, peering at her with sparkling, flirty eyes. “So, _Hartley_ ,” he said her name with quotations, like he didn't believe it were real, and she smothered a laugh. “What's your story?”

“No story,” she denied simply with a shrug of her shoulders. “At least, none I'm gonna tell _you._ ”

“Ooh, classified – sexy,” he wagged his eyebrows, and Hartley let out a uncontrollable snort, lifting a hand to stifle the sound.

“My name really _is_ Hartley, you know,” she said conversationally, gently prodding him in the arm until he stepped back, allowing her through the door. “If I was going to go by an alias, I'd pick something more cliché than that.”

Jack didn't say anything more, though she felt his curious eyes on her back as though they held weight, and she tossed him a smile before turning to the Doctor expectantly.

“Now that we're all present,” the alien huffed irritably. “What do you think?” Hartley moved into the room, blinking at the tipped over equipment and general mess of the space, as though something terrible had happened there – which she knew it must have.

“Something got out of here,” Jack supplied.

“Yeah. And?”

“Something powerful. Angry.”

“Powerful and angry.”

“Or scared and confused,” Hartley added under her breath, stepping over a pile consisting of shards of glass and reaching out for one of the many crayon drawings covering the otherwise bleak walls. The Doctor heard, however, and sent her a contemplative glance that she ignored, knowing she wouldn't be able to explain herself properly. It was just a sense she had, a feeling in her gut that told her not everything was as it appeared to be. It rarely ever was.

“A child?” Jack asked, keen eyes gliding over the children's toys, putting the pieces together. “I suppose this explains _Mummy_.”

“How could a _child_ do _this_?” Rose asked thickly, kicking at a fallen machine with her foot.

“Not without some kind of help, that's for sure,” Hartley said, crouching down to pick up a piece of a snapped crayon, holding it up to the light and squinting at it, trying not to imagine the pain this child must have been in. The terror and desperation he must have felt.

A voice suddenly flooded the room as the Doctor hit the button on the tape machine. Constantine's voice was layered with static, and the answering words from the child only made Hartley feel cold.

“ _I want my mummy. Are you my mummy? I want my mummy! Are you my mummy? Mummy? Mummy_?”

“Doctor, I've heard this voice before,” Rose revealed with a frightened look on her face. Hartley wondered what she meant, as she hadn't, but she also figured there'd been a significant chunk of time where the three of them had been apart. Any number of things could have happened during those times.

“Me too,” the Doctor told her solemnly.

“Always ' _are you my mummy?_ '. Like he doesn't know. Why doesn't he know?” Rose asked the most pressing question. What did the child want? He was looking for his mummy, but why couldn't he find her? Had something happened to her? Something he was too young to comprehend?

“ _Are you there, mummy? Mummy_?”

The repetitive words were chilling, and Hartley pulled her sleeves down to cover her hands, glancing warily over at the Doctor, who ran his hands down his face, blinking rapidly as he began to furiously pace, racing to solve the mystery before him. Racing to save the city. Racing to save mankind.

“Doctor?” Rose asked anxiously.

“Can you sense it?” the Doctor asked instead, and Hartley worried he was beginning to crack. Was it possible for him to get infected, not being human? Or did species not matter to this virus, whatever it was?

“Sense what?” Jack asked slowly, watching the alien carefully, like he wasn't sure the Doctor wasn't about to go flying off the deep end.

“Coming out of the walls. Can you feel it?” the Doctor elaborated, though it didn't do much good, all three humans stared back uncomprehendingly. “Funny little human brains. How do you get around in those things?”

“When he's stressed, he likes to insult species,” Rose mentioned with a roll of her eyes, glancing over at Hartley with a small, shared smirk. “He cuts himself shaving, he does half an hour on life forms he's cleverer than.”

“He trips on a rock, he takes an hour to ramble about which world-renowned scientists he could beat in a trivia contest,” Hartley added jovially. It was nice to spend a few seconds where she wasn't in the suspended pain of the unknown, wasn't questioning if she'd ever see the sunrise again. “Spoiler alert: it's all of them,” she said impishly. Even stressed as he was, Jack gave a small chortle of laughter.

The Doctor ignored their teasing, continuing on distractedly. “There are these children living rough round the bomb sites. They come out during air-raids looking for food. Suppose they were there when this thing, whatever it was, landed?” the Doctor rambled, striving to solve the puzzle before him, talking with his hands as he paced.

“It was a med-ship,” Jack interjected, again on the defensive. “It was _harmless._ ”

“Yes, you keep saying harmless,” the Doctor muttered with a hint of sarcastic bitterness. “Suppose one of them was affected; altered?”

“Altered how?”

“I'm here!” the creepy childish voice proclaimed, but something about it was different this time. It was closer, louder, more spine-chilling than before. Subtly, hoping she was wrong the whole time, Hartley leant around the Doctor only to catch sight of the doorway, where a small child stood in the doorway, gas mask secured on his face, eyes just two gaping black holes. She reached out blindly, searching for traction, something she could hold that would keep her grounded. Once more she ended up grasping tightly onto the sleeve of Jack's coat.

“Hartley?” the Captain asked with a furrowed brow, feeling her grip tighten. He looked away from the Doctor to frown at her in concern.

“It's afraid. Terribly afraid and powerful. It doesn't know it yet, but it will do,” the Doctor continued obliviously. “It's got the power of a god, and I just sent it to its room.”

“I'm here. Can't you see me?” the child repeated, and a chill of fear ran down Hartley's spine like a droplet of iced water.

“What's that noise?” Rose asked shakily. A terrible clicking had filled the room, and Hartley winced, understanding now what it was.

“End of the tape,” the Doctor was grinning manically, like this was the most exciting thing to happen to him in nine hundred years. Hartley wished he wasn't such a glutton for punishment. “It ran out about thirty seconds ago,” he told them merrily.

“I'm here, now. Can't you see me?” the child sang.

“I sent it to its room. _This_ is its room,” the Doctor whispered gleefully.

The Doctor spun around, moving out of the way so all of them could peer at the gas mask zombie standing on the other side of the divider. Jack finally understood why Hartley was so rigid. She only gripped him tighter. She was afraid; being faced with such an... _empty child..._ it would frighten anyone, she reasoned. She wasn't being pathetic, Rose looked just as haunted – which, in a sick way, made her feel a little bit better.

“Are you my mummy? _Mummy_?” it sang with its head cocked at them, exuding an innocence that was somehow also creepy.

“Doctor?” Rose asked with a trembling voice, noticing how it seemed to be looking directly at her.

“Okay, on my signal, make for the door,” Jack said bracingly. There was a beat, and then he whipped out his weapon with a shouted, “ _now_!” 

Another second passed and everyone at once seemed to realise that the object Jack was aiming at the child wasn't his weapon at all, but instead a harmless banana, about the same shape, size and weight as his squareness gun.

“ _Mummy_?” the zombie asked slowly just as the Doctor yanked the stolen blaster from his belt and aimed it at the wall, instantly creating a large, predictably square, hole for them to escape through.

“Go now!” the Time Lord shouted, all but pushing them through the hole. Hartley didn't need to be told twice, tripping her way into the next hallway and dragging a stumbling Rose after her. “Don't drop the banana!” he added in a yell to Jack.

“Why not?!” Jack shouted back in a confused panic.

“Good source of potassium!” the Doctor shouted in response, and if Hartley hadn't been so scared, she might have snorted at the comment.

The victims were coming at them from every angle. Hartley's heart raced inside her chest, adrenaline making her body flush. Typically, while the Doctor and Jack bickered about sonic devices, the girls was the ones to get them out of the hot water. Just as the child burst through the wall, plaster spraying everywhere, Hartley reached over and swiped Jack's blaster from the Doctor's belt. Her hands were shaking, and she never was a very good shot, so with a shout of warning she tossed it at Rose, hoping she'd have better luck.

“Going down!” the blonde shouted in brief warning before shooting at the floor, all four of them dropping through the new hole and onto a pile on the floor below. Hartley pushed away from Jack, who grunted under both her and Rose's weight, scrambling to her feet.

They were in some kind of storeroom, temporarily safe from the gas mask zombies. Jack took the gun back the moment he was standing, repairing the gaping hole in the ceiling, sealing off that point of entry, at the least. Hopefully it would buy them time to figure out their next move.

The Doctor shuffled over to the door, pulling out his sonic and aiming it at the lock. “Okay, that door should hold it for a bit,” the Doctor announced once he'd sonicked the lock, and Rose exhaled sharply.

“The door?” Jack hissed incredulously. “The _wall_ didn't stop it!”

“Well, it's got to find us first! Come on, we're not done yet! Assets, assets!”

“Well, I've got a banana, and in a pinch, you could put up some shelves,” Jack said snidely, but it was like water off a duck's back.

“Window,” the Doctor said with purpose.

“Barred. Sheer drop outside. Seven stories,” Jack said before the alien could so much as get to it.

“And no other exits,” Rose groaned, dropping her head in her hands.

“Well, the assets conversation went in a flash, didn't it?” Jack murmured slyly.

“So, where'd you pick this one up, then?” the Doctor asked with a sneer. Rose looked affronted, and Hartley made a mental note to berate the Doctor later, when they weren't three inches of steel away from being turned into zombies.

“She was hanging from a barrage balloon, I had an invisible spaceship. I never stood a chance,” crooned Jack playfully.

“Okay. One, we've got to get out of here. Two, we can't get out of here. Have I missed anything?” the Doctor was saying, and Hartley frowned at him in irritation. He could try being a tad more positive, couldn't he? Besides, wasn't he the idea guy? He should've been coming up with solutions, not listing their current problems.

“Yeah,” Rose breathed, spinning around to stare at the chair where the American had just been sitting, but now wasn't. “Jack just disappeared.”

“Good riddance,” the Time Lord murmured disinterestedly, seeming to think very little of this fact.

“Seriously though,” she hissed back, beginning to pace. “He's vanished into thin air.” She paused, spinning around to shoot Hartley an exasperated look. “Why is it always the great looking ones who do that?”

“Good question,” she murmured cheekily.

“I'm making an effort not to be insulted,” the Doctor said curtly as she snickered unabashedly, eyes sliding across to her with a glare.

“I mean, _men_ ,” Rose corrected lamely.

“Okay, thanks, that really helped,” he replied sarcastically.

The radio in the corner began to crackle, making the blonde flinch as they all whirled around to stare at it warily. “ _Rose_? _Hartley_? _Doctor_?” Jack's accented voice filtered through the speakers, making Rose's eyes widen. “ _Can you hear me? I'm back on my ship. I used the emergency teleport. Sorry I couldn't take you – it's security-keyed to my molecular structure. But I'm working on it. Hang in there_.”

“We'll be waiting, Captain,” Hartley said with a relieved smile, and the alien beside her shot her an irritated glare, like she was betraying them all by being slightly flirty. She couldn't help it, Jack was handsome and fun, besides, she had a good feeling about the bloke.

“How're you speaking to us?” the Doctor sounded accusatory.

“ _Om-Com_ ,” Jack replied cheerfully. “ _I can call anything with a speaker grill_.”

“Now there's a coincidence,” the alien murmured thoughtfully. “The child can Om-Com, too.”

“He can?” Rose blinked.

“Anything with a speaker grill,” he confirmed. “Even the TARDIS' phone.”

“What, you mean the child can phone us?”

“ _And I can hear you. Coming to find you. Coming to find you_...” the child's creepy voice sang over the radio, breaking through Jack's broadcast with ease. Chills broke out along Hartley's arms, and she shook her head, trying to pull herself together lest the Doctor see her looking terrified. She'd never live that one down.

“ _Doctor, can you hear that_?” the Captain asked, and Hartley clenched her fists around the bunches of her sleeves.

“Loud and clear.”

“ _I'll try to block out the signal. Least I can do_ ,” he said, and a moment later soft swinger music was filtering through the speakers. “ _Remember this one, Rose_?” he asked cheekily, and Hartley could just imagine the coy look gracing his pretty face.

The Doctor turned to look at Rose incredulously, and at least she had the decency to blush. “Our song,” she explained meekly, spinning around and moving away from the glaring Time Lord.

“Humans,” the Doctor said the word like it were the punchline to a joke, shaking his head and returning his attention to the bars on the window, the sonic's buzzing filling the cramped little storeroom.

Hartley let her focus wander, heading over to the far wall and eyeing the stacks of folders laying on some shelves. She swiped one from the top of the pile, cracking it open and running her eyes down the page for lack of anything better to do.

The Doctor and Rose began to talk, bickering as they sometimes did. Hartley let them have their moment, content not to interrupt as she subtly watched them banter about Captain Jack and dancing.

“If he ever _was_ a Captain, he's been defrocked,” the Doctor was saying, and Hartley glanced up as she felt a slight tingle under her skin.

“Yeah? Shame I missed that,” Rose responded slyly, and not a moment after the words had left their lips were they instantaneously transported to Jack's spaceship. Hartley stumbled, blinking at the new surroundings before turning to look at Jack, who was staring at her with a sly smirk. They both turned back to stare at Rose and the Doctor, who were too busy staring into each other's eyes to notice the change in scenery.

They looked completely enraptured by one another, and Hartley felt a flare of something that wasn't _quite_ jealousy, but instead maybe _envy_? Was she a third wheel? How had that even _happened_?

“Actually, I quit. Nobody takes my frock,” Jack spoke cockily, smirk practically glued into place. “Most people notice when they've been teleported. You guys are so _sweet_ ,” he glanced at Hartley, the pair sharing a split-second of mirth before moving on. “Sorry about the delay. I had to take the nav-com offline to override the teleport security.” Rose and the Doctor split apart, the former blushing ever so slightly while the former straightened his jacket with a grunt, before they recovered and quickly barrelled on.

“You can spend ten minutes overriding your own protocols? Maybe you should remember whose ship it is,” the Doctor quipped snidely.

“Oh, I do. She was gorgeous. Like I told her, be back in five minutes.”

“This is a Chula ship.”

“Yeah, just like that medical transporter. Only this one _is_ dangerous.”

The Doctor looked about ready to roll his eyes, but as it was he merely held out a hand and snapped his fingers loudly. Immediately a soft golden glow enveloped his hands.

“The hell is that?” Hartley demanded in surprise, shifting backwards as she watched the sparkles move in time with his hand.

“They're what fixed my hands up,” Rose supplied easily. “Jack called them, um...” she trailed off, struggling to recall.

“Nanogenes,” the Doctor said with ease, eyeing the glow through a narrowed, calculated gaze. “Sub-atomic robots. There's millions of them in here, see? Burned my hand on the console when we landed. All better now. They activate when the bulk head's sealed. Check you out for damage, fix any physical flaws,” he paused, spinning around to look at Jack through a stern glare. “Take us to the crash site. I need to see your 'space junk'.”

“As soon as I get the nav-com back online. Make yourself comfortable. Carry on with whatever it was you were doing,” Jack added coyly.

“We were talking about dancing,” now the Doctor was the one who sounded defensive.

“It didn't _look_ like talking.”

“It didn't _feel_ like dancing,” Rose added slyly.

The Doctor looked exasperated, but for once he didn't retort, merely rolling his eyes and turning away to examine a panel towards the back of the ship. Hartley moved forwards, perching delicately beside the console where Jack was working away, watching him halfheartedly as she swung her legs underneath her.

“What about you then, Hartley?” the Captain asked conversationally, though the majority of his attention was still on the keypad and buttons in front of him. “What's your story, _really_?” It was the second time he'd asked now, and she was exasperated by his persistence.

She smiled, though the expression was heavier than it should have been. “The truth is that it's complicated.”

“Try me,” he responded, glancing up to shoot her a smirk.

“Doctor says we're 'cosmically magnetised',” she told him honestly, relaxing against the back of the Captain's chair. “Basically, he's stuck with me following after him like a little lost puppy, and I'm stuck stranded from my family and my home,” she said, voice carefully detached and free from emotion. The memory of Rose and the Doctor staring deep and intense into one another's eyes flickered through her head, and she grimaced.

But her words seemed to have piqued the Captain's interest.

“You get to travel, right? That's what Rose said – that you're travellers. I'd say that's a pretty fair trade-off,” he said, focus still on his task, although every now and again he'd glance up at Hartley, whose gaze was distant and far away.

“I guess it is,” she hummed in vague reply.

She got the feeling Jack understood what she was saying, but he didn't respond for a few moments, continuing on with his important task. “What about your family? Where're they?” he finally asked, curious.

Hartley paused, hit with the usual stab of pain she felt whenever her family was brought up. She could go back home, she knew that, but who knew how long she'd get with them before she was yanked back through time and space into the TARDIS, the universe hellbent on keeping her and the cranky Time Lord stuck together like glue?

“London,” she eventually answered him, giving a weak shrug of her shoulders. “In the year 2005.”

“Rough,” he nodded consolingly, and it didn't feel as fake as it probably would have on anyone else. “And what about those two?” he asked, smoothly changing the subject as he gestured over his shoulder at Rose and the Doctor, who were stood at the back of the ship, murmuring about one thing or another.

“Rose is a great friend … probably my _best_ friend – but the Doctor? It's...complicated.”

“Ooh, is there some _gossip_ I need to hear?” he asked playfully, pausing his frantic typing long enough to shoot her a sly, goading sort of smirk.

She laughed at his words, the amusement she felt pleasant, but startling all the same. “No, no,” she shook her head. “Nothing like that. Just...I think I annoy him, and he didn't exactly _choose_ me travel with him, so sometimes I think he resents me for being around.” She surprised herself by how much she was spilling, but realised that every word of it was true.

She remembered Rose's words from the week before. _You make him want to be a better person … and I think he kind of hates you for it_.

She knew Rose had been right, but at the same time, that didn't make living with it any easier.

“Well, if you were stuck with _me_ , I'd consider it a privilege,” Jack told her in a flirty voice, glancing up to wink at her, but as she caught his eye, she found a sincerity in them that left her astounded. He meant what he was saying, and it went beyond just flirtatious banter.

She felt a strange kinship to the Captain in the moment, like a tether had been created, binding the pair together throughout time and space. It reminded her of something, something almost recent, but she couldn't for the life of her figure out what that was.

She didn't know Jack from a bar of soap, and yet somehow, at the same time, she felt like she'd always known him. He was familiar to her in an unexpected, unexplainable way, and she wondered why that was.

She prepared herself to respond, not quite sure what she was going to say, only for Rose to appear beside her, unaware she was interrupting a rather important conversation. “So, you used to be a Time Agent, yeah? And now you're trying to con them?” she asked Jack bluntly, brimming with interest.

Jack hesitated, still burning with curiosity from Hartley's honest words, but he shelved the pressing itch for information, reminding himself that he needed to focus on what was in front of him, instead of the strange woman's even stranger past. “If it makes me sound any better, it's not for the money,” he answered the blonde, and Hartley cracked a small smile at his tone.

“For what, then?” Rose pressed.

“Woke up one day when I was still working for them, found they'd stolen two years of my memories,” Jack admitted tensely, jaw clicking with frustration. “I'd like them back.”

“They stole your _memories_?” Rose was shocked and horrified, like she couldn't imagine anybody ever being so cruel.

“Two years of my life,” he confirmed solemnly. “No idea what I did. Your friend over there doesn't trust me, and for all I know, he's right not to.” He sounded so morose, Hartley's chest ached for him.

“I'm sorry that happened to you,” she told him sincerely, leaning in closer and meeting his eyes, conveying how heartfelt she really was. This time he was the one blown away by her sincerity, and he blinked at her, feeling stunned and vulnerable in the same instant, like she really understood what had happened, and appreciated how difficult it had be. “Besides, I like how you turned out,” she added playfully, not wanting the moment to get too serious.

Jack grinned, the expression wide and wolfish, appreciation shining in his eyes. “Okay, we're good to go,” he said louder, capturing the Doctor's attention from where it was focused on a series of monitors over on the other side of the small ship. “Crash site?” he asked, spinning around in his chair to peer at the trio aboard his ship with that charming grin settled back in its rightful place.

* * *

“There it is,” Jack murmured to them quietly, leading them along the train tracks towards the crash site, where a large object was covered by cloth, surrounded by barbed wire fences and stoic guards. “Hey, they've got Algy on duty,” he said with interest. “It must be important.”

“We've got to get past him,” the Doctor said, calculating eyes moving over the guards pacing up and down the fence line, alert and ready.

“Are the words 'distract the guard' heading in my general direction?” Rose questioned like it was something she heard all the time. Hartley wasn't sure they'd _ever_ been in a situation where they'd had to use Rose to distract _anyone_ before, but she figured there was a first time for everything, and the girl didn't exactly seem opposed to the idea.

“I don't think that'd be such a good idea,” Jack shook his head mildly.

“Don't worry, I can handle it,” she argued indignantly, as though her sexual-prowess was somehow in question here.

“I've gotten to know Algy _quite_ well since I've been in town. Trust me, you're _not_ his type,” he told her with a knowing smirk.

“What, you want Hartley to do it then?” she asked, slightly incredulous, but Hartley was willing to overlook that fact. “Are you saying she's prettier than me?” Rose added, critical and sharp.

Jack paused. “This feels like a trap,” he muttered and even the Doctor looked sympathetic for his current predicament.

“Oh, it's most _definitely_ a trap,” Hartley confirmed through a smirk.

Jack sighed, “trust me, she won't do the job either.” He paused again, squeezing the girls each on the shoulder before surprising them both by pushing past them and heading in the guard's direction. “I'll distract him,” he told them giddily, and Hartley couldn't help but snort in amusement. “Don't wait up.”

Rose looked more than astonished, just completely blown away by what had just occurred. “Relax, he's a fifty first century guy,” the Doctor smirked in Jack's direction, a knowing sort of look to which Rose could only respond by staring. “He's just a bit more flexible when it comes to _dancing_.”

“How flexible?” she asked through a perplexed frown.

“Well, by his time, you lot have spread out across half the galaxy,” he explained.

“Meaning?” her voice was an octave too high.

Hartley laughed again, head tilted back as she giggled freely. “So many species, so little time,” the Doctor answered with a cheeky grin.

Looking over at Rose, Hartley noted that the girl was gaping, still struggling to come to terms with this piece of information about their handsome new tagalong. “People can be pan, Rose,” she said with an exasperated roll of her eyes. “There's nothing wrong with it.”

“But he's so...flirty...”

“It's an aspect of his personality, not an indication of his sexuality,” she told her flatly. “Besides, who _hasn't_ had gay thoughts?”

Rose looked like this was a subject they very much were going to be bringing back up later on, when they were back within the safety of the TARDIS. “So what, _that's_ what we do when we get out there? That's our mission?” she was asking the Doctor, incredulous and still reeling from the surprise of Jack's pansexuality. “We seek new life, and-and-”

“ _Dance,”_ the Doctor supplied cheekily. Rose still appeared shellshocked.

“Is it really that surprising?” Hartley asked around an amused grin. “He does seem the type, doesn't he?”

“I guess he does, when I think of it like that,” she murmured back, and the trio fell into silence as they watched Jack converse with this Algy fellow, only for the younger guard to suddenly collapse to the ground without warning.

Instantly the Doctor was rushing to his side, arms outstretched to stop anyone from getting near him. “Stay back!” he warned seriously, and the other guards hovered unsurely over their friend's still form. The alien turned to his companions, a grim expression on his lined face. “The effect's become air-borne, it's accelerating.”

“What's keeping us safe?” Rose questioned, a note of panic to her sweet voice.

The Doctor didn't respond apart from a reluctant sort of grimace, and at once Hartley understood. “Absolutely nothing,” she murmured softly, and the blonde reached out to grasp her sleeve, holding on tightly, finding comfort in the familiar contact. The customary sound of the air raid sirens pierced the still night air like a bullet, and as one everybody turned to look up at the pitch black sky.

“Here they come again,” the Captain groaned, wincing up at the clouds like he was damning the Nazis to hell, which was definitely something Hartley could get on board with.

“All we need,” Rose agreed. She paused, spinning around to stare at him wildly. “Didn't you say a bomb was going to land here?!”

“Never mind about that,” the Doctor dismissed with a wave of his hand. “If the contaminant's airborne now, there's _hours_ left.”

“For what?” Jack asked tightly.

“Till nothing, _forever_. For the entire human race.”

The group fell completely silent, no sound but the sirens meeting their ears, until suddenly they all noticed the soft sounds of a young voice singing over the top of the other horrifying noises gracing the night air.

“And can anyone else hear singing?” The Doctor turned to head for the barn to the right where the soft song was coming from. Hartley took the initiative and moved over to the lights surrounding the crashed Chula ship, fumbling around in the dark for a moment before finding the switch and lighting the area up.

The others appeared by her side shortly after, all congregating around the ship. “You see? Just an ambulance,” Jack said matter-of-factly, uncovering the ambulance so the Doctor could properly see it as he reappeared, a tired looking Nancy by his side, rubbing her wrists as she moved. “They've been trying to get in,” he added, running a gloved hand over the scratched metal of the outside.

“Of course they have,” the Doctor scoffed, “they think they've got their hands on Hitler's latest secret weapon.” He paused, noticing that the Captain was hurriedly tapping at the keypad, no doubt keying in the access codes. “What're you doing?”

“The sooner you see this thing is empty, the sooner you'll know I had nothing to do with it,” he explained shortly, continuing his task. Hartley saw the panel begin to spark, and leapt up onto her toes to wrap her arms around Jack's shoulders and yank him sharply away from the ship just before it sparked brightly, a loud bang echoing around the clearing they were in. Jack glanced at his hands warily, which would have surely been burnt had she not intervened. “I owe you one, Pretty Lady,” he told her gratefully, and she nodded back with a small smile, trying not to blush at the nickname.

The ship started beeping, a light on its face beginning to blink.

“Doctor, what is that?” Rose gasped, gesturing worriedly to the hospital doors across from them were beginning to crack open, due to the force of the patients inside battering them from behind. The zombies were coming.

“Captain, secure those gates!” the Doctor ordered loudly, beginning to work on the crashed ship himself.

“Why?” Jack questioned with a frown.

“Just do it!” the Time Lord snapped back sharply. Jack hesitated only a moment before nodding and rushing over to the towering gates. “Nancy, how'd you get in here?”

“I cut the wire,” the young girl told him quickly, bewildered by the question.

“Show Rose,” he commanded, tossing his blonde companion his screwdriver, which she caught with surprisingly deft hands. “Setting two-thousand-four-hundred-and-twenty-eight D.”

“What?” Rose was more than a little confused, staring down at the sonic in confusion.

“It reattaches barbed wire,” the Doctor snapped back impatiently, having no time to walk her through everything step by step. “ _Go_!”

“What do you need me to do?” Hartley asked readily, cracking her knuckles as she prepared to be assigned a task.

The Time Lord paused, and for one heart stopping moment Hartley thought he was going to shrug her off and push her away, but thankfully he seemed to change his mind, nodding at her to move closer. “Grasp the end of this and pull,” he instructed quickly, and she was endlessly relieved as she did as she was told, grabbing the panel of metal and using every ounce of strength in her body to pull.

The Doctor stopped them to hit a few more buttons, then gestured for her to yank again. They managed to pry the panel off just as Jack made his way back to them, puffing lightly from exertion. “It's empty. Look at it,” he said simply, pointing to the empty ship like it proved his point. Like it proved none of this was his fault.

“What do you expect in a Chula medical transporter? Bandages? Cough drops?” the Doctor snapped back sarcastically. “Rose?”

The blonde shook her head, not knowing, but the Doctor showed an ounce more patience than usual as he held up his hands, wiggling his fingers to draw her attention. “Nanogenes!” she shouted, excited by the revelation.

“It wasn't empty, Captain,” the Doctor all but growled, switching moods like he might hats. “There were enough nanogenes in there to rebuild a species.”

It too a second to sink in, but Jack seemed to understand in the same instant that Hartley did. She buried her face in her hands, eyes shut tightly as she realised _exactly_ what had happened, exactly why all these innocent people were being converted into zombies.

“Oh, God,” Jack groaned as he, too, put the pieces together, guilt flashing across his face in a flash.

“Getting it now, are we?” the Doctor asked cruelly. “When the ship crashes, the nanogenes escape. Billions upon billions of them, ready to fix all the cuts and bruises in the whole world. But what they find first is a dead child, probably killed earlier that night, and wearing a gas mask.”

Hartley seemed to be the only one to notice the way Nancy's face twisted in pure pain at the mention of her brother. Heart bleeding for the girl, she subtly shuffled away from the group, inching closer to Nancy and gently placing an arm around her shoulders, squeezing softly, just letting her know someone was there with her, supporting her. Letting her know she wasn't alone.

“And they brought him back to life? They can do that?” Rose was asking, but Hartley was more focused on the way tears were appearing in Nancy's eyes and the way she hung her head with grief.

“What's life?” asked the Doctor. “Life's easy. A quirk of matter. Nature's way of keeping meat fresh. Nothing to a nanogene. One problem, though. These nanogenes, they're not like the ones on your ship. This lot have never seen a human being before. Don't know what a human being's supposed to look like. All they've got to go on is one little body, and there's not a lot left. But they carry right on. They do what they're programmed to do. They patch it up. Can't tell what's gas mask and what's skull, but they do their best. Then off they fly, off they go, work to be done. Because, you see, now they think they know what people should look like, and it's time to fix all the rest. And they won't ever stop. They won't ever, _ever_ stop. The entire human race is going to be torn down and rebuilt in the form of one terrified child looking for its mother, and nothing in the world can _stop_ _it_!”

Jack looked as horrified as everybody felt, the weight of his mistake resting heavily on his shoulders. “I didn't know,” he said, panic spread across his features. Hartley felt bad for him, but in the same instant, it was still his fault. She squeezed Nancy again when the girl sniffled, rubbing a hand along the length of her arm, hoping to provide some semblance of comfort.

“But, we fix it, don't we?” Hartley asked with a flare of hope.

“What?” the Doctor snapped, looking like the last thing he needed in that moment was Hartley asking stupid questions. But it didn't _feel_ like a stupid question, not to her.

“Well, we've come from the future, and nobody _there_ is a gas-mask zombie,” she said logically. “So obviously we _do_ fix it, otherwise the future wouldn't be the same as it is now.”

“It doesn't work like that,” the Time Lord told her impatiently. “Time can be rewritten.”

Still not sure she completely understood, she could only nod and fall back into silence, rubbing Nancy's arm in weak comfort. She glanced to her right, spying the patients lined up around the fence and gasping when she realised they were all but out of time. “Guys!” she called, drawing their attention to the problem.

Rose cursed under her breath, and the Doctor ran his hands over his buzzed hair. “It's bringing the gas mask people here, isn't it?” Rose figured out, glancing over warily at the Doctor.

“The ship thinks it's under attack. It's calling up the troops. Standard protocol,” he told her flatly.

“But the gas mask people aren't troops.”

“They are now. This is a battle-field ambulance. The nanogenes don't just fix you up, they get you ready for the front line; equip you, programme you.”

“That's why the child's so strong, and why it could do that phoning thing.”

“It's a fully equipped Chula warrior, yes. All that weapons tech in the hands of a hysterical four year old looking for his mummy. And now there's an army of them.”

“Why don't they attack?” Jack asked, shifting his weight as he stared out at the gathered threat.

“Good little soldiers, waiting for their commander,” the Doctor sounded overwhelmed, bitter with the knowledge that there wasn't anything he could do to save them.

“The child?”

“Jamie,” Nancy snapped suddenly, and everyone turned to look at her, watching as she shrugged off Hartley's arm and wiped angrily at her tears. “Not 'the child'. _Jamie,_ ” she told them, voice hard and passionate. Hartley couldn't imagine how difficult this was for her, and now that she didn't have her to hug, she wrapped her arms around her own middle in an embrace.

“So, how long until the bomb falls?” Rose asked, glancing up at the dark sky in vague concern.

“Any second,” Jack announced, breathless with worry.

“What's the matter, Captain? A bit too close to the volcano for you?” the Doctor asked snidely.

He turned away, beginning to talk to Nancy in low tones. Hartley wasn't so sure she trusted someone like the Doctor to be alone with Nancy, who in that moment was a fragile mess – the last thing she needed was the Doctor's callous comments in her ear. But the Doctor cast her a meaningful look that told her to give them a moment, and she relented, squeezing Nancy one more time before shuffling away. She moved over to Jack, who continued to stare up at the sky in a panic.

“The bomb?” she asked casually, as though inquiring about the weather.

“We don't have _time_ for this,” Jack told her in a hushed voice, eyes on the dark shapes of the rumbling planes above them, which she supposed was an answer in and of itself. “We need to go _now,_ or we're all gonna get barbecued.”

“If we don't fix this, it's not going to matter anyway,” she murmured back just as quietly, head tilted back to look him in the eye. “Either we fix things, or the human race is doomed.”

“And it's all my fault,” he finished remorsefully.

She lifted her shoulders in a non-committal shrug. “Maybe it is,” she told him gently. “But we all make mistakes. But something tells me you'll make up for it, one day, somehow.”

“But the bomb-”

“I have faith,” she said only to give herself pause. Faith in what, exactly? Or who? She didn't even know. All she did know was that this wasn't the end of her journey; of that much, she was certain.

“What do you-?” the device on his wrist beeped loudly, interrupting him, and he shot up in a panic, whirling around to pin the Doctor with a frightened look. “Doctor, that bomb. We've got _seconds_!” he hissed desperately.

“You can teleport us out,” Rose suggested hopefully.

“Not you guys. The nav-com's back online. Going to take too long to override the protocols.”

“So it's volcano day,” the Doctor said without looking away from Nancy. “Do what you've got to do.”

Hartley glanced back at Jack, shooting him a comforting smile. The only expression he could make back was a guilty grimace before he hit a button and disappeared into thin air. She understood him leaving, if she'd had an out like that, she couldn't say for certain that she wouldn't take it just the same as him.

Rose looked beyond crushed by his exit, and Hartley felt annoyed more at the fact that he'd hurt Rose's feelings than anything else.

There was movement from the corner of her eye, and she turned, watching, absolutely wordless as Nancy fell to her knees beside Jamie, proclaiming for all to hear that she _was_ his mummy. Hartley hadn't expected it, and she blinked in shock, watching as Nancy grasped her son and pulled him into her body, embracing him tightly. It made Hartley's eyes water, but she blinked back her tears and watched in awe as a cloud of nanogenes swept them up in a glittering golden haze.

“Come on, _please_ ,” the Doctor was begging, staring at them hopefully. “Come on, you clever little nanogenes. Figure it out! The mother, she's the _mother_. It's _got_ to be enough information. Figure it out!”

Rose was completely confused, staring in utter bewilderment, not sure whether she should be excited or afraid. “What's happening?” she finally broke and asked, staring at the clouded mother and son warily.

“See? Recognising the same DNA,” the Doctor physically couldn't have been smiling any wider.

“Did we fix it?” Hartley asked, barely daring to hope.

“ _We_ didn't,” he shook his head, still smiling with all the brilliance of the sun. “ _Nancy_ did.”

There seemed to be a surge of energy, and suddenly Jamie let go of his mummy, who fell to the ground in exhaustion. Hartley was quick to leap over to the young girl's side, instantly reaching down to check she was okay, gently helping her up off the hard ground, subtly checking her over for injuries or signs of a growing gas mask.

The Doctor let her help Nancy while his sole focus was on the boy. “Oh, come on. Give me a day like this. Give me this _one_ ,” he begged the universe quietly, in his own little world, and Hartley was momentarily surprised by how _endearing_ she found it.

The Time Traveller cautiously reached out, placing his hands on either side of the gas mask and gently pulling. To everyone's great surprise and immense relief, the mask slipped off with all the ease of switch, coming off in one smooth movement and revealing the most adorable little face that Hartley would swear she had ever seen.

“Ha-ha!” the Doctor cheered, overwhelmed with joy as he swept the little boy up into his arms, swinging him around and making him giggle, as though this entire nightmare of a night had been just that; a nightmare. “Welcome back! Twenty years till pop music - you're gonna love it!” the Doctor told Jamie brightly, placing him tenderly back on the ground.

“What happened?” Nancy sniffled, lifting her head from where it had been sagged into Hartley's shoulder, now staring at her tiny son in wonder.

“The nanogenes recognised the superior information, the parent DNA. They didn't change you because _you_ changed _them_! Ha-ha! Mother knows best!” The Doctor was still beaming at them all as he set little Jamie back on his feet, the boy instantly finding his way to his mother's side.

“Oh, Jamie,” Nancy cooed, hugging him to her as tightly as possible, resting her chin on his blond head of hair and squeezing her eyes shut, basking in the feeling of holding her son in her arms.

“Doctor, that bomb,” Rose gasped, remembering the threat suddenly. The reminder made Hartley flinch, expecting the bomb to drop on them and end everything they'd just worked so hard to preserve.

“Taken care of it,” the Doctor grinned calmly, and Hartley stopped wincing to pull a confused look in his direction.

“How?” she asked slowly, wondering what other tricks he could _possibly_ have up his sleeve.

“Psychology.”

There was a high pitched ringing sound that surrounded them, one they could all identify as a bomb hurtling straight towards them. Hartley flinched into Rose, as though she might actually be able to protect her once the thing detonated. Just as they were _sure_ it would hit, a spaceship swooped in and caught the deadly weapon in its light beam. There was a flicker and Jack appeared sitting astride the bomb, grinning down at them brightly.

“Good lad!” the Doctor shouted up to him.

“The bomb's already commenced detonation,” he yelled back. “I've put it in stasis but it won't last long.”

“Change of plan,” the Time Lord said quickly. “Don't need the bomb. Can you get rid of it, safely as you can?”

Jack hesitated for one tenth of a second, then turned his alluring gaze to the blonde of the group. “Rose?” he called happily.

“Yeah?”

“Love the teeshirt!” He grinned, and Rose adjusted the shirt with a happy smile. “And Hartley?” he added, surprising the older girl, who blinked up at him with raised eyebrows. “You'll find your family again. I think they're closer than you think!” he beamed charmingly, sending her another one of his never ending winks. “Goodbye!”

And then he was gone. The Doctor and Rose were talking behind her, but she was too focused on the disappearing dot that was Jack's ship to bother paying attention. Something was wrong, why couldn't he have gotten rid of the bomb, then come back? Why did their goodbye have to be so sudden? Why did she have a sinking feeling in her gut, like something very bad was going to happen?

“Everybody lives, Rose. Just this once, Hartley, everybody _lives_!” the Doctor was shouting, stealing her focus back, and she turned, surprised he didn't burst into song with how happy he was.

Telling herself that everything was fine, Hartley forced herself to let it go, and laughed along with a giddy Doctor, hopping over one of the tracks so she could launch herself at Rose, dragging her into a warm, celebratory embrace. Rose let out a peal of laughter, hugging the redhead back tightly, both brimming with delight, just as the Doctor was.

All of the patients lining the gates were slowly beginning to get to their feet again, muttering confused words to each other, as those who had previously been missing limbs now found all their bodies completely intact.

“I can't believe it,” Rose grinned as the two girls pulled apart, clapping her hands together with joy. “I can't believe it all worked out.”

“Believe it, Rosie,” Hartley said affectionately, ruffling the younger woman's hair with glee. Rose was so exuberant, she didn't even care, beaming at her happily and playfully ducking the gesture, reaching over to return it.

“Right, you lot. Lots to do. Beat the Germans, save the world. Don't forget the welfare state!” the Doctor shouted to the crowd as he backtracked, propping himself up on the empty ambulance and beginning to the hit buttons on the side. “Setting this to self-destruct, soon as everybody's clear. History says there was an explosion here. Who am I to argue with history?” he spoke to the pair of them quietly, eyes on his work.

“Usually the first in line,” Rose quipped, and he looked up long enough to shoot her a happy, carefree grin.

Things wrapped up quickly, the Doctor making sure everything was fine as they all prepared to head back to the TARDIS. Hartley was quick to seek out Jamie and Nancy, sweeping the crowd until she spotted them by the barn, the mum fussing about with the little boy's hair, staring down at him, eyes shining with love. The Doctor was stood beside them, murmuring something she couldn't hear. He left as she approached, moving over to a group of elderly ladies who looked more than a little bewildered.

Hartley hurried over to the mother and son, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet in her enthusiasm. Nancy glanced up at her with a small smile. “D'you mind?” Hartley asked her gently, and Nancy quickly nodded, smiling back widely.

This was a different girl to the one Hartley had met earlier, this girl was happy, this girl was _alive._

She dropped to her knees so she was at eye level with the little boy, who looked a little tired, but otherwise no worse for wear. “Hello there,” she greeted him softly, unable to help the ear to ear grin on her face. “I'm Hart, and it's very nice to meet you, Jamie.”

“Hart?” the boy repeated, an adorably confused look on his tiny features. He reached up to thump at his own chest. “Like my heart?”

“Exactly like your heart,” she laughed gently, running her hands down his back soothingly. He was so cute, she could just eat him up. “I've got to go now,” she told him regretfully. “But I wanted to make sure you knew I think you're really, really brave, and that you have a great mummy.”

“Yup,” Jamie nodded his head in agreement, leaning into Nancy's side.

“Hart!” the Doctor's voice sounded over the people around them, and she glanced over her shoulder to look at where he and Rose were standing by the fence line, waiting for her to catch up.

“I've gotta go now,” she told the pair of Londoners apologetically. “But you be good for your mummy, you hear?” she added before making a silly face, and the boy laughed as she ruffled his hair much as she had done with Rose moments before. She stood to her feet smiling kindly at Nancy, whose eyes were still shining with tears – but the happy kind. “Everything's going to be okay,” she promised her gently, sending her a final parting smile before spinning around and hurrying after her companions.

“These nanogenes,” Rose began as they began the long walk back to the TARDIS. “What year are they invented?”

“I dunno the exact date,” the Doctor replied casually. “Around the fortieth century, give or take?”

“You'd think they'd have worked out the kinks a bit more thoroughly, don't you?” she asked.

“They do more good than harm, honestly,” he told her reassuringly. “Incidences like these are rare as chocolate milk from a cow. Well, in this century, anyway. That reminds me, there's a farm on New Earth I'd like to take you to...”

“Besides, everybody _lived_ , Rose,” Hartley added as the Doctor lost himself in his daydreams of their next adventure, nudging the blonde gently in the side. “Don't focus on the negatives, not on a day like today.”

The Doctor seemed to only get happier the closer they got to the TARDIS, and he was practically giggling as he pushed his way into the ship, all but skipping up the ramp, high on their win.“The nanogenes will clean up the mess and switch themselves off, because I just told them to. Nancy and Jamie will go to Doctor Constantine for help, ditto. All in all, all things considered, fantastic!”

“Look at you, beaming away like you're Father Christmas,” Rose laughed happily.

“Who says I'm not, red-bicycle-when-you-were-twelve?” his reply had Hartley in stitches. She grasped the railing as she trilled with laughter at the mystified look on Rose's face, practically gaping at him where he stood beaming by the console. “And everybody _lives_ , Rose! Everybody lives! I need more days like this,” he continued like he hadn't just dropped a bombshell.

She wondered whether he knew what _she'd_ gotten for Christmas when she was twelve, but decided to wait until later to ask. Hartley settled down, watching the Doctor with an undeniably fond expression as he flitted around the console, sending them into the vortex with ease.

“Doctor,” Rose began slowly, suddenly not sounding quite as giddy as before.

“Go on, ask me _anything._ I'm on fire!” the Doctor cheered obliviously.

“What about Jack?” At her words the Doctor sobered, a morose expression spreading over his face. Hartley's chest squeezed as she realised the same thing. The smile melted from her face, and she leant against the railing to hold herself up. “Why'd he say goodbye?” Rose continued when the Doctor said nothing, though his silence was telling enough. The Time Lord sighed, fiddling with a flashing knob on the console for lack of something better to do with his hands. “That bomb,” she said breathlessly, like someone had punched her in the throat, “did it kill him?”

“It will do, I suppose, yeah,” he finally replied, frowning thoughtfully, the expression not quite remorseful, but still distinctly guilty.

“But we can save him!” Hartley all but shouted, unable to restrain herself. After all, they had the TARDIS; the magical, wonderful, materialising, time-travelling _TARDIS._ “We can, can't we?” she pressed when the Doctor's frown deepened.

The Doctor looked taken aback by the intensity in her response, but he considered it nonetheless. “Can we?” Rose asked tightly, like she barely dared to hope.

If the Doctor was indecisive, he didn't show it, cracking a grin and flicking a switch that sent the TARDIS into travel mode, the floor shaking under them as they moved. In the same instant music flooded the console room, and Hartley realised with a roll of her eyes that it was the song Rose and Jack had danced to before.

The TARDIS landed with a deep, beautiful groan, and while the Doctor swept a surprised Rose up in an impromptu dance lesson, Hartley raced to the doors, heart in her throat. She threw them open to peer across at Jack, who was sat rightly in the captain's seat, staring out into the stars mournfully, martini glass in hand.

She leaned up against the doors, arms crossed as she watched him with a grin, taking in the acceptance in his expression. He'd embraced his fate, and he was doing the right thing. That was something you didn't hear of often, a self-proclaimed con man doing the _right_ _thing._

“Well, hurry up then!” Rose shouted from behind her, and Jack whirled around in shock.

“While we're young, please, Captain,” Hartley added with a wide, jubilant smile, stepping back and waving him onto their ship. Once Jack had recovered from his surprise, he leapt violently from his chair, sprinting into the TARDIS and all but tripping inside, staring around in confounded awe. She turned her attention back to the pair dancing in the middle of the control room, wandering up the ramp towards them. “Points for effort, Doctor,” she called teasingly.

“Oi!” he complained childishly, before realising something was off. “Close the door, will you? Your ship's about to blow up. There's going to be a draft,” he said to Jack, rolling his eyes before pulling away from a giggling Rose and beginning to hit a seemingly random order to switches on the console. The Captain quickly shut the doors as the Doctor sent them into the vortex with a jolt. “Welcome to the TARDIS,” he said amicably.

“Much bigger on the inside,” Jack commented.

“You'd better be,” the Time Lord added seriously, and there was a beat of awkward silence before Rose decided to fill it.

“I think what the Doctor's trying to say is – you may cut in,” she said in an attempt to lighten the mood, a hint of her tongue poking out from between her pearly teeth.

“Rose! I've just remembered!” the Doctor shouted suddenly, goofy delight spread across his face.

“What?” she asked with wide eyes.

The music changed from the waltz to swing – the song lighter and more playful than before. “I can _dance_!” he proclaimed giddily, beginning to move fluidly.

“Actually, Doctor, I thought Jack might like this dance,” Rose moving her hand away when the Doctor reached out to pull her in.

“I'm sure he would, Rose. I'm absolutely certain,” he beamed cheekily. “But who with?”

All of them laughed as Rose rolled her eyes and relented, falling into a dance with the Time Lord. Hartley settled against the railing, watching them contentedly. Rose giggled delightedly as the Doctor dipped her, and Hartley could only beam, simply overjoyed. It most certainly had been one of the good days.

Jack appeared in front of her all of a sudden, dipped in a low bow. A peal of laughter left Hartley's lips as he held out a hand politely. “May I have this dance?” he asked in a posh accent, and she beamed at him happily as she took his hand, allowing him to pull her closer.

His hands wrapped around her middle, holding firmly as he began to pull her around the room to the new music playing from the speakers. He twirled her, and she laughed again, feeling warm and comfortable in his arms, and for the first time in awhile, finally not feeling like an awkward third wheel.

“Is it always like this?” Jack asked in her ear, glancing over at the other dancing pair with a grin.

Hartley smiled, insides bursting with so much happiness that she wasn't quite sure what to do with it all. “Oh no,” she shook her head with a bright, happy smile, plucking the Captain's hat off his head and plopping it on her own with a playful wink. “Sometimes it's much, _much_ better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a harder one, and I considered not including it, but I think it's vitally important that you see Hartley and Jack meet. As the Face of Boe once said, it's the start of something great...
> 
> As always, reviews keep me fuelled and motivated. There's nothing I love more than hearing from you guys!


	13. Something About Jack

“ _Time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time.”_

Marthe Troly-Curtin

* * *

“Welcome to Honolulu,” the Doctor announced with a grin, gesturing wildly to the sand stretching out before them. It connected to a wall of waves that lapped at the shore like any ordinary Earth beach, only the water was clearer than any Hartley had ever seen. “The planet, not the capital of Hawaii,” he added, just in case there was any doubt.

Hartley stepped from where she was leant against the doors of the TARDIS, grinning as she stared out at the relaxing sight, drinking in the salty smell and the calming sound of the beautiful, alien sea. Jack stood beside her, arms crossed over his chest as he took in the view.

“I promised Rose coconut cocktails and one of those mani/pedi things from the four-armed locals,” he continued, nudging Rose with a smirk. The blonde smiled up at him, practically glowing with happiness. “Thought it'd be nice for Jack's first trip,” he added with a slight shrug, playing off his kindness.

“As nice as a mani-pedi sounds, would it be alright if I took a swim?” Hartley spoke up. She wasn't in the mood to have people prodding at her, she was much more interested in the call of the aquamarine ocean spread out before them like the most enticing of treasures.

“They have a reef a few kilometres down the coast,” the Doctor pointed in the right direction. “They offer free-diving as an option.”

“Sounds magical!” Jack jumped in, grinning down at Hartley eagerly. She couldn't help but grin at his cheesy excitement. “Can I join you?” he added with that charming smile of his, and Hartley absolutely did not blush under his handsome grin.

To cover it, she rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Like you have to ask,” she said wryly, and Jack's grin grew.

“Then we can all meet up again later for those cocktails?” Rose added hopefully, and Hartley perked up at the suggestion.

“Sounds like a plan.”

Hartley turned to the Doctor, watching as he dug in his pocket, clearly looking for something specific. “Take this,” he finally said, dropping a familiar badge into her waiting palm. She blinked down at the Psychic Paper, surprised he'd trusted her enough to let her use it alone. “Who knows what kind of trouble the two of you combined will get into?” he muttered, but Hartley didn't let it bother her, instead grinning at the Time Lord and tucking the paper into her back pocket for safe keeping. “Alright, meet back here in two hours, yeah?” he said sternly, waiting only long enough for the pair to nod before leading Rose away, the girl calling out a goodbye over her shoulder.

“C'mon,” Hartley beamed, grasping Jack's forearm tightly and dragging him back towards the TARDIS, which was parked under the shade of what was pretty much a palm tree, only its leaves were a deep, sparkly blue. “We'll need to change into our swimmers.”

“Uh, I didn't exactly have time to pack any luggage...” Jack trailed off, and Hartley suddenly remembered that he'd only been on board less than two days. He still didn't know all the miracles of the TARDIS.

“You'll find everything you need in the wardrobe,” she assured him, pushing the unlocked door open.

She directed Jack back to his newly claimed room with instructions to check his closet, then went back to her own room and quickly stripped down. She flicked through her drawers for a long moment before finally deciding on a simple, cherry red one-piece. She changed into the swimwear, deciding to leave her hair down to cover the exposed skin of her back, then shoved a pair of flip flops onto her feet and fetched a beach bag to shove a towel, some sunscreen, and the Psychic Paper into. She found a blue, wide-brimmed hat sitting on her bed as she turned to leave, and sent a tiny smile up to the ceiling before putting it on and leaving her room.

She was the first one back to the control room, and she moved instantly to the doors, pulling them open and leaning out the gap, staring out at the beautiful sight before her. There was a squawk from above, and she glanced up, seeing a flock of birds soaring through the perfect, crystal-clear sky. She imagined they were this planet's version of seagulls, grey in colour and slightly larger than those from Earth, but seeming in their element on this beachy planet.

“There should be maps for this place or something,” Jack was complaining from inside the TARDIS behind her, and she turned around, only to grimace when she noticed that all he was wearing was a green speedo, leaving every little to the imagination.

“Please tell me you're bringing board shorts?” she asked hopefully, only to sigh when he just beamed back cheekily.

“Can't handle it, Hart?”

“Trust me, that's not the issue.”

“Come on,” he said abruptly, striding past her and heading out into the sun, his bare feet sinking into the soft sand. “We're wasting time, and as much as I love cocktails, I do wanna spend at least a _little_ time in the water.”

She rolled her eyes, accepting that to complain would be to fight a losing a battle, so she shut the door behind her, slinging her bag over her shoulder and pulling her hat further onto her head before following the captain out onto the beach.

“Give it time, soon enough you won't need a map,” she said in response to his earlier comment, deciding she too wanted to feel the sand under her feet and kicking her flip flops off, reaching down to pick them up and shoving them into her bag. “She'll begin to show you the way around, once you get to know her, at least.”

“You're talking about it as if it's a person,” Jack snorted.

Hartley smiled, shaking her head at the man's ignorance. “Maybe not a _person_ ,” she said knowingly. “But definitely _alive._ ”

“Sure,” he replied, but she could tell he was just humouring her. She rolled her eyes, deciding to let the Doctor explain later, she knew he'd certainly do a better job of it. A companionable silence stretched between them, only the sound of their breaths and the squawks of the sea-birds filling the warm air. “You ever been free diving before?” he asked as they were coming off the sand, the terrain turning into smooth, flat stones as they continued around a natural bend in the beach.

“No,” she told him, adjusting the bag on her shoulder, which was beginning to get harder to hold as she began to sweat, the hot sun beating down on her like an open flame, her skin tingling from the heat. “Before the Doc, I lived in England. Never left in my whole life. And there aren't many opportunities to free dive in central London.”

“And how long have you been travelling with the Doctor?” he questioned, reaching over and swiping the bag from her grip, hoisting it over his own shoulder with a word. She grinned up at him, and he winked down at her playfully before they returned to their conversation.

“Hard to say,” she said with a shrug, relieved to be free of the added weight. “Time doesn't really seem to exist in the Doctor's world. It's easy to lose track of the days.”

“Guesstimate?”

“Maybe six months?” she tried, nose scrunching as she tried to calculate the timeframe in her head.

“And how'd he find you?”

As they rounded another bend, a small shack came into sight, a banner across the top proclaiming 'Free Diving – Boat Hire' in big, bright blue letters.

“ _I_ sort of found _him_ ,” she murmured back distractedly, but before he could ask what that meant, a robust man in a pink Hawaiian shirt bounded up to them, beaming for all he was worth, revealing a set of perfectly straight, pure white teeth.

“Welcome, welcome!” he all but shouted, sounding a little overly enthusiastic for the situation. “My name is Travic! Feel like a bit of free diving today?” he asked, and Jack looked like he very much wanted to say 'obviously' in return, but thankfully kept his big mouth shut.

“You have boats for hire?” Hartley asked, smiling back politely as she glanced over at the row of small tin boats sitting along the shore.

“Of course! And they're free for guests of the resort.” Travic paused, suddenly eyeing them with a hint of suspicion. “You _are_ guests of the resort, yes?”

Hartley didn't like to lie, but she knew she knew by now that this was how things worked in this sort of lifestyle. It was awfully hard to have any fun without the little white lie every now and again. However, before her lips could form the lie, Jack was holding out a familiar slip of paper. The hearty-looking man took it, eyes scanning whatever appeared to be written across its face.

“Brilliant!” he grinned, returning the Psychic Paper to Jack, who smiled and dropped it back into her bag. “Right this way, Mr. and Mrs. Harkness.”

The man bounded away, heading down to where the boats were waiting, lined up across the sand. Hartley took the opportunity to slam her elbow into Jack's gut. There wasn't much force behind it – Hartley was about as strong as a field mouse – but he grunted nonetheless. “What?” he asked under his breath, and she took a moment to glare up at him with all the ferocity of a kitten.

“Married?” she hissed. Jack only grinned, utterly charming.

“I just showed him proof of our stay, he filled in the blanks on his own,” he told her, so smooth that she couldn't find hint of a lie. “Guess we just give off married vibes, darlin',” he added impishly.

Hartley rolled her eyes just as they came to a stop at the closest of the boats. Travic was already beginning to push it into the sea, the crystal clear water lapping at its sides. “Have you done this before?” he asked them through a grunt, and Jack handed the bag off to Hartley to give the guy some help. “Do I need to go through the safety regulations with you both?”

“Not at all,” Jack waved a hand dismissively as the boat drifted into the water, stopped by the hand he had on it. “We're practically experts.”

“Great!” Travic beamed happily. “Well, have a lovely time. And if you need help, simply wave your arms and one of our certified lifeguards will be there in a jiffy.”

“Thanks, sweet cheeks,” Jack had the audacity to wink at the poor man, who suddenly looked very flustered, flushing pink as he turned to leave.

“I actually _wanted_ to hear the safety speech, you know,” Hartley grumbled, stepping into the water with a wince. She's been expecting it to be cold, only to find it was pleasantly warm.

“Relax,” he told her confidently. She wasn't looking at him, but she still somehow knew he'd rolled his eyes. “I know what I'm doing.”

As he spoke he overstepped, sinking down into the sand and nearly tipping the boat on its side.

“Great,” she mumbled, steadying the small boat herself and tossing her things inside as she fought a telltale smile. “You instill so much confidence within me.”

“That's not all I'll instill within you,” he righted himself, taking a moment to wag his eyebrows suggestively. Hartley paid his harmless flirting no attention, throwing her leg over the side of the boat and stepping in. There was a paddle on each side, and a basket full of equipment shoved below one of the seats.

Jack hopped in next, moving to the oars and setting to work propelling them away from the shore.

They only went out a few hundred metres, then Jack reached back, taking what looked like a small anchor and setting it next to him before reaching down to the basket and beginning to pull on his equipment.

Hartley watched him closely, copying each step as she first wiggled into her flippers, which seemed to be one-size-fits-all, and slightly too big for her feet. Next she pulled out her snorkel gear, slipping the mask on over her eyes and nose and then holding the mouthpiece in her hand, waiting to see what they would do next.

“I'm going to take the anchor down,” he told her. “I've got to do it by hand so I don't damage the reef.”

“Okay,” she nodded back through her gear. He grinned at her, slipping the mouthpiece between his lips before taking the mini anchor in his hand and catapulting himself off the boat, making the entire thing rock, nearly tipping on its side. Hartley yelped, gripping the edges to keep herself steady.

Jack disappeared into the water with a splash, and Hartley leant over the side, surprised she could still see him perfectly – the water was _that_ clear. The further down he went, the more distorted his form became, probably due to the current. She could see all kinds of colours spread out beneath her, and for one brief moment she thought about how much she would love the Doctor to be doing this with them, rather than off with Rose getting mani-pedis.

She shook the intrusive thought away, watching as Jack reappeared, flipping his wet hair majestically and grinning up at her cheekily.

“Coming in for a dip, Pretty Lady?” he asked her once he'd removed his mouthpiece. She didn't rise to the bait, instead slipping her own piece into place and gently climbing from the boat and into the warm, crystal clear, absolutely perfect water.

It was like nothing she'd ever seen before with her own two eyes. The coral reef seemed to stretch for miles in every direction, fish of all sizes and colours swimming around her in groups and patterns. She couldn't get over the beauty of it, and she never wanted to leave.

Jack appeared in her field of vision, pointing frantically to the left and grinning wildly around his mouthpiece. She spun around, narrowing her eyes through her goggles to stare through the water at the handful of creatures dancing towards them. For a split second she panicked, thinking they might have been sharks, but her racing heart calmed as she realised they definitely weren't predators, but rather a pod of dolphin-like animals swimming towards them with all the grace of aquatic ballerinas.

If she hadn't been underwater, she would have gasped. There were five of them, darting through the water with skill she would never possess. They were white in colour, spots of grey and black running along their sides in a way that reminded her of underwater dalmatians.

She swam back to the surface briefly, wanting to have as much air as she possibly could. When she dove back down they were even closer, swimming graceful circles around a beaming Jack.

Two noticed her reappearance and broke away from the others, moving towards her smoothly. She grinned around her mouthpiece, reaching out to run her fingers gently along their sides as they swam around her too.

She felt alive, her heart was racing in a way that she wasn't used to. She'd experienced a lot of things since beginning her travels with the Doctor. She'd run from a Dalek, run from Slitheen, run away from gas mask zombies – to say the least, there was a lot of running. There were mind-blowing things she'd seen, like watching the Earth come to an end; like saving entire species to saving individual lives that would have otherwise not been spared. All these things were fantastic, but they were also brutal, and cold, and sometimes not so beautiful at all.

She'd known the universe was stunning and breathtaking and beautiful, but she'd barely been able to see that side of it amongst all the mischief and running. Now, as she floated weightlessly in a perfect ocean on another planet in another galaxy, dolphins swirling around her like life's most graceful dancers, she realised she was missing the point.

She was so concerned with who to _save_ and what to _do,_ how to go about her day without catastrophically messing things up, worried the Doctor would abandon her for her mistakes. That needed to stop. This new lifestyle was a gift, and for the first time she was realising that was exactly _not_ how she was treating it.

When she came back up for air, Jack came with her. The pair propped themselves up on the rim of the boat, saving themselves from having to tread water to stay afloat. “For someone who's never left London, you sure can swim,” the fifty-first century man commented, reaching up to wipe away the water that was dripping into his uncovered eyes.

“My dad was paranoid,” she replied with a serene smile, surprised not to feel the stab of pain at the reminder of her father, who she wasn't sure she'd be seeing again any time soon. “Wanted to make sure I could handle myself, no matter the situation.”

“Good man,” he grinned, glancing back into the water where they could just still see the dolphin-type creatures dancing beneath them. “This is amazing!” he told her excitedly. “Is this what you do all the time? Just go places, pretend you're meant to be there and have all the fun you possibly can?”

Her smile faltered ever so slightly, but he was too busy glancing up at the flawless, pale blue sky to notice. “It's not always fun and games,” she responded quietly, looking up too, noting that even though the sun was shining, she could just spot a few little stars peeking through the light, so close and bright that they glowed even during the day. “But when it's good, it's _good_.”

“So you just, travel around, wasting time and having fun?” he questioned, treading water casually as they spoke.

“ _Time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time,_ ” she quoted with a smile. Jack looked momentarily confounded by her words. “It's a quote,” she explained with the tiniest hint of awkwardness, suddenly self-conscious of her little habit, “from Marthe Troly-Curtin in _Phrynette Married_.”

“Will you judge me terribly if I admit I have no idea what you just said?”

Hartley could only laugh.

“Anyone ever tell you that you're kind of a nerd?” Jack asked, a grin playing on his mouth.

“Often,” she confessed, and this time when Jack grinned, it was less with cheekiness or playful flirtation and more with a warm appreciation that stunned Hartley into silence.

“So, does the Doc ever take requests?” he barrelled on eagerly. Hartley moved her arms in the water, enjoying the soothing feel of it running over her skin. It felt like velvet, smoother and thicker than regular water, beautiful in its own way.

“If he's in the mood,” she smiled, lifting her shoulders in a shrug as if to say 'what can you do?'. “But we should definitely do things like this more often.”

“All of time and space at your fingertips,” Jack mused, arms moving just under the surface, bright grin never straying far. “You must never run out of things to do.”

“Something like that,” she agreed, grinning back before slipping her gear back on over her face and sinking back under the water, eager to spend as much time in paradise as she possibly could, feeling perfectly at peace for the first time in a long time.

* * *

“There you are!” Rose cried with an air of relief, throwing an arm around Hartley's shoulders only to pull back when she realised her hair was still damp. “'Was beginning to think we'd have to ditch cocktails and go on a rescue mission,” she added teasingly, and Jack smirked as he rounded the pair, moving over to the Doctor who was leant up against the bar, engaged in a conversation with a man with two heads. “Whatcha think?” Rose asked, holding up her hands and wiggling her fingers playfully.

Her nails were painted a peachy pink, the colour reminding Hartley of a perfect sunset.

“Lovely,” she smiled, stepping out of the way of an alien who looked rather like what she might imagine Bigfoot looked like, then using the move to head towards the bar. “Didn't know you liked spa days,” she added conversationally, hopping up onto a barstool and starting in surprise when it swung from her momentum.

“Not generally, but I'm also not about to say no when one's offered,” Rose smiled, leaning around her to peek at the Doctor, who was completely engaged in his conversation with both heads of his new alien friend. “The bloke who did my feet was gorgeous, by the way,” she said suddenly, surprising Hartley further. “Once you get past the second set of arms, that is,” she added with a mischievous smirk.

“Sounds sexy,” Hartley murmured jokingly, poking her tongue out at the blonde and spinning on the barstool, waving a hand at the bartender who was swamped with patrons. The man – an alien resembling a humanoid pineapple – nodded hurriedly but didn't move, remaining at the other end of the bar, serving a group of humans with devices like cameras around their necks.

“I thought maybe you could go down, get your toes done...make some connections...” Rose trailed off pointedly, and Hartley turned her attention back to her, beginning to grow suspicious.

“And by connections do you mean 'have freaky alien sex'?” she asked rather bluntly, and Rose blushed a bright pink. “Gotta admit, four arms...just imagine the possibilities,” she added mischievously, and even though Rose flushed darker, she couldn't help the amused smile that flickered at her lips. “C'mon, Rose, be straight with me,” she said suddenly, deciding not to dance around the point. “Why're you trying to pimp me out?”

“I'm not trying to _pimp you out_ ,” Rose replied, exasperated. Hartley only cocked an eyebrow, her skepticism apparent. Rose sighed, tapping her fingers against the glass of the bar in an uneven rhythm. “I just...want you to make friends,” she finally murmured.

Hartley was surprised by the confession. “What d'you mean?” she asked in confusion. “I don't need friends. I've got you and the Doctor – and now Jack. Why would I need more friends?” Rose was silent, just pursing her lips tightly. “What's this _really_ about, Rosie?”

“I just thought you might like some...adult time,” she finally replied, reluctant and a little bit embarrassed.

Hartley swallowed back a snort of laughter, rolling her eyes fondly. “If you're trying to say that you think I need to get laid, well...” she trailed off, considering, “you're not wrong.”

This time it was Rose who laughed, though the sound was more a sharp bark of surprise. She eyed Hartley with amusement. “How can you be _so_ maternal and yet _so_ devious?” she asked her friend in sheer exasperation. “Those aren't traits that typically go together, y'know?”

“Maternal?” Hartley echoed dumbly.

“Last week you told me that you didn't think I was getting enough fibre in my diet and asked me to switch breakfast cereals,” Rose giggled. Hartley grimaced at how the recount made her sound. “You couldn't be more of a mum if you tried,” she broke off with a loud, playful gasp. “Oh my God – you're the TARDIS _mum_!” Rose laughed again.

Hartley tried not to scowl. “Am not,” she argued childishly, waving for the bartender again and huffing when she was ignored.

“Are too,” Rose giggled again. Hartley decided it was in her best interest not to respond. “So your swim was good?” Rose suddenly asked conversationally, leaning her elbows on the bar and raising an eyebrow curiously. Hartley was glad the conversation was off her sex life and maternal tenancies – a set of clashing conversation topics if she'd ever heard of some.

“Magical,” Hartley admitted happily. “If we have time later, we should go back; I think I heard something about the days here lasting seventy hours.”

“I've never been big on swimming,” Rose grimaced at the very thought.

Hartley opened her mouth to make a convincing argument, but a tall body slid between them, stopping her before she could speak. She reared back, heart leaping as she thought for a beat it may have been someone looking for trouble, but she relaxed a moment later, realising it was only Jack. He held two cocktail glasses in his hands, that familiar, charming grin on his lips.

“What're two lovely dames like you doing in a shoddy place like this?” he asked playfully. It was kind of a ridiculous opening, considering the 'shoddy place' they were in looked like the kind of bar that on Earth would have had a five-star rating. People were in penguin suits holding trays of colourful delicacies, and aliens from all corners of the galaxy wearing their finest jewellery and sipping politely at fancy looking cocktails.

“Give me my drink and go away,” Rose joked, stealing one of the cocktails from his hand and bringing the straw to her lips, taking a deep sip of the drink that looked an awful lot like a Pina Colada.

“How'd you get the bartender to serve you?” Hartley asked, taking the remaining drink and holding it in careful hands. She took a sip, and it certainly tasted nothing like the Pina Colada's from Earth. It was _way_ better.

“My delightful aura and charming smile,” he replied, shooting her his most attractive smile. Hartley had to admit, Captain Jack Harkness was one _hell_ of a hot bloke. For one distasteful second she entertained the idea of scratching her itch (as it were) with the con-man, but immediately recoiled at the thought. The idea of being in that kind of relationship with Jack made her feel immediately uncomfortable. She hadn't known him long but already Jack felt too much like family to even consider it.

She had to wonder, would she ever have any sort of romantic relationship with anyone ever again? She didn't exactly have a lot of opportunities to meet men, not now that she was on this journey of fun and universe exploration with the others. Life on the TARDIS wasn't suited for significant others – Adam had proved that much for her.

Was she doomed to be alone until the day she died? Had her magnetisation to the Doctor only destroyed her future, rather than enhanced it?

“Why the long face, Pretty Lady?” Jack chirped, yanking her from her morose thoughts.

Hartley blinked in surprise, but she recovered quickly. “Why do you call me that?” she asked him, something she'd been wondering for awhile.

Jack seemed befuddled by the question. “You're pretty, and you're a lady,” he said like it were obvious.

The answer was straightforward enough, but something about it still niggled at Hartley, and she couldn't put her finger on what, or why.

“Do you like the drink?” he asked a moment later, nodding to the cocktail in her hand. She nodded, taking another deep sip, feeling the sweet taste begin to cleanse away her slightly morose thoughts from before. “The Doc raved about them,” Jack added, taking a gulp of his own. “But I've had better.”

“Name of your sex tape,” she quipped with a smirk, and Jack looked delightedly startled. He laughed, swiping the chunk of fruit hooked over the rim of her glass and tossing it into his mouth.

“You're a barrel of surprises, Hartley Daniels,” he smirked, and she beamed back, swinging around on her chair to peek over at the Doctor, who looked to be explaining something in vivid detail to his new friend, using wild gestures as he spoke. “So, you said you've been travelling with the Doc for about six months?” he began conversationally, and she could tell he was eager to learn more about them.

Hartley realised with a cough that, while she felt like she knew Jack incredibly well, in reality, she'd barely met the guy a full two days ago. He knew very little about her, or she about him – so how did he make her feel so comfortable after such a short amount of time? What was it about Captain Jack Harkness that made her feel so at ease? Like they were somehow kindred spirits, connected in some way that went beyond words and logic?

“What about you, Rose? The same?” he asked their other friend, oblivious to Hartley's inner turmoil.

“Yeah, well Hart met the Doctor first, actually,” Rose told him with a happy smile, idly twirling the straw of her cocktail. “She was already with him by the time they stumbled upon me.”

“Ooh, I feel like there's a story there,” sang Jack.

Rose met Hartley's eyes with a warm look, thinking on their shared memories fondly. “Where do we start?” she asked.

“Well, how about where you're from?” Jack suggested, turning to look at Hartley first. “Wait – you said you were from London, right?” he continued on without pause, and she nodded her head in confirmation. “Thirtieth century?” he guessed, but she quickly shook her head no, wondering where he got that impression.

“No – the twenty-first, like Rose,” she said, resolving to ask about his guess later.

“And what did you do for work?” he pressed curiously, leaning casually over the bar to swipe a cherry from the pile ready to be put into drinks, snatching one up and tossing it past his lips with a shit-eating grin.

“I was a writer,” she told him simply, swinging back and forth on her chair. “Children's books,” she added, excited she had a chance to bring up any part of her previous life at all.

The Doctor never asked, she realised with a jolt. He wasn't interested in the details of her old lifestyle. He'd only wanted to know the important things, he didn't care for trivial details like her friend's names or what she did for work. She might have expected talking about it to be hard, but she found now that it was actually rather cathartic, or maybe it was just due to whatever superpower Jack seemed to possess that made her magically feel better.

“I loved it,” she confessed to Jack, suddenly feeling relief potent in her veins. It was like she'd been holding onto some kind of secret. A weight lifted off her shoulders.

This new life was amazing and perfect and at times, too good to be true – but there was no harm in admitting that her old life on Earth hadn't been that awful either. There had been things she'd loved about it. Things she missed and still thought about every single day.

“Did you write under your real name?” Jack was asking her eagerly, and she focused back on the conversation.

“Yeah,” she nodded.

“So we'd be able to find them in a book store, or a library?”

She was surprised by the question, and a smile grew on her face. “You would,” she nodded, and even after all these years of being a professional, published author, she still got that tiny little thrill at admitting it. “But I wouldn't bother,” she added quickly, “they're not gonna be exciting to someone like you. They're just children's books.”

“Of course they will. They were written by _you_ ,” Jack told her with a grin that Hartley knew in her heart was completely sincere.

Affection slammed into her like a rush of current in the ocean they'd just explored together. She felt it so strong it almost burned, but she smiled up at him with overwhelming gratitude. He beamed back, and she again marvelled at how easily they fit into one another's lives. Like he was always meant to be there – the fourth member of Team TARDIS.

“I'll ask the Doc to stop at a library next time we're on Earth,” he said with absolute certainty, grinning winningly and tapping their glasses together as if in toast. “What about you, Rose?” he asked, setting his drink down on the bar and turning to lean his weight against it, crossing his arms over his chest and peering over at Rose curiously.

Up until now she'd been sitting quietly, letting the other two talk as she sipped happily on her cocktail. She seemed surprised to have been brought into the conversation, and quickly took the straw out of her mouth.

“I worked in a shop,” she revealed with a shrug. “There was an invasion, a race of living plastic called the Autons. The Doctor showed up to save us all. Took my hand, told me to run,” she recalled with a fond smile, casting the Doctor a long glance that made Hartley's stomach twist – not quite with discontent, but certainly with something. “Next thing I know, we're running all over the universe, the three of us, a kind of a family,” she added with bright eyes, and Hartley felt warm at the words.

“There really is a _whole lot_ of running, isn't there?” she murmured around a smirk, stirring her drink with her straw.

“But what are you running from?” Jack asked with one of his rare frowns, taking the words the wrong way.

Rose looked surprised by the question, stumped at how to answer.

“We're not running _from_ anything,” Hartley jumped in, tilting her head with a calm simplicity. “We just want to have fun, explore the universe; but it seems trouble follows the Doctor no matter his intentions, like some kind of curse,” she added with a small chuckle of amusement, taking away any bitterness that might have lingered in the words.

“What do you think of the cocktails?” the Doctor suddenly interjected, appearing by their side with a large cocktail of his own in his hand.

There was a pink silly-straw poking out from the frothy yellow liquid. Jack looked like he had more questions sitting in his mouth, but the Doctor didn't give him a chance to ask.

“Fantastic, right?” he beamed, catching the straw and drinking deeply, oblivious to the conversation that had happened before his arrival. “Thinking we'll go to Neptune next,” he continued brightly. “They've got underwater nightclubs, and their seaweed delicacies are to _die_ for!”

That was the Doctor, you see, always running forwards and never, not even for a second, looking back. They all grinned as he continued talking, telling them all about these nightclubs, making Jack and both girls laugh loudly at his enthusiasm. It was peaceful and happy and warm and Hartley – in her heart – knew that she was _exactly_ where she wanted to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this one – it's a little moment of respite before things begin to get crazy as we head into the final couple of chapters of season 1…
> 
> Thanks to everyone who follows and favourites, I see you all and I love you all. To those who review, you make my entire day and you keep me motivated and passionate! I can't wait to hear your thoughts on this one, and the upcoming chapter, which will be another original before the S1 finale…


	14. Under the Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick warning, there are some drug references in this chapter. Nothing outrightly inappropriate, so I won't change the rating or anything, but if mentions of drugs and/or addiction trouble you, then just be prepared as you keep reading.
> 
> Enjoy!

“ _All the suffering, stress, and addiction comes from_

 _not realising you already are what you are looking for._ ”

Jon Kabat-Zinn

* * *

“Neptune,” the Doctor said rather dramatically, sweeping a hand towards the doors like the presenter of a gameshow, “the year 18,009.”

“Why 18,009?” Jack asked curiously as he pulled his coat over his shirt, the fabric settling over him naturally, like it were a part of him. Hartley followed close behind, adjusting her own jumper, while Rose was still sat against the jump seat, hastily tying the laces of her trainers.

“Good year; _great_ harvest season,” he replied, checking both his sonic and psychic paper were still tucked into the pocket of his leather jacket.

“Harvest?” Hartley wondered aloud, a confused frown pulling at her brow. “On Neptune?”

“You'll see,” he said cryptically, giving an uneven sort of smirk before waving them through the doors at the end of the ramp.

Jack stepped out onto the planet first, and Hartley followed after him, releasing an excited breath from chapped lips. The air was warm, more humid than she'd expected, and she quickly pushed the sleeves of her simple blue jumper up to her elbows, exposing her forearms to the heat, then took a beat to survey her surroundings.

They were in some kind of city, massive and stretching out before her, made up mostly of beautiful, towering spires that twirled up into the air above them like something out of a fantasy film. Following their length with her eyes, Hart gasped as she caught sight of the sky. There was no empty, blue space stretching out above her like on Earth, but rather a curved dome of some kind, one that seemed to be holding back an entire ocean of water. Through the rolls of waves she could just make out the distant, glittering light of the faraway sun.

From behind her, the TARDIS' doors clicked shut, Rose and the Doctor joining she and Jack out on the planet.

“They called it Atlantis,” the Doctor's voice was dry and unimpressed from beside her. “Wonderfully creative, your species can be, sometimes,” he added sarcastically, but Hartley didn't take it to heart, merely exchanging a roll of eyes with Jack before the Doctor set out walking, strutting into the towering city with confidence.

Aliens of all sorts surrounded them, but they seemed to be mostly of the aquatic-kind. They were a rainbow array of fishy-looking creatures, walking on two legs and chattering amongst one another happily, most munching on some kind of small, brown squares that made loud crunching sounds as they chewed.

It wasn't only aliens; humans wandered around too, dressed in deep greens and blues, tapping away at tablets in their hands as they too chewed loudly on their little brown squares.

“Go on, then,” Jack prompted the Doctor after a moment of walking in easy silence, the newcomers examining the world they'd stepped into. “Explain; you know you want to.”

The Doctor sighed like they were asking too much of him, but all three companions knew it was utter crap – he was always more than eager to ramble on about the list of things he knew that they didn't (and, admittedly, it was a _very_ big list).

“Atlantis, habitation city on the planet Neptune, founded in 17,555,” he began in an offhanded kind of tone that definitely wasn't fooling anybody. “See that dome?” he asked, pointing a finger up at the glittering arch of water above them. “That's a forcefield, keeping the water at bay. Right now we're, oh...5.72 miles beneath sea level.”

“Five _miles_?” Rose parroted, staring at the Doctor with wide eyes before they flickered up to the dome above them, where the water danced in the faint light of the sunshine.

“How can we still see the light?” Jack asked logically, squinting upwards with heavy skepticism.

“This water isn't like Earth's,” the Doctor drawled, adjusting the collar of his shirt absentmindedly. “It's mostly made up of hydrogen; makes it clearer, more pristine than anything you could find on Earth. But anyway, what you're seeing isn't the sun,” he added.

“It's not?” asked Hartley, confused as she tilted her head back, trying to get a better look through the distortion that the miles and miles of water created.

“A kind of warm, but totally artificial, light,” the Doctor told her easily. “The founders of the city wanted it to feel like a sun, because the real one is much too far away to be any source of light.”

“The way it shines through the water is beautiful,” murmured Rose, appreciating the bluish glow the entire city was encased in.

“You said something about the harvest season,” Hartley said, stepping out of the way of a small alien who held a startling resemblance to a bipedal platypus, blinking after it in bemusement for a beat before returning to the moment. “Harvest what? Surely they can't grow anything on _Neptune_.”

“Why not?” the Doctor countered simply.

Hartley struggled to keep from spluttering indignantly at the rebuttal. “Well, because it's a gas giant – an _ice_ giant,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster, knowing all the while that the Doctor was about to make her feel like an idiot. “It doesn't have any land mass.”

“How do you people survive with those tiny little brains of yours?” he mused rather rudely, and Hartley bit her lip to keep her childish, somewhat petulant pout hidden. Jack bumped her hip with his; a subtle reminder that she wasn't alone, and it succeeded in cheering her up, the pout melting into a small, smile. “The advancements the human race makes in your future...” the Doctor continued to say as though he hadn't just belligerently hurt anybody's feelings, “it would _astound_ you. If they can build a city under the planet's ocean, I'm sure it's not that big of a leap to think they could grow crops, too.”

“But what _kind_ of crops?” Rose asked, her voice sweet and curious as she crossed her woollen-clad arms over her chest. The Doctor didn't appear irked by _her_ asking, and Hartley looked away to hide the hurt swimming in her eyes.

“Seaweed,” he told her cheerfully.

“Seaweed,” Jack repeated, trying to wrap his head around it.

“That's right,” the Doctor nodded his head. “Best in the galaxy, in fact. People come from all corners of the Milky Way for a taste.”

“For _seaweed_ ,” Rose clarified, her features shifting into an expression of heavy disgust.

“Not a fan?” Hartley asked, tucking her hands into the back pockets of her jeans.

“Could never stomach it,” she shrugged, cringe still in place, like the very thought of it was making her ill. “Think it's the most disgusting thing on Earth.”

“But we're not _on_ Earth,” Jack said cheekily, and Rose huffed a small laugh, shoving him roughly to the side, making him trip over his own feet and nearly sending him careening into a small group of fish-headed aliens. He apologised quickly, shooting them wink that made them all giggle, then hurried to catch up with the others. “Well, I for one, _love_ seaweed,” he continued like nothing had interrupted him at all. “What about you, Hart?” he asked with a wide grin. “You brave enough to sample some of the local cuisine?”

“Do you dare me?” she asked slyly, an impish grin spreading across her lips.

Jack snorted a laugh. “Sure. I _dare_ you.”

Hartley chuckled. She'd have done it anyway – she'd always loved sushi, and she couldn't imagine seaweed by itself was so terrible – but she liked to make Jack smile. “Where's the best place to find some weed?” she asked the Doctor curiously, only for her face to slacken in surprise. “That came out wrong,” she said meekly, but the damage was done, Jack and Rose already laughing loudly from beside her.

“You've never done drugs a day in your life, have you, Harts?” Jack asked through his laughter.

“Uh, I ate a brownie once in university,” she admitted, not wanting to sound completely innocent and boring. This only made the others laugh harder. Even the Doctor was smiling. “Shut up,” she muttered without any heat, kicking at the pavement, which she only now noticed seemed to be made from some kind of marble. She wanted to ask about it, but the others were still laughing at her expense, so she decided to wait until her flaming cheeks had cooled down.

“Come on,” the Doctor prompted them, pressing a hand to Rose's back to urge them all along. “Great little seaweed grocer just around the corner,” he said, and Hartley fell into step beside Jack, who was still grinning widely as he linked their arms together and continued on.

“What was little baby-Hartley like?” he asked her jovially as they walked, the Doctor and Rose chattering to each other from up ahead.

“What d'you mean?” she asked.

“What were you like as a kid – or as a uni-student? I can't imagine you were particularly _wild.”_

Again, her cheeks warmed. “Not really, no,” she confirmed with a tiny laugh. “Believe it or not, I was more interested in studying than partying.”

“You're kidding,” Jack mock-gasped, and she elbowed him again in joking reprimand.

“Shocking, I know,” she muttered with an exasperated roll of her eyes. “I'd ask about you, but I have a feeling I already know the answer,” she added with a smirk.

“I was the wild-child in the Agency,” he told her with a proud gleam to his eyes.

“Agency?” she echoed, confused until it triggered a memory from when they'd first met. “You mean the Time Agency?”

“Bingo,” he nodded with a smile, but there was something tight about it, like maybe the memories he was thinking about weren't as easy to relive as he made them seem.

“Let me guess,” she said, pasting a wicked grin on her lips in an attempt to lighten the mood, “you slept with everyone and their aunt. And uncle. And mum. And probably their dad, too.” It worked, Jack laughing at her words. “Maybe there's something to this whole bisexual lifestyle,” she added with a smirk. “You have so many options.”

“ _Pan_ sexual, actually, but I'm not really a fan of labels,” he told her simply, and she nodded, filing the information away for later.

The Doctor had stopped, and Hartley realised they were at the end of a long queue of some kind. “Huh,” said the Doctor in a curious voice. “Business must be booming.”

He then turned, stepping out of the line and heading up to the front of the queueing aliens. “Doctor, we can't just skip the line,” Hartley called out to him, exasperated.

“With me, there _are_ no lines,” he replied dryly, like this were simply a fact of life, and she was inclined to believe him.

The crowd gave tithers of irritation as they surpassed them, coming to a stop outside a green door, the words 'Sia's Seaweed' written in pretty cursive above the storefront and a clear sign hanging against the glass reading 'out at lunch – be back in ten'.

The Doctor, as usual, ignored the sign. He pushed the door open with one hand, waving his three human companions inside with the other. It looked like a bakery, all warm lights and glass displays full of lit up food. Only instead of bread and pastries, the displays were filled with different types of the hard brown stuff that Hartley had seen everyone on the street eating before.

“Sia!” the Doctor greeted the alien behind the counter. He was large and round, almost human-looking, except for the dark green scales on his neck, disappearing below the collar of his apron, not to mention the obvious gills at his throat.

“Ah, Doctor!” the man said in a thick Italian accent, surprising the trio of humans before him.

“He's Italian?” Rose asked them from the corner of her mouth while Sia and the Doctor exchanged what had to be the customary greeting of kisses on cheeks, murmuring pleasantries while they did so. “Why is a half-aquatic alien from Neptune, _Italian_?”

“The universe is like a box of chocolates,” Jack answered with a shrug. “You never know what you're gonna find.” Hartley and Rose both squinted at him dubiously. “What?” he asked with a hint of self-consciousness.

“That's from Forrest Gump,” Hartley told him, one eyebrow sitting higher than the other.

“From what?” he asked, confused.

“Forrest Gump,” she repeated slowly. “That's a quote from the movie.”

“Never heard of it,” he said with a shrug. “It's just a common saying from where I grew up.”

Hartley and Rose shared an amused grin, and Hartley had to stifle the laughter that threatened to bubble out just as the Doctor finally broke away from Sia to wave a hand at them in introduction.

“This is Rose, Hartley and Jack,” he told the bipedal fish, pointing at each of them in turn.

“Strange names,” Sia said jovially, resting his hands on his protruding belly as he grinned at them, revealing rows of sharp white teeth, much like that of a shark. Hartley was made slightly uncomfortable by the sight, but she didn't show it, smiling back kindly, reminding herself that he _probably_ wouldn't bite them. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Doctor?” he continued, leaning across the counter and beaming at the Time Lord eagerly.

“Just passing through,” he said, his Northern accent sharp in comparison to Sia's Italian lilt. “My companions wanted to try the best seaweed in the city.”

“Ah, you've come to the right place, my friends,” Sia told them, all but preening at the compliment. He ducked behind the display stands, rifling around inside of them for a moment before reappearing with a tray full of small samples. “What would you like to try first?” he asked, eager and happy.

Looking at the stacks of shrivelled seaweed, Rose seemed to turn nearly green, and she shuffled backwards as subtly as she could manage. “What's the most popular?” Hartley asked, a little louder than necessary to cover Rose's retreat.

Sia jumped at the opportunity, pointed teeth gleaming in the glow of the light above. “My famous sea-blocks,” he said eagerly, picking up four and holding them out. Rose looked wary, and Hartley was quick to come to her rescue.

“Rose just ate, but I'll have her share,” she told him with a soft laugh, and he beamed back, handing her both blocks as the Doctor and Jack took one each. They were small, about the size of a matchbox, and firm. She hesitated only a second before throwing caution to the wind and taking a bite out of one.

Just like she'd discovered from the aliens outside, it was crunchy, almost painfully so. Her teeth hurt as she continued to chew, but the taste wasn't unpleasant, so she kept eating. Making a hummed noise of appreciation, she watched as Sia's face lit up with happiness at her positive reaction.

They were salty, enough so that she had already grown thirsty, but she kept eating, turning to the others to see their reactions. The Doctor was holding his block up to the light, peering at it with a curious frown, like something about it wasn't right. Jack, on the other hand, was wolfing his down at near alarming speeds.

“These are great!” he exclaimed, mouth still half-full of the seaweed.

“I'm famous for them,” Sia admitted, cheeks going dark under Jack's charming grin. The Doctor cleared his throat, and Sia looked away from the fetching ex-Time Agent, turning to the Time Lord sheepishly.

“Did you change the recipe?” he asked his old friend as Jack motioned to Hartley's extra sea-block, silently asking if she was going to eat it. A surge of protectiveness welled within her, and she snatched it back, holding it almost protectively to her chest, then wondered why she'd done so.

“No, no,” Sia was saying when she turned back to look at them. There was something off about the way he was standing, hands behind his back in a way that didn't seem totally natural. “No change.”

“Huh,” the Doctor hummed, still peering at his block in befuddlement.

“You want more?” Sia asked Jack and Hartley, who was still working on her last block. “Pack of thirteen going for only ten credits,” he added enticingly, picking up a small, wrapped box and waving it in the air temptingly.

They were actually rather delicious, Hartley had decided, and as thirsty as she suddenly was, she also wanted more. She knew the Doctor might be stingy, but couldn't help but turn and look up at him with wide, hopeful eyes.

“Come on, Sia,” said the Doctor in his sweetest, most convincing voice – which, for someone with as strong an accent as him, was quite hilarious. “Surely you can cut a deal for an old friend,” he said hopefully.

Sia reached up, stroking his chin with his eyes narrowed in thought. The Doctor stared back imploringly and it was like they were suddenly engaged in a battle of wills. “Gah, fine!” Sia finally cracked. “You wore me down! Two boxes, free of charge. But only this once, Doctor,” he said sternly.

“Of course,” the Doctor gave a toothy, satisfied grin. Hartley beamed up at him, torn between gratitude and amusement.

“I hope you'll come back with a little more … _lucrative_ … business, eh, Doctor?” Sia sang, and the Doctor smiled back as he tossed both boxes behind him. Nearly tripping over herself in her haste, Hartley caught hers with the tips of her fingers. “Now, I must reopen,” he added in that same lilting accent, rubbing his hands together eagerly. “I am very busy these days, as you can see,” he said, nodding to the massive queue that wound its way down the street, disappearing from view.

“How'd that happen?” the Doctor asked blithely, and Sia frowned at the question. “I mean, last I visited, this place was on the brink of shutting down.”

“My work speaks for itself,” he told the Doctor with a proud sort of expression, like he were about to press a hand over his heart and pledge allegiance to his own flag.

The Doctor hesitated for one long moment, before nodding his head and stepping back. “That it does,” he agreed, and Sia's defensive expression melted into a happy, eager one once again. “Well, we best be off,” he continued, already heading for the door. “We've got a full day of sightseeing ahead of us.”

“Don't forget to try out the Capital Tower near the outer-rim of the city!” Sia called out to them in a friendly voice.

Hartley smiled at him gratefully. “Thanks for the sea-blocks, they're amazing!” she called sweetly, and his grin widened, the sight of those pointed teeth only setting her on edge once again. He disappeared from sight soon enough, hidden by the growing crowd stationed eagerly outside his store.

“So, where to now, Doctor?” Rose asked, pulling at the hem of her shirt as they walked. Hartley barely listened, too busy ripping at the plastic sealing the box shut, struggling to open it and seize what lay within.

“I thought we'd go to the Central Reaping Tunnel,” he told her offhandedly. “They give tours all day, and we could see how the seaweed gets harvested.”

“That sounds...” Rose trailed off, obviously not wanting to say the truth, though equally as unwilling to lie.

“Boring,” Jack supplied, having no such qualms. Rose turned to glare at him, but the look wasn't exactly intimidating. “It sounds boring, Doc,” he continued blithely.

“It'll be fun,” the Doctor said, the words utterly unconvincing. “Come on,” he finished in something of a bark, turning down a large, busy street and marching through it, dodging people expertly. Rushing to keep up, the others took care not to bump into any of the other aliens flooding the street.

Breaking the plastic of her box and shoving the rubbish in her pocket to dispose of later before pulling it open and fishing out a block, Hartley sped up so she was in step with the Doctor. “Why do I get the feeling this little educational trip isn't about fun so much as it is investigation?” she asked around a mouthful of block.

The Doctor shot her an unimpressed look from the corner of his eye. “Are you sure you should be eating so much of that?” he asked her dryly, and she shot him an offended expression.

“They're great,” she said, ever so slightly defensive. “Besides, they're not exactly unhealthy, right?” She took another large, generous bite. “Gosh, they're good,” she continued without thought, chewing with sharp crunches. “Why aren't you eating any?” she asked with a frown, like it were a crime not to be indulging.

“They're not as good as they were the last time I was here,” he told her with a hint of defensiveness to his tone. “Besides, my taste buds are far more evolved––”

She cut him off with a loud, obnoxious groan. Rose and Jack sped up to meet them at the sound. “He's talking about his superior Time Lord genetics again,” she told them with a chaffing sort of whine.

Rose gave a snort of laughter, and Jack grinned around his mouthful of seaweed.

This tunnel place was only about ten minutes away, and Hartley contented herself with munching on her blocks while they walked. The architecture was nearly breathtaking, and she caught back up to the Doctor again, eyeing the beautiful, towering spires with rapture.

“This architecture is stunning,” she told him. He'd still been pouting over her thinly-veiled jibe at his ego, but the question was enough to snap him out of it.

“There's a new movement in Earth architecture around 17,500,” he explained eagerly, tilting his head back to eye the buildings soaring buildings in appreciation. “They call it the bluebird-renaissance.”

“The bluebird-renaissance?” she echoed curiously.

“This one architect, Holly Bluebird, she spearheaded the movement,” he told her, using his hands as he spoke, apparently passionate about the subject. “The basic principle was to keep things sleek and modern, because a few thousands years ago, there was this other uprising in the architecture world, they called it the Second Stone-Age-”

He was beginning to ramble, and she realised it was the first time she'd ever heard him do so. He was usually so put together, each word considered and weighed before it was spoken. If she'd known asking about architecture would be enough to spark a proper conversation, she'd have done it ages ago.

Unfortunately, before he could really begin to tell her about it, Rose appeared at the Doctor's side, tugging at one of her braids. “How much further do we have to go?” she asked, not seeming to realise she'd interrupted. Hartley felt a flare of annoyance, but then chastised herself for it. It wasn't like there was anything to interrupt – he was only rambling about architecture. “And how d'you even know where you're going? Everything looks the same,” she added with a small laugh.

The streets were all kind of similar, but Hartley supposed that if you'd been there before, as the Doctor so clearly had, then it wouldn't be so difficult to find your way around. It wasn't so different from London, in that regard.

“It's just up here,” he told her in the same instant that her stomach grumbled. The blonde's cheeks went slightly red, but he didn't so much as miss a beat, smoothly pulling a banana from his jacket pocket and handing it off to her without a word. “The whole city is only about twenty-three square kilometres across.”

“Lots of pedestrians,” Jack added as he clumsily dodged a pair of men carrying what looked like some kind of portable piano.

“No cars?” Hartley asked, only just now noticing the distinct lack of motor vehicles.

“It's so small, they don't need them,” the Doctor shrugged. “Besides, the streets are barely big enough for pedestrians, let alone cars.” And it was true, the streets were really more like pleasantly-lit alleyways. It was a tight squeeze, and the four of them were walking more single file than together.

“No flying cars?” Rose added with a grin, tongue poking out between her teeth.

“Haven't figured out how to make those without any Co2 emissions, yet. And obviously, the city can't support that kind of excess pollution.” The Doctor paused abruptly, and Hartley put her fourth sea-block down, staring at the building they were stopped in front of as she chewed her mouthful, the salt still making her thirsty, while being also somehow immensely satisfying.

It was a set of stairs disappearing into the ground, similar to an entrance of the Underground in London.

“It's through here,” the Doctor told them, already taking the stairs two at a time. It led down into a pit of darkness, and Hartley tucked her box of seaweed under her arm so she had a free hand with which to clutch at Jack's shirt, using him to keep her steady in the dark abyss.

“What's the point of this, again?” Jack asked critically, and Hartley was glad it was too dark for the Doctor to see the amusement in her eyes.

“Sightseeing,” said the Doctor easily. “It's a must-see for every tourist in Atlantis.”

“Really?” Jack replied skeptically. “Feels kinda like going to New York, but instead of seeing the Empire State building or the Statue of Liberty, you're only visiting the hotdog factory in downtown Queens.”

Hartley and Rose both gave titters of laughter. The Doctor didn't seem to think it was worthy of a response.

The further they descended into the dark, the more their eyes began to adjust. Little lights were lined along the walls, bathing them in a soft blue glow that made it seem like they were still surrounded by water, despite now being beneath the planet's inner-crust.

Hartley kept munching on her sea-blocks. The high concentration of salt was starting to burn at her tongue, but it was still so delicious that she didn't care, the sound of her teeth cracking against the blocks filling the cave they were in.

Finally the stairs came to a stop, and they reached a small barrier where an alien with bright orange skin and what looked like gills on his neck stopped them.

“Tickets?” he asked in a bored, droning voice.

  
The Doctor held up the psychic paper, and the alien eyed it for a moment before nodding his head and lifting the barrier, allowing them through.

The four friends wandered through, turning the corner only to find the tunnel had narrowed into a sort of bridge, the ground on either side dropping down, down, down. Below them was what looked like a lake, only the water was a deep, creepy black.

It took Hartley a few moments to realise that it wasn't the water that was dark at all, because if these were the seaweed fields, then surely the seaweed must grow within the water!

Now that she looked closer, she could see fish-like aliens swimming in amongst the water, woven baskets dragged through the lake behind them as they slowly and methodically harvested the seaweed for the city.

“Hi!” came a sudden voice, and all four friends turned away from the lake to see a alien new standing beside them. She looked humanoid mixed with fish, just like the man who'd asked to see their tickets. Only this woman's skin was a deep blue, seeming to almost glitter in the low lights of the cave. “The front desk rang up. You're here for a tour?” she asked them in the peppy, overeager voice of someone who worked in tourism.

“That we are,” said the Doctor, reaching out to shake her hand – or rather, fin. “I'm the Doctor. That's Rose, Hartley and Jack.”

“My name's Oceana,” she said with another bright smile.

Jack pulled away from his snack long enough to shoot the alien a saucy wink. “Hello there,” he drawled smoothly. Oceana giggled, the dark skin of her cheeks turning white as she blushed. How alien, Hartley thought – to turn _lighter_ when you blushed, instead of darker.

“No,” said the Doctor almost lazily, and Jack shot him a disgruntled frown even as he obeyed, slinking back to his spot beside Hartley, grumbling under his breath about never being allowed to have any fun. Hartley grinned and bit into another sea-block.

Oceana's eyes flickered down to the treats that Jack and Hartley were still devouring. “I see you're enjoying some of our city's famous delicacies,” she said in a chirp, the white blush on her cheeks slowly beginning to fade.

“They're so good,” said Hartley once she was sure her mouth was empty.

“We'd love to learn more about the growing and harvesting of the seaweed,” said the Doctor. The others still couldn't quite figure out why he was so interested, but they'd long since learnt to just go with the flow wherever the Doctor was concerned.

“Well, you've come to the right place,” said Oceana with a sweet smile. She turned, beginning to lead them down the length of the bridge that hovered over the water, giving them a perfect view of everything down below. “This is the largest seaweed harvesting station in all of the solar system,” Oceana began proudly. “Demand is growing every day, and we've expanded our crop fields to compensate. There are five different species of seaweed grown in our facility.”

“Species?” asked Jack, looking away from the lake below. “Isn't it all the same plant?”

“Well, as with any living thing, it comes in variants. You have _Red-One_ , which is the saltiest species we offer. _Red-Two_ is much more subtle, with an undercurrent of iron, it goes well in salads. _Green-One_ is the our most commonly exported, it's favoured by many in their sushi. _Green-Two_ is our healthiest in the range, with added vitamins and minerals from the different types of soil stimulants we use. And finally, _Purple-One_ is our sweetest, eaten mostly by children and those of us with a sweet-tooth.”

Hartley blinked, swallowing her mouthful and thinking that it was rather surprising that they grew so many different types, let alone flavours, of seaweed.

“And you export it to every planet in the solar system?” asked Rose politely.

“Correct.”

“And to every restaurant and café in Atlantis?” added the Doctor. Oceana looked surprised by the question.

“There are a select few that we don't supply, but for the most part, yes,” she told him simply.

“Do you have a list?”

Oceana seemed dumbfounded by the Doctor's left-field questions. “A list?” she asked in confusion.

“Of all the people you supply in Atlantis,” the Doctor nodded.

“Uh, I believe we do,” she said slowly. Hartley got the impression this wasn't a question commonly asked by people on this tour. “It would be in the offices.”

“Can I see it?”

Now Oceana looked about as perplexed as she could get. “Uh, I think that's not allowed,” she said, a little awkward.

“Nah,” drawled the Doctor, fishing free his psychic paper and holding it up for her to see. Oceana blinked in surprise, reeling back slightly to be able to read it. “See, look. Totally allowed.”

“You're a potential investor, here on request from upper management?” Oceana asked, and the Doctor turned the paper around so he could read it, then nodded his head in vehement agreement. “Why didn't you say so?”

“We just wanted to get the full tour experience. No ulterior motives,” said Jack, before his expression evened out into something a little bit wicked. “Well, maybe _one_ ulterior motive.”

Oceana giggled, and Hartley rolled her eyes at him in sheer exasperation. “Jack,” said the Doctor sternly, and Jack pouted like a scolded child. “Could we see those records now?” the Doctor pressed as Oceana pressed her hands against her whitened cheeks, as though trying to hide them from view.

“Uh, I guess so,” she said, finding there to be no good reason why not. “Just the supply list for Atlantis?”

“That's all we need, thank you,” the Doctor nodded, and with a shy smile in Jack's direction, Oceana turned and scurried away.

“Okay, Doctor,” said Rose, having had enough of not being in the loop. “What's going on?”

“What d'you mean?” asked the Doctor innocently.

“Oh, don't give me that,” Rose scoffed, and this time it was the Doctor's turn to look scolded. “Answers. Now.”

With the sigh of a heavily exasperated man, the Doctor relented. “There's something wrong with Sia's seaweed,” he admitted, and both Jack and Hartley's hands froze where they were bringing another sea-block up to their mouths.

“What?” Hartley asked, heart stuttering in her chest.

“It's _different_ ,” he said simply.

She turned to exchange a wide-eyed look with Jack. “Poison-our-organs different, or used-a-new-ingredient different?” asked Hartley slowly, almost too scared to hear the answer.

The Doctor rolled his eyes. “I wouldn't let you get _poisoned,_ Hartley,” he told sternly. “But neither of you have stopped eating those things since we bought them. You've barely looked away from them at all.”

“So?” asked Jack defensively, cradling his sea-blocks closer to his chest, like he was afraid the Doctor might try to take them from him. “Maybe we're just hungry. What's the big deal?”

“Did you see that line at Sia's store?” the Doctor pressed on. Hartley glanced over at Jack again, concern beginning to take root in her guts.

“So he's got a popular product,” Hartley said, defensive even as a sinking feeling in her gut told her the Doctor was absolutely onto something. “What're you saying, Doctor?” she asked, the dread in her veins seeming to almost weigh her down.

“There's an addictive element to Sia's sea-blocks,” he told her lowly.

“And we're here to see if it's his doing, or the production company's,” Rose finished his thought, a frown puling at her brow.

Hartley's insides swooped. “How addictive?” she asked warily.

Before the Doctor could answer, Oceana reappeared, holding a futuristic-looking tablet in her hand. She tapped on its screen, then handed it over to the Doctor.

“This is the list of all the restaurants and cafés we supply in Atlantis,” she told him quickly. “It's in alphabetical order.”

“Is he on there?” Jack asked, leaning around the Doctor to get a look.

“No,” said the Doctor, a frown marring his face. “He's not.”

Rose looked grim. “What does that mean?” she asked carefully.

But the Doctor didn't reply, handing the tablet back off to Oceana, who took it with an utterly bewildered expression. The Doctor turned, stalking off in the opposite direction, leaving the others standing there dumbly. “Uh, sir?!” called Oceana unsurely.

The Doctor paused, turning back to glance at his friends. “Come on, we've gotta go back and see Sia,” he said, voice a low rumble.

Oceana was frowning. “Does this mean you're not investing?” she asked meekly.

“Uh, we have to think about it,” Hartley lied awkwardly, shooting the aquatic alien a smile before Jack nudged her and they left, rushing back across the long bridge in the direction of the exit.

Stepping back out onto the street was a relief, the light of the day much more comforting than the damp dark of the caves. The Doctor came to a sudden stop, and Hartley ran into his back in surprise.

“You're eating it again,” he said, turning to stare at she and Jack, both of whom had resumed munching on what remained of their sea-blocks.

Hartley glanced down at herself with a blink. It had been completely automatic. She'd given it no thought; just started eating without realising what she was doing, or why it was a bad thing.

Hartley slowly put down the sea-block in her hand, not wanting to admit just how hard it was to do. Already her tongue was beginning to crave its salty goodness again.

“But if there's some kind of addictive element to the sea-blocks, wouldn't somebody have discovered it by now?” asked Rose, a frown knitting at her brow. “Surely something like that can't go unnoticed.”

“Not unless everyone's already under its dependancy,” he said grimly.

They started walking again, heading back in the direction of Sia's shop. The Doctor had to remind her several times not to eat the sea-blocks, her fingers bringing them closer to her mouth on more than one occasion.

There was a still a line outside Sia's shop, but the Doctor didn't head for the front door. Instead he moved into the alley behind the store.

“Doctor?” Hartley hissed, glancing over her shoulder, scared they were going to get caught. The last thing she wanted was to get arrested and taken to Atlantis-jail. That sounded horrible, and despite what he liked to believe, not even the Doctor was exempt from the law.

“S'all right,” he assured her even as he pulled out his sonic and held it to the back door of Sia's shop.

“This is wrong,” she muttered, anxiously shifting her weight from foot to foot.

“You wanna get to the bottom of this or not?”

And it was a fair enough point, so she fell silent. The Doctor went in first, followed by Rose, and then Jack waved for Hartley to enter next. She took a deep breath, biting down on her tongue to try and curb the urge to eat more sea-blocks, and reluctantly stepped inside the store.

The back room was dimly lit, Hartley could barely see anything. She turned backwards to look at Jack as he stepped in after her, but suddenly the floor seemed to disappear under her feet.

With a yelp Hartley dropped into some kind of body of water. Only about waist-deep, it was thick and gluggy, and full of something long and slimy, like a hundred tiny serpents brushing against her skin.

“Doctor!” she exclaimed, heart racing in her chest, already beginning to shiver from the temperature of the water.

“Shh,” the Doctor hushed her. There was the buzz of the sonic and the lights overhead flickered on, letting them see each other and the room.

It was set up much like the underground seaweed fields they'd just visited. In the centre of the room was a long, flat bridge, only wide enough for them to walk across it single-file. The rest of the floor was gone, replaced by a pond the size of the room, all of it filled with slimy, deep green seaweed.

For a moment, nobody seemed to know what to do.

“Somebody get me out of here,” Hartley ordered them, grimacing in sharp disgust and holding her arms at a weird angle to keep them out of the thick, gross water. “Now.”

“Here, take my hand,” said Jack smoothly, crouching over and holding out a hand. She took it gladly, and with a pull he gave her the leverage she needed to step back onto the bridge. Water dripped from her chest down, and gross bits of fresh seaweed were clinging to her clothes.

“That's a good look on you,” joked Rose.

“Oh shut up,” Hartley muttered without any real heat, grimacing again as she began to pick the limp strips of seaweed off herself. The Doctor reached around Rose, picking off one that was stuck to the material of Hartley's jeans. “Hey,” she yelped, frowning at him in disapproval. He didn't acknowledge her, holding the strip of seaweed up to the light, examining it from every angle.

Slowly but not without confidence the Doctor brought it to his face. Holding it to his nose he sniffed sharply, then made an expression of intense disgust. A pause, then he ripped off a tiny little piece, bringing it up to his mouth.

“Wait,” hissed Rose. “What if you get addicted?”

“Why would I get addicted?” he asked quickly.

Rose floundered. “Hartley and Jack did,” she finally said.

“Hartley and Jack are human,” he countered, as though it were as simple as that. If Hartley really thought about it, she supposed it sort of did.

Jack turned to glance at Hartley, who met his eyes, giving a jealous wince as the Doctor popped the tearing of seaweed into his mouth. Her fingers itched to fish out her last remaining sea-block, but with great difficulty, she resisted.

“It's Tancose-94,” he told them with a decisive nod.

The others exchanged looks of pure confusion. “What's Tancose-94?” asked Jack slowly.

“Offshoot of glucose,” the Doctor told them. “Basically a highly addictive mix of sugar and cocaine,” he added casually.

Hartley and Jack balked, gaping at the Doctor in varying degrees of horror. “Cocaine?” Hartley hissed, panic seizing her like a vice. “Are you telling us that we've been ingesting _cocaine_ this whole bloody time?” She turned to Jack in a flurry of movement. “Are we high right now?” she demanded, as if he knew the answer.

“Relax, Hartley,” said the Doctor, and she turned back in time to see him roll his eyes in exasperation. “It's only a small amount. Just enough to be addictive to the system. Not enough to get you high.”

“What I wanna know is, how'd he get it into the seaweed?” asked Rose, hardly seeming as alarmed by this bombshell as Hartley was. She'd ingested _cocaine._ Oh God, did this make her a drug addict? By definition, she supposed, the answer was yes.

“It's probably something he's put in the soil,” the Doctor told them, tossing the strip of seaweed back into the water. It didn't sink, rather floating on the surface, taunting Hartley with its existence.

“So what do we do?” Hartley asked in an attempt to distract herself. Her mouth was watering at the smell of the seaweed, and even knowing it was packed full of dangerously addictive drugs wasn't enough to make her not want them anymore.

“Do we confront him?” added Rose quietly, casting a wary glance at the door that led to the front of the store.

“I don't know,” the Doctor said, and for a moment they were all surprised. It was a dark day when the Doctor didn't already have plans A, B, and C up his sleeve.

“We could go to the police,” suggested Hartley.

“They're probably already under its effects,” the Doctor shook his head. “Besides, Sia's a friend of mine. I'm not going to...” he trailed off, not knowing how to finish.

“Throw him to the sharks?” asked Jack around a chuckle. The others turned to stare at him. “Y'know, because we're in an underwater city?” he said, holding his hands out like he expected them all to laugh. Rose and the Doctor rolled their eyes, but Hartley smiled, just a small expression of appreciation for the joke.

“I think I need to talk to him,” the Doctor said, fiddling with his sonic, a pensive look on his face. “If I know _why_ , then maybe I can figure out how to convince him to stop.”

“And if you can't?” asked Rose quietly, as if she didn't want to be the one to say it, but still knew it had to be said.

The Doctor frowned. “We'll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he said as he sonicked the door leading to the rest of the shop. The lock clicked loudly and the door creaked open.

With a confidence that Hartley knew not to be faked, the Doctor marched through, heading straight for the counter where Sia stood serving a packet of sea-blocks to a wild-eyed, hungry-looking alien.

“Hullo, Sia,” said the Doctor loudly, and the slightly chubby shop owner leapt about a metre in the air, hand pressing over his heart as he turned to stare at the four of them in shock.

“Doctor?” he asked, blinking at them in confusion. Hartley could tell he was too startled to put the pieces together. That was, until he saw the open doorway behind them. The colour drained from his face, and his beady eyes flickered between them and the unlocked door in mounting horror.

“I suggest you close for your lunch break,” said Jack in the kind of voice that told them it really wasn't a request at all. Sia reached up to mop at his forehead, which Hartley could see had grown damp.

Reluctantly Sia turned to the five or six customers packed into his tiny storefront. “I'm afraid I need a break,” he said, utterly lacking in confidence, his voice shaking with nerves. The customers' faces turned stormy, and for a heartbeat Hartley was scared they might do something stupid, like start a riot. “Everything will be down to half price when I reopen,” he added hurriedly, and their expressions cleared just a little.

They reluctantly filed back out onto the street, and Sia shuffled after them, shutting and locking the door once they were gone. Sia paused a moment, leaning against the door, taking a deep, obvious breath – perhaps searching for courage.

“Back for more sea-blocks?” he finally asked, turning back around to look at them with an attempt at a cheery, innocent smile.

“Sia, we know what's in your seaweed supply,” said the Doctor, refusing to sugarcoat it even despite the terror in his friend's eyes. Sia opened his mouth to reply, but the Doctor cut him off. “Don't deny it. You're drugging your customers, getting them hooked and dependant on your product. Why?”

Sia patted once more at his sweaty forehead. “I don't know what you're––”

“No, Sia,” barked the Doctor in the kind of tone Hartley might take with a misbehaving child. “The truth. Now.”

Hartley didn't think it would be that easy, but Sia wilted under the Doctor's authoritative frown. “Business was bad,” he admitted, round shoulders slumping. “I was on the brink of shutting down. My brother – he runs a supply house out of Venus, and he got me a good deal.”

“And by supply, you mean...?” Rose trailed off.

Hartley had never seen anyone look so ashamed as Sia looked in that moment. “Cocaine,” he confessed what they already knew, hanging his head in defeat, like a man resigned to a fate of the gallows.

“So, what you're saying is that you're _knowingly_ turning people into drug addicts?” asked Hartley, voice a lot colder than she meant it to be. She couldn't help it – she was tired and hungry, her body craving more of that delicious seaweed even despite knowing the cost.

“It's only a small dose!” Sia hurried to defend himself. “Not nearly enough to have any kind of intoxicating effect on the body!”

“Apart from a dependancy on your product,” said Jack, voice with an edge almost hard enough to cut diamonds.

Sia's shoulders slumped again, and they were all horrified to see tears gather in his beady, fishy eyes. “It was always my dream to open up my own bakery,” he revealed quietly, and suddenly he looked so much younger to Hartley. Like a little boy discovering he'd failed in his lifelong dream of being a baker. “When the shop began to go under – I knew I had to do something.”

“You didn't have to do _this_!” argued Jack, a little harsher than expected.

“I have no partner, no children, no family of my own. All I _have_ is this bakery and my work,” Sia cried and despite her frustration, Hartley felt her heart begin to soften.

She was upset – devastated – that this man had intentionally gotten her addicted to cocaine (however slight that addiction might have been), but at the core of her, she knew she couldn't be angry forever. He was going through pain, coping the only way he knew how. And misguided though it may have been, she couldn't help but feel sorry for him.

Silvery tears leaked from his eyes, and unable to help herself, Hartley shuffled forwards. She gently wrapped her arm around him, bringing him into her side and holding him as he cried.

“I'm sorry,” he said over and over. “I'm sorry sorry. I didn't know what else to do.”

Hartley met the Doctor's eyes, taking in the hard glint to them and wondering where they went from here. Glancing over at Jack, Hartley was surprised to find no sympathy in his bright blue eyes. Instead there was an anger, dark and dangerous. She shot him her most reprimanding glare, but the anger didn't seem to fade even under her stern command.

Finally Sia's cries petered off into mere, sad little sniffles, and he shot a shaky, unsure smile at Hartley, one which she returned without reservation.

“I'm afraid I can't let this continue, Sia,” began the Doctor, his accent crisp and sure, and Sia hung his head.

“I know,” he said, as defeated as he was accepting of the Doctor's words. “I didn't _really_ think I'd get away with it, y'know?” he managed a weak chuckle.

“It was the act of a desperate man,” said Hartley, patting Sia soothingly on the back before stepping away and shooting him a tiny smile. “We've all been there. We understand.”

While not strictly true – she didn't think she nor any of her friends had ever been in a situation where the only possible solution had seemed to be drugging their baked goods with cocaine – she knew they'd all been desperate enough to do something stupid at one point or another in their time.

“What's going to happen to me?” asked Sia meekly, shaking as he spoke, terrified of the answer.

Nobody answered for a few moments, all staring at the Doctor – because, of course, it went without saying that he had the final say.

“I don't think what's going to happen to _you_ is quite as important as what's going to happen to _them_ ,” said the Doctor, nodding to the tinted window of his storefront. Beyond the glass stood a horde of aggravated customers, all growing desperate for their next fix of Sia's famous sea-blocks.

“If they're all already addicted…” Rose trailed off, brow furrowed in thought. “I mean, doesn't it take _months_ to wean yourself off hard drugs?”

“Years, in some cases,” the Doctor agreed solemnly.

“So, what do can do?” Hartley asked, glancing out at the crowd that was quickly turning into something closer to a mob.

The Doctor turned away from them, presumably to give himself a moment to think. Hartley saw Jack eyeing the sea-blocks in the glass display case and kicked him in the shin. He grunted, swivelling his head around to stare at her. She shook her head, eyes firm, and he reluctantly sighed, understanding what she was trying to say.

“All right,” the Doctor turned back around, clapping his hands together loudly, startling Sia and his frayed nerves. He gave a grin, wide and awfully pleased with himself, which boded well for the sake of their situation. “I have a plan.”

And boy, did he.

* * *

The Doctor's plan was morally ambiguous to say the least, but Hartley didn't see another way it could possibly have gone.

They had to wean the people of Atlantis off of the contaminated seaweed, but telling them they were doing so was problematic, because it implicated Sia and his crimes. So, instead of doing it to them knowingly, the Doctor did the only thing he could do: he slipped Sia's illegal concoction into the city's fresh water supply. Then he used the TARDIS to move forwards in time by a few days to do it again and again, only with less each time – successfully weaning off the inhabitants of Atlantis without them even knowing it was happening.

Hartley and Jack were to do the same – the Doctor gave them each a water bottle filled with water mixed with Sia's drugs. Unfortunately, they didn't get to fast-forward through the process. They had to go the slow route, one full-length day at a time.

As for Sia? The Doctor said he couldn't stay in Atlantis. Hartley argued that he could have just changed his recipe, but the Doctor was adamant. He didn't trust him not to do it again. Besides, a seaweed bakery in a city with about a hundred competing businesses? It was just asking for failure.

So the Doctor pulled some strings, and the next thing Hartley knew they were stepping out into the bright sunshine of an alien planet. One she was surprised to find to be familiar.

“We're back on Honolulu?” she asked, gripping her water bottle tight in her hand as she did a full turn, eyeing the glittering trees above them and the crystal clear sea spread out before them.

“No better place for someone trying to escape their troubles,” said the Doctor cheerfully.

“Is that – is that the sun?” stammered Sia, one hand gripping the hat on his head, the other holding tight to the handle of the suitcase that held all this things. “The _real_ sun?” he gasped, staring up at it with a sense of unabashed awe.

“You've never been out of Atlantis?” asked Rose, who held a hand over her eyes, keeping the glare of the sun away.

“I was born there – lived there my whole life,” Sia told her in an awed whisper, staring out at the sea. “This is – it's just...” he didn't seem to be able to find the words.

“Come on,” said the Doctor, nudging Sia in the arm to recapture his attention and beginning to lead them all up the dunes towards the seaside restaurant the four of them had eaten in only the day before.

“Where are we going?” asked Sia, waddling up after them, struggling with his suitcase. Jack never offered to help, but that was understandable – he was still kind of hung up on the whole 'drugging him without his consent' thing.

“To your new place of work,” said the Doctor from up ahead.

Again, Sia didn't seem to know how to reply, so he didn't. The Doctor led them into the air conditioned lobby of the fancy restaurant. It was full to the brim of aliens in all shapes, sizes and colours. Sia stared at the glossy, pristine interior with that same unabashed awe he'd had when looking up at the clear, open sky.

The hostess was tall and green-skinned, wearing a sparkling black dress and a smart blazer. She greeted them with a smile. “Hello! Table for five? Do you have a reservation?” she asked brightly.

“Actually, we're here to see Penny,” the Doctor told her. The hostess glanced down at her tablet. “I have an appointment. It's an interview for that position you've had advertised.”

“Oh,” said the hostess in surprise, glancing back up at them cheerfully. “Of course, you've been expected. Right this way.”

She led them through to a door in the back of the lobby, knocking on it twice before cracking it open and sticking her head through the gap. She began to talk to the woman inside, and while she was distracted, the Doctor turned to Sia.

“When you go in there, you've got to try and impress her,” he told Sia quickly.

Sia looked like he's swallowed a bag of marbles. “Impress? Who? Why?” he stuttered, dabbing at his forehead again.

“Penny's the owner of the restaurant. She's looking for a new alternative pastries chef.”

Sia stared back with wide eyes. “I don't even know what 'alternative pastries' _means_ ,” he hissed, steadily beginning to panic.

“It means pastries made with alternative or uncommon ingredients,” explained the Doctor.

“Such as _seaweed,_ ” added Hartley, seeing exactly what the Doctor was onto. Sia was startled, blinking at them as he struggled to understand.

“I got you the interview, but I can't secure you the job – that part's all on you,” the Doctor told him, steady and patient.

“But – but I don't know how to be a restaurant chef,” he argued. “I own a bakery.”

“Not anymore,” the Doctor's words were a little bit harsh, but true nonetheless. Sia's shoulders slumped, but even he knew he couldn't argue the point. The Doctor was right. He'd had his shot at that life, and he'd screwed it up. “Get this job, work here for a while where you can be trained and supervised, then save up your pay checks to buy a new store.”

“You can start fresh,” said Rose with a small smile.

Sia smiled back, if not a little shakily. “That does sound nice,” he admitted.

“Sia?” asked the hostess, slipping back into view. “Penny's ready for you.”

Sia stared at them all, panic resurfacing. “You're going to do great, Sia,” Hartley assured him. “Just be confident in your abilities. Show her you're right for the job.”

“What if I'm not?” Sia whispered.

Hartley smiled, a little sad. “That's for you to decide.”

Sensing the dismissal, Sia turned and reluctantly loped into the office, disappearing inside. The door clicked shut, and the quartet of friends were left standing in the lobby. The green-skinned hostess turned to them, that brilliant smile still fixed into place. “We have a seating area just around there that you're welcome to use. Or, if you're in the mood for a drink, our five-star bar is always open.”

“Ooh, I could go for a drink,” said Rose eagerly. “Hart? You wanna come?”

Hartley grimaced. “I think I'm going to pass on the intoxicating substances for awhile,” she confessed. “Besides, I'm already full of one drug. I'm no expert, but cocaine and alcohol probably don't mix.”

“I'm out, too,” said Jack quickly.

“You never turn down a drink,” argued Rose.

“Hart makes a convincing argument,” he shrugged.

Rose seemed disappointed. “I'll come with you,” offered the Doctor. “Wouldn't want you getting into trouble. We'll leave these two to wean themselves off the hard drugs, shall we?” he added in jest.

Hartley stuck out her tongue in response, and he shot her a gummy grin before leading Rose off towards the busy bar on the far end of the restaurant. Hartley moved over to the plush couches set off to the side, sinking into the material with a sigh and taking a deep sip of her cocaine-infused water.

Jack took a seat beside her, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

“You're quiet,” she said, careful to be curious but not prying. “Everything okay?”

Jack seemed to mull over his words, as if not sure what to say, or whether to say anything at all. “I don't like drugs,” he finally settled on, eyes still closed, the skin around his lids pinched in consternation.

Aiming for lighthearted, Hartley gave a chuckle. “I'd be concerned if you did,” she joked. But Jack didn't laugh, and the smile died on her lips.

“There was awhile there, after I left the Time Agency...” Jack trailed off, and Hartley could sense the memories brought him a lot of pain. She wanted to tell him it was all right, that he didn't have to tell her anything, but she got the feeling it wasn't a good time to say anything at all and kept her mouth shut. She waited patiently for Jack to collect his thoughts. “I was in a dark place,” he finally admitted, his voice quiet and full of an undeserved self-loathing.

He took a deep drink of his dosed water, grimacing as if he hated every atom of its being.

“I got in with a bad crowd. Did some things I'm not proud of.”

“When we met, you were trying to con us,” she reminded him, leaning closer and nudging him gently. “I already knew you weren't a saint.”

He smiled, eyes glittering with surprise, as if he hadn't meant to let the smile slip, but he just couldn't help himself. “Conning people was the least of my crimes, I can tell you that,” he told her, the words barely a whisper, as if saying them quietly enough might keep the confession from being real. “I got hooked on this drug – Edge-P47. It was popular back then, or I mean, it _will_ be in a few centuries, I suppose,” he gave a rueful smile. “Time travel,” he added with a sort of 'what can you do?' shrug.

Hartley just barely managed a smile.

“It was pretty bad – gave me hallucinations, made me sick, but it was addictive as hell. It was an escape from reality, I s'pose. An escape from the depression.”

Jack fell silent again.

“How'd you get free of it?” Hartley asked gently.

“A friend found me. Weaned me off, cleaned me up. I'd probably be dead without him,” he admitted, eyes so very distant, seeing something she never could.

“What was his name?” she whispered. Jack didn't answer at first, still staring far into the distance, seeing across time and space. There was affection in his eyes, back also the kind of pain she could only just begin to imagine.

“Hart,” said Jack finally, and she blinked at him in shock. A tiny smile was quirking at his pale lips, and she blinked as she processed what he was saying. “His name was John Hart,” he told her with a note of pride she hadn't expected.

Hartley couldn't help but smile back. “What are the odds?” she asked softly. Jack smiled again, shifting closer and threading an arm around her shoulders. She leaned into the contact, tucking herself into Jack's side.

Once ore she felt that inexplicable pull, like a thread connecting her and Jack together. She didn't understand it yet, but she had a feeling that the day was soon coming that she would.

“I swore to him I'd never touch any sort of hard drug again,” Jack continued, oblivious to her internal musings. “Swore I'd never let myself get hooked onto something, something I knew I couldn't control.”

Still tucked into his side, Hartley craned her neck so she could look up into his face. “Jack, this wasn't your fault. You didn't break your promise to him. This didn't happen to you willingly.”

“I know,” he said, but she wasn't so sure he did.

“Do you need forgiveness?” she asked him gently.

Jack blinked at the sudden question. “I don't know where he is,” he told her, frown pulling at the lips that had only just been smiling a moment ago. “And even if I did...”

“Not from him,” Hartley said, overflowing with sincerity. Jack paused, surprised. “I forgive you, Jack,” she told him, looking away from his face to give him the space to process her words. Instead she leaned into his side once more, resting her temple against his shoulder and closing her eyes.

Nothing more was said, but it was an easy silence, one comfortable in a way she couldn't explain.

Only a few minutes passed before the Doctor and Rose reappeared. Rose held a tall drink with a pink umbrella sticking out of it while the Doctor was munching on a small handful of pretzels he'd probably swiped from the bar.

“Sia's been in there awhile,” said Rose as she took a seat on the couch across from Hartley and Jack. “Think it's going well?”

“We can only hope,” said Hartley, glancing towards the door, which had yet to reopen for the former-bakery-owner-turned-drug-dealer.

“Are you sure he shouldn't be somewhere else?” Jack asked, unable to help himself from speaking up. The Doctor turned to look at him, single eyebrow raised in question. “Y'know, like some kind of a rehabilitation centre, or a...” he trailed off.

“Prison?” the Doctor finished the thought for him. He hardly sounded impressed. For the first time since Hartley had met him, Jack actually looked scolded for his thoughtless words. “Doesn't everyone deserve a second chance?” the Doctor asked like it really were that simple.

“Jack has a point,” said Hartley, and the Doctor's blue eyes turned to her. “What I mean is – what if he falls back into his old ways? What if something like this happens again?”

The Doctor frowned, considering, and Hartley waited anxiously. It was a fair enough concern to have, especially considering what had just happened to her and Jack. She didn't think her questions were out of line. They were justified, and the Doctor knew it.

“He won't,” said the Doctor without any hint of reservation.

“But how do you _know_?” she pressed.

“Because at his core, Sia's a good man,” he told her with such conviction that Hartley couldn't help but believe him. “He's seen the error of his ways, and he'll do the right thing from now on.”

Jack didn't look convinced, but Hartley felt a peace settle in her heart, and knew the Doctor was right. He was a good judge of character – after all, he'd brought them all together, hadn't he?

“Sia!” said Rose, and they all turned to see the alien himself stepping out from around the corner with shock written across his expression, like he'd just gotten slapped clean across the face. “How'd it go?” Rose continued as Sia walked slowly towards them, the wheels of his suitcase squeaking as he dragged it behind him.

“Well, I think,” murmured Sia, that gobsmacked expression still not leaving his face.

“Did you get the job?” Hartley pressed, just for a moment fearing the worst.

Then Sia smiled, wide and unexpected, but still wholly welcome. “Yes,” he told them with an edge of pride that made Hartley grin. “I start training on Monday,” he added faintly, like his brain was still trying to catch up.

“Did she give you your own on-site quarters?” asked the Doctor.

Sia nodded. “Yes, she said it was in a building with the rest of the main kitchen staff.”

“On-site housing?” asked Hartley curiously.

“The restaurant's just an external part of the resort,” the Doctor told her. “All its employees live on-site. Makes it a lot easier that having to catch a ship back to the planet every other day.” He turned back to Sia, who was still smiling that kind of smile that showed he just couldn't stop. “How do you feel?” he asked Sia gently.

“Lucky. Relieved. Grateful.”

The Doctor grinned. “All in a day's work,” he told him cheerfully.

“I really can't thank you enough,” Sia gushed.

“Don't mention it,” the Doctor waved him off. “We'll come check on you sometime in the future – make sure you're doing okay.”

Sia nodded, eyes wet with gratitude that they all politely ignored. He turned to Hartley and Jack, both of whom were still clutching their dosed water bottles close to their chests. “I wanted to apologise,” he said, voice echoing with sincerity. “I'm sorry I did this to you. If there's anything you ever need, anything I can help you with – well, I owe you one.”

Hartley glanced up at Jack, whose expression was twisted with indecision. He looked down at her, meeting her imploring eyes, and the fight drained from him in an instant. “I'd say you owe us more than one,” he said, that usual playfulness finally returning to his voice.

He held out a hand, the movement heavy with the opportunity for reconciliation, and Sia gave a small noise of relief as he took the offered hand, shaking it keenly. “Really, anything you need,” he impressed again, and Jack smiled.

“I hope this goes well for you, Sia,” he said warmly, and Sia grinned that pointy-toothed smile.

Hartley leaned in, giving the aquatic alien a quick but firm hug. “You've got a great thing here. You'd better make the most of it,” she ordered him as she pulled back, smiling kindly.

“I'm sorry again––” he tried to say.

“It's in the past,” she assured him, surprised to find that, really, it was.

The sun was still high in the sky and leaving a pleasant buzz of warmth on their skin as the quartet of friends slowly made their way back towards the TARDIS, sitting between a set of sand dunes, tall and familiar and blue.

“Do you really think he'll be okay?” Rose asked as they strolled at a leisurely pace towards their home.

“I think that's up to him,” said the Doctor honestly.

There was a moment of companionable quiet that none of them felt that had to fill.

“Well, where to next, Doc?” asked Jack as they approached the TARDIS. The Doctor fished out his key, sliding it into the lock and pushing open the door.

“Cardiff,” said their designated driver. “I've gotta stop to refuel on the rift.”

“What rift?” asked Jack.

Hartley and Rose exchanged a smile, recalling Charles Dickens and Gwyneth and so, so many Gelth.

“Oh boy,” began Hartley as she turned to Jack, who was watching them expectantly, “have we got a story to tell you.”


	15. Bad Wolf/The Parting of the Ways

“ _Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgement_

_that something else is more important than fear.”_

Ambrose Redmoon

* * *

Hartley blinked awake, groaning as she reached up to scrub at her sleepy eyes. There was mumbling from beside her, voices muttering indistinct words she couldn't make sense of. It took longer than it probably should have for her to realise this was very, very wrong; because, were she safely in her bedroom on the TARDIS, there wouldn't have been any voices muttering at all.

She opened her bleary eyes and winced as the fluorescent lighting above stabbed through her head in a ricochet of pain. She groaned again, pressing a hand against the sharp ache above her eyes.

“Oh, good. You're awake!” said a chirpy voice from her left, and Hartley whirled around in a panic to fix the redheaded lady with an alarmed stare, only receiving a calm smile back in return. “You need to get into hair and make up, like, _now._ We go live in seven minutes!” the lady looked ready to squeal with excitement, like a geyser bubbling beneath the surface of the Earth, just about to explode.

Hartley could only blink at her in confusion.

The room she was in was large, decorated with glittering yellow wallpaper and flashing multicoloured lights that didn't do great things for her headache. There were several large devices which looked vaguely like cameras, all pointed in her direction, and behind each one was a greasy-haired human, fiddling with the buttons on the back. Across from her was an older man with greying hair and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. A short blonde woman stood in front of him, running a makeup brush over his jawline.

“Where am I?” Hartley asked shortly, the question aimed at nobody in particular. She eyed the surrounding people, some of which muttering things into headsets and scribbling furiously at the clipboards in their grips.

Was this a dream? Was she dreaming right now? She pinched herself, but didn't wake up – but she hadn't really expected it to work, anyway.

The redheaded lady apparently heard her question. “Why, you're on _Friendly Foe Feud_ , of course!” she cheered, beaming at Hartley like with her words she'd just given her the gift of the century.

Hartley could only stare back blankly. “What?”

“Oh dear, the transmat must have _really_ scrambled your brain,” she tutted, like this were a common yet mild inconvenience. “You'll be right in a moment. Here, drink up,” she handed her a small bottle of green liquid that Hartley eyed warily. “It'll help,” she assured her before snapping back into action and waving over the blonde woman she'd noticed before. “Lips and eyes done in three, thank you!” she said succinctly, sending Hartley a final smile before flitting away, scurrying over to one of the cameramen.

“What's going on?” Hartley asked the makeup lady as she began to draw on her eyelids with a long grey coloured pen. The woman said absolutely nothing, acting as though she hadn't even spoken. “Where am I? How did I get here?”

“Stay still,” the beautician ordered in something of a Russian accent, glaring at her sternly before going back to her task. Hartley flinched as the pen got too close to her eyeball, but only received another glare, so she forced herself to keep still.

She used the minute of silence to contemplate her situation. The last thing she remembered was being on the TARDIS, crowded around the console, laughing at something one of the others had said. The Doctor, Rose and Jack were nowhere in sight now, and with a pang she realised she was most likely on her own for … whatever _this_ was.

Had she been kidnapped? Were they going to ransom her for money? Did the Doctor even _have_ any money? Or was he going to have to rob a bank or something to save her? Oh God, she was probably going to _die_ here––

_No_ , she told herself sternly, forcing herself to inhale and exhale in a few deep, calming breaths. Careful not to move her head, she took in what she could of the room around her. It looked familiar, but in an abstract sort of way, and it took her a moment to place it.

It looked like the set of one of those cheesy daytime quiz shows... Was it possible she was actually in a blimming _game show_? The situation was suddenly worse than she'd thought.

She remained silent until the blonde lady moved away with a final smear of ruby red lipstick, and then the cheerful, redheaded woman was back, grinning away like she were paid per smile. “How do I play?” Hartley asked her, sensing that arguing or dragging her feet would only get her nowhere. “What're the rules?” she ventured hopefully.

She could only hope it wouldn't be comprised of trivia questions; she never was any good at Trivial Pursuit.

The lady sent her a bewildered frown, as though it were the first time anybody had ever asked her that question, as though it weren't normal to _not_ know how to play. “We surveyed a few thousand people's answers to a series of simple questions,” she responded slowly, like she was talking to a small child. “You need to try and guess the top responses.”

“And if I don't?”

The woman suddenly looked uncomfortable. Hartley felt sick at the hesitance, but reminded herself that being difficult would only make things harder in the long run, for everybody involved. If there was one thing life with the Doctor had taught her, it was to go with the flow, and dammit, that's exactly what she was going to do.

“So, it's just like Family Feud, then?” she continued, figuring that if she lost they'd kick her out on her arse and she'd have to come up with some way to contact the Doctor to come get her. She'd been in worse situations, she supposed.

“Why, they haven't called it that in centuries,” the redheaded woman giggled, the sound shrill and condescending.

“Right,” Hartley mumbled, brushing back the hair in her face and averting her eyes.

“Oh dear me,” the woman continued, lifting a hand and promptly snapping her fingers together. At the sound of the click, a new lady appeared by Hartley's side, this one with bright blue hair and black painted lips, a belt full of alarming looking equipment secured around her hips. “Please do something about... _that_ ,” she said with an air of surprising distaste, gesturing broadly at Hartley's mane of thick strawberry-blonde hair before popping her smile back into place like it'd never happened.

The new woman got to work, beginning to pull at Hartley's hair with a fine-toothed comb, the tug at her roots making her wince.

“Now, you have nice teeth, which is good, so _please_ remember to smile. Viewers love a nice smile – a chance to show off those _adorable_ dimples of yours. Also, try to avoid looking down, we want to see those eyes. And please remember not to swear, this is a family show.”

“Right,” Hartley was bewildered by the sudden influx of orders, but thankfully was good at pretending she wasn't. She swallowed, flinching when the hair stylist yanked too hard at her bouncy locks. “Got it.”

“Great!” the redhead beamed brightly, clapping her hands together like an excitable child before swishing away to one of the cameramen, beginning to speak with him in low, serious tones, like they were discussing nuclear launch codes and not which colour filter would go best with the highlights in Hartley's hair.

The lady behind her took another moment or two to be completely finished with her hair, walking away once it was teased to the point of frizziness, making Hartley grimace as she peered down at her ends, wondering if they would ever fully recover.

“We're live in thirty seconds, people!” the redheaded show runner announced loudly, one hand pressed to the device resting over her ear. “Final checks!”

Hartley felt a wave of panic crash through her system, and she hoped it didn't show on her face. Sure, the situation didn't appear to be life or death right now, but who knew how things would turn out? Maybe the Doctor was around the corner, coming to set her free any moment; or, maybe he'd finally gotten sick of her and dumped her off on the nearest planet while she slept.

At this point, it probably could have gone either way.

The game started so quickly, Hartley barely knew it had happened. One moment the space was crawling with people holding brushes and wearing headsets, and in the next it was empty, numbers appearing above them, slowly counting down to zero. Hartley winced like it was a ticking bomb.

“Welcome to _Friendly Foe Feud!_ ” a robust man in a red velvet jacket proclaimed to the cameras, a jolly smile exposing shining teeth. “Today we have with us Mr. Jackson Kennedy from the Blue State,” he announced, gesturing to the greasy man with an exaggerated flourish. “Tell us a bit about yourself, Jackson.”

“I'm a Libra. I'm happily married to my wife of seventeen years,” he said this with a contrasting grimace. “I enjoy taxidermy,” he said this with a leering grin, “and pickles.”

Hartley's lip curled in disgust at the man she was facing, but he paid her no attention, giving another disgusting sneer to the cameras that was probably meant to look attractive.

“Facing Jackson today is Ms. Hartley Daniels from the Great New Empire of Britain,” the host said, turning to her with a beam. Hartley didn't know what the 'Great New Empire of Britain' was, but she wasn't about to put a toe out of line and risk asking. “Tell us about you, gorgeous,” he added keenly, eyeing her like a predator might eye its prey. Her skin began to crawl.

Hartley swallowed nervously, glancing unsurely over at the cameras aimed at her face. She never had been very good when it came to being on camera – or dealing with creepy jerks, for that matter.

“I'm a Pisces and I enjoy … travelling,” she said hurriedly, deciding that attempting to come up with anything more interesting just wasn't worth it. Besides, she didn't have _that_ many facets; at least, none that would interest the people tuning into this show, anyway.

“Anyone special in your life, Hartley?” the red, velvety man asked with a wag of his bushy brows, fluorescent teeth gleaming under the harsh studio lights.

Three of them, yes, just none in the way that he meant. “No,” she answered flatly.

“Hear that, folks?” he turned to the cameras with a greasy, sly grin and a suggestive wink. “She's _single_.”

Before she could process the events, music began to play from above them. It was some kind of cliché gameshow tune that sounded like it was recorded with a cheap accordion on an old Nokia phone in some kid's beat-laboratory basement.

“You know what that means,” the host said suddenly, something like excitement on his apple red face. “Time to play, _Friendly Foe Feud_!” he announced in the voice of a conductor of a circus.

Hartley grit her teeth, turning to look at the board above them, watching as the words appeared on its face in colourful lettering. She wondered whether it was actually English, or just the TARDIS translating it for her. She supposed it didn't matter either way, in the end.

“Something you watch,” the host read out with a fake, plastic-y beam, turning to Hartley first, awaiting her answer.

“Something you watch,” she repeated dumbly, her mind going terrifyingly blank.

She had no chance of winning this game, she could only hope that she wasn't in some awful dystopian future where losing equalled death. She was sure that was just too far-fetched to be true. Right?

She wondered what would happen should she try and run, but beyond the studio lights, all she could see was inky blackness, like nothing beyond the room and its occupants existed.

“Hartley?” the host prompted her after a long few moments of tense silence, an awkward sort of look on his botox-stuffed, Thomas-the-Tank-Engine looking face.

“Television,” she blurted without thought, deciding that remaining in the game for as long as she possibly could was by far the most attractive option. She didn't _want_ to know what happened when you lost, and she was determined to keep from gaining the knowledge.

“Is it on the board?” host-man asked dramatically, spinning around to see the word 'television' appear in the same quirky font. “Well done Hartley!” he cheered like he was genuinely surprised she'd gotten one right at all. Which was offensive, but she didn't feel like getting penalised for arguing. “Top answer, too! Good girl! Over to you, Jackson!”

Hartley's pulse thundered, and she grit her teeth again against the onslaught of anxiety she felt as the stupid game progressed. The questions began to get harder and harder, until finally they were just simply impossible for her to answer.

How was she supposed to know 'foods most likely to be eaten on Mars'? Thankfully the greasy taxidermist opposite her seemed to be having a similar amount of trouble.

“It's down to the last question,” the host exclaimed before she knew it, and she rubbed at her temples, trying to quell her growing panic. “Winner takes all – 'something you should never say to an Amazonian'.”

Hartley blinked, pulling a blank. What did that even _mean_? This was impossible. They were setting her up to fail, and it just wasn't _fair_.

No sooner had she thought this than the door towards the back of the studio suddenly burst open, flooding the shadowed set in light from the hallway, revealing two tall silhouettes. “Hart!” Jack was the one to yell, hurdling into the room without regard for his own safety, a large, dangerous looking gun brandished in his hands. “Everyone step away from the pretty lady!”

“Now isn't the time,” the Doctor snapped irritably at the sound of the flirtatious remark, waiting by the door, sonic held tightly in hand.

“With us, Hart!” Jack called, lifting one hand from his weapon to beckon her closer.

She shifted where she stood, but paused before her feet moved, turning to glance at the android sitting just behind the cameras. Jack noticed her hesitation, followed her gaze and without pause readjusted his aim so the dangerous end of his gun was pointed at the threat. Next thing she knew the android had a large hole in its centre, and its glowing eyes flickered until they died completely.

“You're good to go!” he yelled to her, and this time she didn't hesitated for even a second, leaping off the podium and barrelling over towards her friends. She didn't have time to throw herself into Jack's arms like she wanted, nor the Doctor's, so she settled for grasping Jack's free hand and yanking him through the door, running at full speed to get the hell outta dodge.

She glanced back to see guards flooding the room from a side access door, but the Doctor slammed the main door shut and sonicked it, rendering it virtually impossible to reopen.

Even though what Hartley needed was a breather, she knew there was no time to waste. If Rose wasn't with them, that meant she was stranded too, and she'd die before letting anything happen to her best friend. There was a stranger with the boys, a sweet looking girl wearing an anxious expression. Hartley wanted to introduce herself, but there was no time to waste.

“Glad to see you're in one piece, sugar,” Jack beamed down at her, and she smiled back, the relief plain as day across her face.

“Glad to _be_ in one piece, handsome,” she replied, picking up her pace.

“Not the time _or_ the place,” the Doctor snapped over his shoulder, and the pair ceased their playful flirting, properly chastised.

“What happened if I lost?” she asked before she could chicken out of it.

“You'd have been vaporised,” the Doctor told her bluntly, and she stumbled over her own feet in shock, suddenly feeling faint.

“Good thing you got there when you did,” she said, sounding out of breath from running, but full of gratitude all the same. “We've gotta find Rose,” she added with a gasp, the thought of anything happening to Rose not unlike being skewered in the chest. She didn't know where they were, or why they were being forced into deadly, futuristic game shows, but she figured there'd be time for answers later. What mattered now was getting them all to safety.

The Doctor gave a hum of agreement before toppling into the lift at the end of the long hallway, slamming his finger against the correct button before the others were even fully inside. “Come on, come on,” he growled, glaring at the countdown of floors like it might make it go any faster.

“I'm Lynda, by the way,” the cute little newcomer introduced herself to Hartley, a meek but sweet smile on her face as she held out a hand. “With a 'y'.”

“Hartley,” she responded breathlessly, still trying to regain the use of her lungs after booking it down that never-ending hallway as fast as she possibly could, her friend's life hanging in the balance. “With an 'e'.”

Lynda giggled as they shook hands, but before she could say anything more the doors slid open and the Doctor was barrelling from the small space, blind to them in his desperation to find Rose.

“Which one is it?” the Time Lord demanded, his tone anguished as he whirled around in every direction, trying to be everywhere at once.

“Over here!” Lynda was the one to cry out, heading for a door on the right with _Game Room Six_ written above it in big, block letters.

“Stand back,” Jack said, powering up his weapon and aiming it at the doors, “let me blast it open,”

“You can't,” the Doctor snapped impatiently, already crouched beside the keypad, the sound of his sonic filling the air, which was so thick with tension that Hartley could almost taste it. “It's made of Hydra combination,” he explained quickly, and Hartley shifted her weight, feeling rather helpless. She didn't have any skills or weapons, the best she could do was tag along and try not to get shot. “Finally!” the Time Lord barked, tearing into the room the moment he could and racing for all he was worth towards Rose.

“Rose!” he yelled desperately. “Stop this game!”

“Stop this game!” Jack shouted over the top of him, holding his gun up threateningly as he barrelled into the room. Hartley spilled inside after them, spinning around until she caught sight of Rose, who was running at full pelt towards the Doctor.

“I order you to stop this game!” the Time Lord bellowed as they grew nearer.

“ _You are the weakest link_ ,” the droid running the game said in a static-y, robotic voice.

“Rose!” Hartley yelled, waving at her, trying to tell her to run faster as she ran in behind Jack, keeping close to his side.

  
“Look out for the Anne Droid, it's armed!” Rose shouted to them, her only thought in that moment for her friends, which was what Hartley had to admit she loved most about the girl.

“ _Rose_!” Hartley screamed again, watching helplessly as the droid fired at the blonde, and in the next instant there was nothing but a pile of dust where Rose had once been standing.

Hartley stopped dead in her tracks, while Jack kept running and the Doctor collapsed to his knees beside the pile. Hartley felt like the air had been sucked forcefully out of her lungs, the pressure on her chest building, like the weight of their failure was a tangible thing, resting over her ribs and compressing her heart, squeezing without mercy.

“Rose,” Hartley said again, but this time it lacked volume. For as frozen as her body was, her mind was anything but still. It ticked over, cogs in her brain whirring away, desperately trying to compute what she'd just seen, but unable to process it. It was a dream – a nightmare; some kind of hallucination maybe; a trick of the light.

“What the hell did you do to her?” Jack was demanding the workers furiously, but Hartley was barely able to pull herself together, let alone find the strength to be angry at anybody.

Only that sensation didn't last long. One moment she was emotionally and physically drained, and the next she was catching sight of Jack fighting with the crew, and rage filled her like boiling water being poured into a cup.

“Back off!” he was hissing when one of the cameramen tried to restrain him, thrusting his elbow into the guy's face.

“I need security and I need it here right _now_!” the floor manager was saying into his headpiece, watching with wide eyes as Jack struggled against the men's hold.

“Don't you touch him!” Jack roared, catching sight of security taking ahold of the Doctor's arm. The Time Lord seemed to barely register the action, still staring down at the pile of dust on the floor like he'd never be cheerful again. Someone shoved at Jack violently, and Hartley saw red.

“Leave him alone!” she shrieked at the man, throwing herself into the fray with a screech, fingers curled like claws as her nails tore at flesh, forcing the hulking man off of Jack.

Two people appeared at Hartley's side, grabbing her arms and locking them painfully behind her back, forcing her off of the man she'd attacked, who was curled in on himself in pain. She struggled against their hold, their grips too tight, her shoulders beginning to burn. “Don't you dare lay so much as a _hand_ on her!” Jack thundered furiously from a few feet away, cocking his gun and aiming it threateningly at the men.

“Jack!” Hartley cried, trying to get through his veil of grief, which wasn't easy when she was still curled behind hers.

“Sir, put down the gun or I'll have to shoot,” one of the guards warned him lowly.

“You killed her!” Jack yelled emotionally, torn between heartbreak and shock. “Your stupid _fucking_ game show killed her!”

“Jack!” Hartley screamed at him, wincing when the guards holding her reacted by gripping her tighter. Her shoulders felt like they were going to tear, but she didn't complain. “Jack, don't!” she continued pleadingly, ignoring them and focusing her attention on Jack. The rage was gone now, replaced by the kind of numbness that hurt.

“Rose is _dead_ , Hartley!” Jack was borderline inconsolable, his eyes glistening with tears.

“I know,” she whispered brokenly, screaming insides suddenly quieted, filled with a pain that hurt down to the very marrow in her bones. “I know.”

Jack stared back at her, the fight finally leaving him as he allowed himself to be gripped and taken out of the room. He cast a forlorn glance back at the pile of dust that Hartley realised, with a silent gag, had once been Rose.

She was pulled roughly from the room before she had a chance to properly process this reality – a reality without Rose. She was led through endless corridors, but it was all a blur of cold, steely grey, one hall after another. Jack was saying something, speaking in quick, angered tones, but it floated through her head without really sinking in. Everything was hazy, a fog clouding her mind and refusing to let up even for the authoritarians hovering over them menacingly.

She wasn't sure the cloud of grief would ever lift, not until she was grasped by the shoulders and shaken roughly, snapping her attention back to the moment.

“––even listening? Who are you and how did you get on board?” the guard was demanding of her, but she just stared back without speaking, refusing to talk. These people had killed Rose. These people didn't _deserve_ a response.

It seemed an unspoken agreement that they were to say nothing, all of them staring back at the guard with hollow, unfeeling eyes. Jack had let go of his seething anger, it was replaced instead by a numb silence that Hartley more than understood.

“Can you tell us the purpose of this device, sir?” the guard asked stonily, holding the Doctor's sonic screwdriver under his nose and glaring at the Time Lord, who said nothing in response. “Can you tell us how you got on board?” he attempted again, but the Doctor didn't so much as meet his gaze, staring unseeingly at the wall behind him, only serving to anger the guard more. Hartley could just imagine the guilt he was feeling, however misplaced it may have been.

“Just leave him alone!” Lynda exclaimed bravely from the corner, noting the Doctor's grief and standing up for him. Hartley felt a flare of affection for the girl, or as much as she could, through her own haze of sorrow.

Was there more she could have done? If the Doctor hadn't had to come get her first, he might have gotten to Rose in time. Was this her fault? She _knew_ it was a stupidly irrational thought, but she struggled to disagree amongst the fog of grief.

The guard sneered, reaching out and grasping Lynda's jaw in a too-tight grip.“I'm asking _him,_ ” he snarled, and white-hot rage thundered through Hartley at the unjust treatment. Maybe it was because the misery had been building and was finally coming to a head, or maybe it was simply that Lynda was so innocently sweet, but either way, Hartley snapped.

“Get your hands _off_ of her,” she hissed, slapping the brute's hand off of Lynda's sweet face. He blinked like he couldn't quite believe what had just happened, then turned to face her with an icy fury in his cold eyes, but she did nothing more than stare up at him defiantly. She'd faced Slitheen and Pierrots and Daleks and Wraiths; one thick-headed guard wasn't nearly enough to make her quiver in her boots.

All of a sudden, however, the glacial rage in his eyes melted into something hot and heavy, and his gaze swept her like she were a burger and he were a starving man.

“Should I put my hands on _you_ instead?” he offered with a yellow-toothed leer, and Hartley threw up a little bit in her mouth.

“Back off,” Jack snarled threateningly, leaning around the Doctor to shoot the man a truly frightening glower.

The guard grinned, amused by all the attempted defiance, then turned back to the Doctor. “Tell us who you are,” he demanded, but all of them fell silent once more, refusing to speak a word to the man, once more retreating back into their internal storms of grief. “Fine,” the guard sneered in frustration. “You will be taken from this place to the Lunar Penal Colony, there to be held without trial. You may not appeal against this sentence,” he droned, eyes narrowed, watching their reactions closely. “Is that understood?” he asked when none of them said anything.

The silence was thick, and the guard sneered once more before turning on his heel and storming from the cell. The one standing outside unlocked the door. It was half open, and the disgusting guard was just stepping out into the hall when the Doctor gave the order.

The fight that broke out lasted no more than fifteen seconds. Jack had years of experience under his belt, taking one of the guards down with laughable ease, using only a few well-aimed punches and one brilliant kick to the face.

“No you don't!” the derogatory guard snarled, whirling around and grasping Hartley by the collar in retaliation. He yanked her towards him as if intending to use her as leverage, only for him to use too much force, sending her flying into the cell's bars. She cried out as her chin made contact with the cold, hard metal, feeling her teeth slice through her lip. Blood began to trickle down her chin, hot and thick.

Jack let out a furious roar, slamming his fist into the guard's face before anyone knew what was happening, rendering the man unconscious in one simple move.

Hartley could barely celebrate, holding a hand over her bleeding mouth and trying not to gag at the salty taste of blood on her tongue. “You okay, Pretty Lady?” Jack asked her carefully, shaking out his bruised fist out as he turned to survey her bleeding mouth. He gently pulled back her hand to eye the wound with concern.

“I'll live,” she attempted a reassuring grin, but failed miserably when it only ripped at her split skin, causing more blood to pour down over her chin.

She wiped at the mess with the back of her hand as she watched the Doctor and Jack steal back their devices from the pockets of the incapacitated guards. Acting on instinct, she reached down too, scooping up one of the unconscious men's guns. It felt uncomfortable in her hand, heavier than she'd expected it to be and cold to the touch.

“This way,” the Doctor prompted them sharply, making no comment on Hartley's new weapon. Desperate times, she supposed. “Floor 500,” he ordered the elevator when they got to it, and with a near-silent whirring it began to climb the satellite, heading for the top.

Hartley's stomach dropped out from under her from how fast they were moving, but she said nothing, one hand gripping her stolen gun while her other prodded gingerly at her split lip.

“That looks bad,” Lynda murmured sympathetically from beside her, and Hartley rubbed at the blood on her chin self-consciously. “You okay?” the sweet girl continued carefully, eyeing the older woman in concern. However it wasn't pity Hartley saw reflected in her kind eyes, for which she was grateful.

“I'm alright,” she assured Lynda gently, not wanting to worry her.

“Come on, come on,” the Doctor was muttering to himself, deep lines on his face as he glared at the numbers counting up as they travelled towards floor 500.

“Doc,” she said softly, stepping closer to him and placing a hand on his arm. He shrugged it off violently, like her touch had burned him. The action stung, but she kept her expression clear, swallowing and tucking her hands into her pockets. “I'm sorry,” she told him weakly, voice breaking over the words.

“Yeah,” he muttered back, feeling absent from his voice. He said nothing more, maybe because there just weren't any words to say.

Hartley squeezed her eyes shut tight, trying to hold back the flood of mournful tears that threatened to escape.

Jack shuffled up beside her, nudging her gently in support while the Doctor returned to staring at the numbers on the screen like they were what was to blame for Rose's death. There was a pregnant pause, during which Hartley was sure her heart would give out under the weight of her own sorrow, before a soft and cheerful _ding_ filled the lift and the doors slid open, revealing floor 500.

Jack was the first to launch into action, bursting from their small container with his weapon held out in warning.

“Okay, move away from the desk!” he ordered the terrified employees.

Hartley shoved her bruised emotions deep inside a dusty drawer in the dark recesses of her mind, focusing on the task at hand: getting some goddamn answers. The gun hung uselessly in her grip, and with a sharp inhale she aimed the dangerous end of the stolen weapon at the workers, knowing that, like the Doctor, she'd never actually be able to fire the weapon. She didn't have the stomach for it – for death – but they didn't need to know that.

“Nobody try anything clever. Everybody clear? Stand to the side and _stay_ there!” Jack continued to order them all harshly.

Hartley's eyes scanned the room, coming to a sharp stop on a terrifyingly pale woman hanging above everybody else, wires connecting her to the mainframe. She felt a wave of nausea roll through her at the cold, vacant look in the woman's deadened eyes, her lips moving in near-silent mutterings.

“Who's in charge of this place?” the Doctor demanded, seeming to sense she was the one in control. The employees eyed the trio with distrust, glancing warily at Jack and Hartley's weapons, wondering if they were actually going to use them.

“Nineteen, eighteen––” the poor woman hooked up to the computer replied without any hint of acknowledgement.

“This Satellite's more than a Game Station!”

“Seventy nine, eighty––”

“Who killed Rose Tyler?”

“All staff are reminded that solar flares––”

“I want an answer!”

“Occur in delta point one.”

“She can't reply,” the employee to the right interjected, and the Doctor swung around, seeming to aim the gun in his face. “Don't shoot!” he cried desperately, holding his hands up in surrender, terrified in the face of death.

“Oh, don't be so thick,” the Doctor rolled his eyes. “Like I was ever going to shoot,” he snapped, carelessly tossing the weapon into the man's hands. He caught it, bewilderment clear as day on his face. “Captain, we've got more guards on the way up. Secure the exits,” he ordered shortly.

“Yes, sir,” Jack nodded, already heading for the doors.

“Hartley, you're with him,” he added quickly. She wasn't sure how much help she'd be, but something was better than nothing, she supposed.

Nodding obediently, she turned and followed Jack away from the group, heading towards the doors. “You all right?” he asked her quickly as they marched to complete their assigned task; almost like soldiers, she thought with a grimace of disgust.

“I wish people would stop asking me that,” she replied, aiming for light but just hitting begrudging. How fragile did she seem? She wasn't about to crumble into dust at the first sign of trouble. She could handle a split lip and a dose of the Doctor's temper. She was stronger than they thought.

“Rose was your best friend,” he reminded her gently.

“Yeah, she was,” Hartley agreed, glad her voice didn't tremble. “And now you are,” she added quickly, as if that settled the matter.

“I have big shoes to fill,” he said solemnly.

“You bet your arse you do,” she replied with a small, nearly-silent sniffle.

“How're we meant to seal the doors?” Jack asked, taking sympathy and changing the subject rather than pushing to make her any more uncomfortable. She loved him all the more for it. “I don't know the access codes.”

In a move that was more instinct than anything else, she hefted up her stolen gun, aiming the barrel at the keypad and squeezing what she assumed was the trigger. The control pad exploded with a small puff of smoke, and the numbers above the doors stilled, meaning the lift had come to a complete stop.

“That should stall them for awhile, don't you think?” she said simply.

Jack grinned, wide and proud. “I like the way you think, Daniels,” he told her smoothly, and she gave a nod back, knowing that smiling would only hurt her split lip further. “Door's sealed, curtesy of Hartley!” he called to the Doctor, who looked to be in a serious conversation with the head worker of the floor. “We should be safe for about ten minutes.”

“Keep an eye on them!” the Time Lord called back impatiently.

Jack nodded even though the Doctor had already stopped paying attention, and Hartley adjusted her grip on her stolen weapon. She didn't like how it felt in her hands, weighty and dark. She wondered how many lives it had ended in the past, then cut off that train of thought before it could fully form.

“What d'you suppose is in there?” Jack asked curiously, waving his gun in the direction of a door to the left, succeeding in pulling her thoughts back to the moment.

She ran her eyes over the door, taking in its heavy security system and thick padding. “Whatever it is, I'd say it's important,” she said, voice quiet and weak, lacking its usual enthusiasm, but Jack didn't mention it. He abruptly turned, crossing the room in three long strides. Blinking, Hartley sped up to follow him, silently acknowledging that she felt safer by his side. He began poking at the keypad, laying his hand on the sensor. It beeped and denied him entry.

“You're not allowed in there!” one of the employees from the other side of the room called, her voice stern, like an adult telling a young child they couldn't play with the shiny new toy. “Archive Six is out of bounds.”

Jack snorted freely at the comment. “Do we look like ' _out of bounds_ ' sort of people?” he called back, waving his gun in the air with a sardonic smirk. The woman looked properly chastised. With a huff he turned back to the keypad, frowning at it as he began to consider how to rewire it to open.

“Stand back,” Hartley instructed the Captain. He spun around to look at her, only to hear a bang and see she'd once again shot the keypad. Sparks flew, forcing Jack backwards, but he righted himself and turned to look at her with a wide smirk.

“Are you going to shoot _every_ door we come across?” he asked with a gleam amusement in his eyes.

“It seems to be working for us so far,” she replied with a shrug, shooting him a small smile and gesturing for him to step into the room. He entered first, weapon held up warily, but the room was empty but for a single, heartwarming sight.

The TARDIS stood in the back corner in all its deep blue, unassuming glory.

“Oh, you wonderful, beautiful ship,” Hartley muttered, crossing the space as quickly as she could and laying a hand against the cool blue wood. The ship hummed in her mind, the sensation like greeting an old friend, and she couldn't help the relieved smile that spread across her face, grief momentarily forgotten as she basked in her glee at finding the ship. “Hello,” she whispered to it quietly, leaning forwards to press her forehead to its front, like a cat might nuzzle its owner.

“I think you like the TARDIS more than me,” Jack joked, appearing beside her and fishing out his key from around his neck – where they all kept them. Except her, because she _still_ didn't have one.

“I like the TARDIS more than everyone,” she replied cheekily, stepping into the ship as he held the door open for her. Holding a gun while standing in the TARDIS felt wrong; a weapon of destruction in a machine built for peace, it just didn't fit.

“Can't argue there,” he agreed, letting the door click shut behind them as they both wandered up the ramp.

Jack froze suddenly halfway to the console, and Hartley bumped into his back, blinking in surprise and leaning around him to see what was wrong. He was stood beside Rose's denim jacket, which hung limply over the railing, a hand held on top of it and a look of remorse on his handsome face.

“I can't believe she's really gone,” he muttered hollowly.

Throat thick, Hartley averted her eyes, focusing instead on the console, running her hands over the controls, the cool metal under her fingertips grounding her, keeping her from getting too overwhelmed. There would be time to mourn later. For now, they had a job to do.

She watched as Jack moved up to the console beside her. He went straight to the monitor, beginning to type away like he'd been doing it his whole life. Maybe there was something on the computer that could help them, something that could tell them how to shut the Station down, how to save the people stuck in the games.

Hartley wasn't paying attention, focusing on breathing as she caressed the console, keeping herself calm and steady, trying to keep from drowning in the sea of grief that surrounded the edges of her mind.

“What the hell?” Jack breathed all of a sudden, as though he'd found something shocking, barely daring to hope it were true.

“What?” she asked, instantly on high alert, muscles coiled as if preparing for a fight.

Jack said nothing for a long few moments, staring at the screen in disbelief, until finally he snapped back to attention, spinning around and making a beeline for the doors. “We have to tell the Doc!” he called to her over his shoulder. Hartley felt more than a little lost, and sped up to follow him back out onto Floor 500. “Doctor!” he yelled, interrupting whatever the alien was saying to the workers remaining, a thunderous look on his face. “We found the TARDIS!”

“We're not leaving now,” the Doctor sounded frustrated that he'd even consider it.

“No, but the TARDIS worked it out,” he exclaimed, rushing over to the computers lining the room and beginning to type so quickly that his fingers practically blurred. “You'll want to watch this,” he added eagerly before turning to a wary Lynda. “Lynda, could you stand over there for me please?”

“I—I just want to go home,” the poor girl stammered, twisting her hands together in front of her anxiously.

“It'll only take a second,” he assured her gently, and she nodded reluctantly, turning and following his instructions. “Could you stand in that spot, quick as you can?” She did as she was told. “Everybody watching?” he confirmed, finger poised over the button. “Okay. Three, two, one––”

A beam shot down from the ceiling, and Lynda vanished in a puff of smoke.

Shock struck Hartley like lightning, and she gasped, hands flying to cover her mouth in abject horror. “You killed her!” the Doctor shouted, just as outraged and horrified as Hartley.

Rather than look ashamed, Jack's expression seemed to only grow brighter. “Oh, do you think?” he asked coyly, wagging his eyebrows as he casually hit the button again, and with a flash Lynda reappeared next to the Doctor in a beam of light, bewildered but looking no worse for wear.

Hartley gasped again, staring at the dazed girl in shock. What did this mean? Could she even dare to hope?

“What the hell was that?” Lynda asked, blinking in surprise as she steadied herself.

“It's a transmat beam. Not a disintegrator, a secondary _transmat_ system!” Jack announced gleefully, bursting at the seams with relief and happiness. “People don't get killed in the games; they get transported across space!”

The Doctor looked like he was still struggling to piece it all together.

“Rose is alive?!” Hartley asked, barely comprehending. Jack grinned wider and more freely than she'd ever yet seen. “Rose is _alive_!” she cried, the relief filling her up like it were a tangible thing, seeping from her pores and melting into the people around her.

The Doctor's face suddenly split into a wide smile, and before she knew what was happening he had swept her up in a tight embrace. His strong arms locked around her middle and he lifted her in the air, laughing in her ear with a mystified relief as he squeezed her tightly. She didn't know how to react, the Doctor never having hugged her before, but she thought it was nice, and something they should do more often.

After a long moment he put her down gently, barely having time to smile at her before Jack pounced on him. The pair embraced, patting each other on the back in that masculine way men sometimes did, both still laughing with relief. Jack pulled away to beam at Hartley, ducking down so he too could engulf her in an embrace of his own.

He held her tightly, and she could feel his glee in the hug. She buried her face in his neck and hugged back, eyes stinging with tears of happiness.

“She's alive,” she murmured into Jack's neck, his embrace warm and comforting, like a hug from _family._

“She's alive,” he confirmed, and Hartley's grin only strengthened, hope and relief like she'd never before known flooding her system in one, overwhelming wave.

* * *

Hartley couldn't relax until Rose was safe and sound, back aboard the TARDIS.

Daleks. That's what had her. _Bloody Daleks_. The sight of them made Hartley's stomach churn, but it was quickly overridden by the sheer joy of seeing Rose, alive and in person, thanks to the Doctor's most recent hare-brained scheme of materialising the TARDIS around Rose herself. They'd nearly been taken out by a Dalek in the process, but Jack was a good aim, and before she knew it all of them were standing in the TARDIS, safe and sound – or as close to safe as they could possibly get.

“Don't I get a hug?” Jack teased once the blonde and the Doctor had finished embracing, each overcome with relief to see one another again. Hartley watched with a soft smile, eyes scraping over Rose, still processing the fact that she was actually alive and there with them.

“Oh, come here!” Rose grinned, wrapping the handsome man in a tight hug.

“Welcome home!” he laughed, rubbing her back warmly. Hartley glanced over at where the Doctor was looking over the exploded Dalek critically, sonic held out cautiously. She knew seeing them again, especially in such large numbers, was hard for the Time Lord. But she also knew he wouldn't want to talk about it. He never did.

“I thought I'd never see you again!”

“Oh, you were lucky I was just a one-shot-wonder!”

They continued to banter, but Hartley was bursting with enthusiasm, too relieved to see her alive to stop herself from interrupting. “Hart!” Rose exclaimed in surprise when she felt two arms wrap around her from behind, squeezing her tightly and stubbornly refusing to let go. The blonde laughed joyfully, placing her hands over Hartley's and gripping tightly. Hartley childishly nuzzled her face into the space between her shoulder blades, breathing in her friend's faded perfume – something floral and sweet, so intensely _Rose_ that it made her heart sing.

“Oh, you had me worried sick,” Hartley murmured, squeezing extra tight.

“Must be a Tuesday,” Rose joked wryly, and Hartley giggled in pure elation, leaning around her to press a kiss to her cheek before reluctantly pulling away and turning to the Doctor, who was staring at the exploded Dalek with a grim glint to his blue eyes.

Rose cast a concerned look at Hartley, who only shrugged helplessly. She sucked in a deep breath before speaking, her voice gentle, as though anything too loud might spook the Doctor.

“You said the Daleks were extinct,” she began softly, eyeing the giant pepper-pot with wary contempt. “How come they're still alive? “

“One minute they're the greatest threat in the Universe, the next minute, they vanished out of time and space,” Jack added thoughtfully. He had more knowledge on the subject, being from a different time and galaxy, one where these sorts of things were fact, something everyone heard about as children. Like the monster under the bed – be good or the Daleks will get you.

“They went off to fight a bigger war: the Time War,” the Doctor revealed, face carefully schooled to give nothing away. Hartley could see, though, deep in his eyes, a glimmer of long-hidden pain.

She remembered how he'd told her of that day, the day he'd killed his own people – and the Daleks – for the sake of the whole of creation. Sadness swooped in her gut, not quite pity, but certainly something close, and she looked away to hide the sorrowful gleam to her eyes.

“I thought that was just a legend,” Jack breathed from beside her, awestruck at the Doctor's words.

“I was there,” the Time Lord admitted sombrely. “The war between the Daleks and the Time Lords, with the whole of creation at stake. My people were destroyed, but they took the Daleks with them. I almost thought it was worth it. Now, it turns out they died for nothing,” he muttered bitterly.

Hartley turned to look at Rose, and when their eyes met sadness passed between them, sympathy for their friend heavy on their hearts.

“There's thousands of them now. We could hardly stop _one_ ,” Rose reminded them after a moment of silence, letting the Doctor's embittered words fade into nothing. Hartley grimaced at the memory of the Dalek in Nevada and all the lives that had been lost trying to fight it; all the carnage it had caused. “What're we going to do?” Rose asked him quietly.

“No good stood round here chin wagging,” the Doctor chirped, the horror wiped from his expression like a shaken etch-a-sketch, no trace of it lingering. “Human race, you'd gossip all day,” he added callously, a cheeky sort of look on his face, like the panic from before had never even been there. Like he were utterly unaffected. “The Daleks have got the answers. Let's go and meet the neighbours!”

Abruptly he spun around and headed for the door, seemingly without a care in the world, arms swinging as he walked, like he _wasn't_ about to step out onto a Dalek war ship, surrounded by thousands of the glorified pepper-pots – all of which were ready to kill him on sight.

“You can't go out there!” Rose shouted after him, dread painted across her face as she watched him go.

“She's right, Doc,” Hartley added hastily, stepping forwards, prepared to physically stop him by herself if it came down to it. “They're going to kill you the moment you step out those doors.”

He paused in the doorway, turning back to the trio of friends following after him, eyebrow cocked. “It's fine,” he assured them before meeting Hartley's eyes, gaze stern and commanding respect. “You're staying here,” he told her, and she frowned, taking offence to his words. She could handle herself just as much as Rose and Jack. She wasn't helpless; she could fight.

“What?” she asked in shock.

“Now isn't the time to argue, Hartley,” he snapped back. “Besides, I need someone in the TARDIS in case things go south.” Then without so much as a blink he turned around and stepped out into enemy territory. Jack sent her an apologetic glance, but she waved him off, shooing him out the door after Rose and the Doctor.

The door shut with a near-silent creak, and Hartley was left in a stark silence, one so loud it made her ears ring. The TARDIS even seemed quiet from within her mind, her usual humming now no more than a dull thudding – although that may have actually been her heart beating in her ears, it was hard to tell. She didn't like having to stay hidden just because the Doctor thought she was too fragile to be in the Dalek fleet's presence, but she respected him enough to do as she was told, however unsavoury the task was – it was a weak excuse at best, because she didn't even know where the _thermostat_ was, let alone how to _pilot_ the beautiful alien ship.

Heading over to the console, and grasped the monitor, pulling it closer to her face and sitting back to watch what was happening outside on the screen before her. She ran her hands over the knobs and dials as she did so very often, only this time as an anxious habit, hoping the sensation of cool metal under her skin would help ground her.

“ _Do you know what they call me in the ancient legends of the Dalek Home-world_?” the Doctor's voice was filtering through the speakers, slightly static-y but still clear as day. “ _The Oncoming Storm_ ,” he said in an ominous, deadly sort of tone that made chills travel up the skin on Hartley's arms. “ _You might've removed all your emotions but I reckon right down deep in your DNA, there's one little spark left, and that's_ fear. _Doesn't it just burn when you face me_?”

It was scary, almost, the way he sounded. So dark and calculated, like he knew exactly what to say to make everybody around him tremble with terror. In that moment he exuded power in a way he never had before. Hartley wasn't even in the same room as him and she could feel it.

The Daleks didn't take well to his words, and the conversation began to get even more interesting. What she was hearing from inside the TARDIS was that the Emperor itself was there, telling the Doctor how it had created the new fleet of Daleks from dead human tissue.

The thought was repulsive, and Hartley felt a ball gather in her throat at the stark imagery it created. Her eyes unfocused as she was drawn into thoughts of death – how awful, to have your life end only for your body to aid in the creation of a race of hateful, genocidal drones. There was no peace in that, there was no justice.

Hartley snapped back to attention when the doors burst open. Rose, the Doctor and Jack all tumbled into the safety of the TARDIS. The two humans moved straight over to the console, both looking sickened to their stomachs by the information they'd uncovered. The Doctor hesitated by the closed doors, staring at them without really seeing them.

“ _Exterminate_! _Exterminate_!” the Daleks' loud, distorted voices echoed from outside, and the Time Lord's shoulders sagged, his forehead resting tiredly against the door. She couldn't see his expression, but from his posture, she could guess he was feeling a sense of defeat. Hopelessness.

She couldn't help herself; her heart bled for the alien, and she moved towards him with silent footsteps, making her way down the ramp until she stood behind him, pausing while she considered her next move.

Finally she reached a hand out to touch him. Her fingers were trembling, but she didn't let it stop her. She grasped the Doctor by the shoulder, much like she'd wanted to earlier.

The Time Lord tensed under her touch, but didn't shrug her off. She allowed them to stand in silence for another long moment, giving him the time he needed to process all that had just happened. She couldn't even imagine how he felt, how awful and bleak everything seemed; his greatest enemy survived while all his own people were left dead, no hope of rescue.

Once she knew too much time had passed, she spoke, voice gentle and kind. “Come along, Doctor,” she told him quietly, squeezing his shoulder once more in comfort, “there's work to be done.”

He sighed, finally doing as she'd expected and shrugging off her hand. She couldn't help but smile anyway, watching as he deliberately didn't look at her, moving back up the ramp until he reached the centre console.

Nothing was said as he yanked on the levers in reach and that familiar, comforting wheezing filled the room until there was a sharp jolt signalling that they'd landed. The Doctor made a beeline for the doors, his leather jacket crinkling as he passed her. She watched him go, concern for him overwhelming.

He was barking orders before he'd even fully stepped from the TARDIS. “Turn everything up. All transmitters full power, wide open. Now! Do it!” he commanded sharply, desperation leaking into his tone as he rushed through the room, back on the Game Station and talking to the technicians, who were all startled by his reappearance.

“What does this do?” one man asked even as he did as he was told. Hartley watched, wandering out of the TARDIS beside Rose, who eyed the Doctor with a matching concern.

“Stops the Daleks from transmatting on board,” the Doctor replied impatiently, having no time to explain himself. “How did you get on? Did you contact Earth?” he snapped.

“Well, we tried to warn them, but all they did was suspend our license because we stopped the programmes,” the same man told him, looking wary, like he was afraid how the Doctor was going to react to this news. Hartley couldn't blame him, the Doctor could be simply terrifying when he wanted to be.

“And the planet's just sitting there, defenceless,” the Time Lord hissed, furious, but he quickly turned his energy elsewhere, realising that shouting at the man would get them nowhere. “Lynda, what're you still doing on board?” he asked sharply when he noticed the sweet girl standing off to the side, scowling before turning back to Pavale. “I told you to evacuate everyone,” he said sourly.

“She wouldn't go,” the man replied defensively, and the Doctor turned back to Lynda incredulously.

She blushed a light pink, toeing at the ground. “I didn't want to leave you,” she admitted bashfully. Rose looked about ready to hit something, and Hartley couldn't help but hide a smile behind her hand. She understood, the Doctor tended to have that sort of effect on people.

“There weren't enough shuttles anyway, or I wouldn't be here. We've got about a hundred people stranded on Floor Zero,” the woman to their right told them, an unhappy scowl on her lips, looking like she very much loathed her current situation. Hartley couldn't blame her – certain death wasn't a particularly appealing future, if one was getting a choice about it.

The Doctor completely ignored the woman, not even pausing to shoot her a scowl, which was more than Hartley could say for herself.

“Dalek plan. Big mistake, because what have they left me with? Anyone? Anyone? Oh, come on, it's obvious,” he murmured brightly, his excitement level not quite matching up with their current situation. Hartley was so used to this, however, that she found his enthusiasm sort of comforting, like it were the only reliable thing left in an unreliable universe. “A great big transmitter!” he revealed giddily. “This station. If I can change the signal, fold it back, sequence it, anyone?”

Hartley floundered, wishing she knew something, anything, about astrophysics so she could actually be of some help. Instead she was sitting there like an idiot, gaping at all of the intelligent, useful people surrounding her. Why had _she_ been the one cosmically magnetised to the Doctor? It was a question she'd asked herself a thousand times over, but never had she been so desperate for an answer. She wasn't clever, or strong. She was just a writer from Westminster, with dreams almost too big to fit into the pages of a novel.

“You've got to be kidding,” Jack spoke up suddenly, realisation washing over him.

He stared at the Doctor like he wasn't sure whether the man was genius or certifiably insane, and something about the expression made Hartley uneasy. She glanced over at Rose at the same time that she glanced back at her, and she found comfort in the complete and utter confusion on her friend's face, mirrored on her own.

“Give the man a medal,” the Doctor cheered.

“A Delta Wave?”

“A Delta Wave!”

“What's a Delta Wave?” Rose asked impatiently, squinting across at the Doctor who was rifling through cupboards, pulling out bits of conduits that they would be needing for their next big plan.

“A wave of Van Cassadyne energy,” Jack explained, as the Doctor seemed too distracted to answer. Hartley watched him work, noting how completely oblivious he seemed to everything around him, so intensely focused on his task. “It fries your brain. Stand in the way of a Delta Wave and your head gets barbecued.”

“And this place can transmit a massive wave. Wipe out the Daleks!” the Time Lord grinned manically, proving he really had been paying attention. Maybe he was better at multitasking than he looked.

“Well, get started and do it then,” Lynda said, a look of pure, blind faith on her innocent face. Hartley was stunned by her trust in the Doctor – it equalled hers, and was bemusing, because the poor girl had only known him a total of half an hour at _most_ and she already believed in him more than most people believed in their household gods!

“Trouble is, wave this size, building this big, brain as clever as mine, should take about, oh, three days?” If he were a lesser man, the Doctor would have winced. But as such, he merely shrugged, like this were an insignificant detail that barely counted as a problem. “How long till the Fleet arrive?”

“Twenty two minutes,” the employee from before answered tersely, and with that the Doctor threw himself into his work, madly gathering supplies in an effort to save all of mankind. Again.

Jack began to work on something at the computers, speaking as he typed, but Hartley wasn't paying attention, instead moving over to the Doctor, taking a seat beside him and watching him work. Sometimes she thought this whole cosmic-magnetic thing extended further than just time and space – maybe it reached through their very minds, drawing one another together like beads threaded onto a string.

“I'd offer to help if it wouldn't just slow you down,” she told him, only half joking, but if she didn't know any better, she would have said she caught a tiny hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Hopefully my company isn't so bad, then, since it's all I _can_ offer,” she added quietly.

The Doctor hesitated, blue eyes firmly focused on what he was doing, long fingers fiddling with the pieces of torn conduit. “Not bad company at all, I'd say,” he finally murmured, so softly she almost missed it. A smile lit up her face, and she had to stop herself from saying more; the last thing she wanted was ruin it by saying the wrong thing – or causing a distraction and unintentionally becoming the catalyst for the end of the human race.

Jack's voice floated over to them, but Hartley wasn't paying attention, her eyes focused on the Doctor. She trusted him – not blindly as Lynda did, or with any sort of hero-worship, as Jack did – but rather with the knowledge of who he was at a fundamental level, and what he was capable of achieving.

What if they did die, right here, on the Game Station? What if this was the end of their journey? No more ghosts, no more aliens or time travel, or laughter or fun.

She'd never given too much thought to whether there was life after death. Her family had never been too religious, her mother had dragged her to church mostly just to save face in the local community. The idea of the 'after-life' had just never really been a question she'd needed answered. Now though, faced with near-certain death, she reconsidered her belief system.

She was a good person, right? So maybe there was a better place waiting for her. Although, she couldn't imagine any place would ever make her as happy as travelling with Rose, Jack and the Doctor did. It was almost like that was her Higher Power – travel and fun and companionship. She didn't need anything else, she was already in heaven.

Her morose thoughts were interrupted as the Doctor called Rose over to help. The blonde smiled at her weakly, but Hartley didn't have it in her to attempt to return the gesture. Why did this feel so much like the finish line? The final battle to fight before they would either survive to live another day or meet their untimely ends?

Lynda appeared by their side, breaking the focused stare she'd had on the Doctor and his blonde companion. “I just want to say, er, thanks, I suppose, and I'll do my best,” the sweet girl said brightly, awkwardly reaching out for a hug, only to be caught up in a handshake. Hartley watched her disappear from the room, shoulders slumped in a vague disappointment.

Jack approached next, a wistful look on his handsome face. “It's been fun, but I guess this is goodbye,” he spoke gently, smiling at the trio sadly. He, too, knew things were coming to a head. This was make or break – and Hartley _really_ hoped they made it.

“Don't talk like that,” Rose scolded him. “The Doctor's going to do it. You just watch him,” she said with the utmost faith.

Jack smiled, reaching forwards to cup the blonde's face in his hands, holding her tenderly. “Rose, you are worth fighting for,” he told her strongly, leaning forwards and pressing a brief but meaningful kiss to her lips. Rose's eyes flew open wide in surprise, shocked by the action, although knowing him, she probably shouldn't have been.

Jack moved over to the Doctor, smiling sadly once more before cupping his face in his hands as well. “Wish I'd never met you, Doctor,” he said pensively. “I was much better off as a coward.” In one smooth move he leaned in and smacked a kiss to the Time Lord's lips too. The alien blinked but otherwise didn't react.

He sighed, pulling back and turning to Hartley, who watched him warily. He leaned in to cup her face too, and she knew in an instant what was happening. He swooped in, pressing his lips to hers. They were soft but firm, and for that brief second she allowed herself to get swept up in Captain Jack's charm.

As their lips were connected, a realisation hit her like lightning. She couldn't leave him, she just couldn't. Maybe it wasn't the safest option, but it was the right one for her, and she'd be damned if she was going to let herself cower beside the Doctor like a child in need of his protection. It was time for her to step into the light, face her demons head-on and tell them that _no_ , _she didn't need the Doctor to fight for her. She could fight for herself._

Jack pulled away with a forlorn expression, patting her cheeks gently and opening his mouth to say something that would have either been heartfelt or raunchy – it could have gone either way. “Save the goodbye,” she said abruptly, reaching up to fold her hands over his, pulling them away from her face only to hold them in front of her tightly, his cool skin comforting under her sweaty palms. “I'm coming with you.”

Jack looked like that was the last thing he was expecting her to say. “No, you're not,” he said quickly, crease appearing between his brows.

“Yes, I am,” she argued without hesitation. “You can't stop me. Besides, somebody has to keep your cute arse safe from harm,” she added cheekily. She didn't like to think of it as manipulation – she merely knew what to say to convince him. It wasn't her fault she was naturally persuasive.

“You think my ass is cute?” he asked shamelessly, shooting her a swoon-worthy grin that made her roll her eyes; but she knew the battle was won. Well, this one was, anyway.

She let go of his hands, turning to the Doctor and Rose. “I'll see you both soon, okay?” she asked, needing to hear it from them. She knew there was a possibility she wouldn't make it, but what could she do? She had to _try_. She had so much to prove, if not to them, then to herself. _It was time_.

“Are you sure?” Rose asked, worry glinting in her eyes as she looked over at her dear friend, thin brows pulled together in dismay. “You don't even like to kill cockroaches, and now suddenly you wanna go spearhead a war?”

Hartley smiled, the expression fond. She stepped forwards, wrapping her arms around Rose and squeezing tightly, chin resting gently on her shoulder. “Be strong, Rose,” she murmured into her ear, rubbing her back gently.

Rose hugged her in return, squeezing extra tight, like she was afraid they might never see each other again. The grim thought made Hartley's chest compress, and she embraced her friend tightly, telling herself that they were wrong; that this would all blow over and they'd all walk away without a scratch, off to the next adventure. The four of them, in the TARDIS, just as it should be.

“I'll see you soon,” she promised softly, though to who, she couldn't say.

Rose's eyes had a slight sheen to them when she finally pulled back, but Hartley politely ignored it, turning to the Doctor expectantly. Part of her, the part she wouldn't admit to, wanted him to argue. Wanted him to tell her that it wasn't safe, and that he wanted her to stay with him where he could protect her.

But of course, she wasn't nearly that lucky.

“Godspeed,” the Time Lord said, shooting her a barely-there smile before turning back to his work.

Hurt ricocheted through Hartley, but she swallowed back the harsh emotion, instead staring at the alien seriously, refusing to allow him to do this. Not now. Not with so much at stake. “Doctor,” she said quietly, for only the two of them to hear. Rose and Jack turned away, murmuring between themselves as an excuse not to pay attention. Hartley loved them all the more for it. “Promise me you won't leave us.”

She didn't know why she felt it was so important to ask, but for some reason she could feel it in her bones, an instinct to make him promise, an intuition that something awful might happen if she didn't get his word that he would do everything in his power to keep them together.

The Doctor looked up from the silver tubes he was tearing into, confusion swimming in his ocean eyes. “What?” he asked, a bewildered frown settling onto his face.

“Promise me,” she repeated. “No matter what happens, we'll all get out of this alive, and by this time tomorrow, we'll be on our way to explore a new planet. Together.”

He hesitated, and she knew he wasn't very happy to be making promises, but for once she wasn't going to back down. “I can't just promise that everything will be okay, Hartley,” he finally said, voice dry and unimpressed, like she were a small child wishing on a star for a trillion dollars and a pony. “The universe doesn't work like that,” he added, turning back to his work, frown still lining his face.

“I'm not asking the _universe_ to promise me anything,” she argued immediately, and with a huff he moved his attention back to her. “I'm asking _you_.”

Curiosity was alight in his eyes, his mouth tight with unspoken worry. It was an expression she'd seen before, the same one he shot her whenever he thought she wasn't paying attention. She wondered what was going on inside that big brain of his to make him look so baffled and yet so concerned in the same instant. She didn't think she was actually _that_ complicated.

“Okay,” he eventually nodded, eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that left her breathless.

“Promise?” she pressed stubbornly.

“Cross my hearts,” he swore, drawing an X over each side of his chest.

Hartley smiled, the expression wide and relieved, as if half a million Dalek's weren't beginning to surround them at that very moment, caging them in like hungry, hateful wolves. The Doctor peered back, eyes narrowed and considering.

“Okay, you two,” Jack said loudly, finally drawing Hartley's attention away from the Doctor. “It was nice knowing you,” he told he and Rose blithely, “and I guess we'll see you in hell.”

He snatched up Hartley's hand, yanking her swiftly from the room. She let out a strangled yelp, turning to look back at her friends as they left the room. Rose was frowning at the floor, her eyes filled with pensive concern. But the _Doctor_ … the Doctor was staring at her rather indescribably, and she wouldn't have been able to decipher the odd look on his face or the gleam in his eyes even if she'd had a thousand years to try.

“Why the sudden need to come with me, huh?” Jack asked her playfully as they collected the extra weapons laying around, abandoned by the other guards, then bolted directly into the lift, stuck there as they waited for it to move. “Couldn't bear to be without me?” he teased.

“Something like that,” she mumbled back, rolling her eyes at his impish expression, but feeling oddly numb from the goodbye with her friends.

“He cares about you a lot, you know,” Jack continued after a moment, the lift jolting to life around them, beginning to slowly descend the Station, Hartley's stomach swooping out from beneath her. She didn't need him to clarify what he meant, they both knew who he was talking about.

“He's got a funny way of showing it,” she said quietly. The Doctor wasn't hostile, or mean, or even cruel. He was simply _distant_ , in a way he wasn't with Rose. Hartley didn't understand.

“I think he cares about you so much that he doesn't know how to show it,” Jack told her gently, a vague smirk appearing on his pale lips. “It's almost like he's pulling your pigtails in the playground,” he added, half teasing, but also half not.

“Are you _kidding_?” she burst out, borderline hysterical. Jack jerked back in alarm, turning to look at her properly, surprised by the strength of her reaction. “That's – that's not true,” she muttered more quietly, embarrassed by her outburst. Her face was suddenly hot; had someone turned up the heating inside the lift?

“Relax, Hart,” Jack said, voice soothing although the smirk on his face was mischievous, and she felt awfully wary, knowing he was thinking about all the possible ways to tease her about this later. “It was just a metaphor,” he assured her. Despite his words, that impish glimmer never fully dissipated, clinging to the edges of his eyes, and Hartley knew this wasn't going to be easily forgotten.

“The Doctor isn't my type,” she argued weakly, trying desperately to defend herself.

“What is your type?” he countered, flirty and cheeky.

“Human,” she answered immediately, but Jack only scoffed, and she knew she wasn't fooling anyone.

She'd never considered that maybe she could have had a _crush_ on the Doctor. He was this great, untouchable alien. In a way it was like they weren't even on the same level. She wasn't in his league. It was as though, if he were playing in the stadium, she would be a flipping burgers at the McDonald's down the street.

But that didn't mean _feelings_ couldn't still come into play.

In the past she'd struggled with relationships, struggled with identifying what she was feeling. At one point or another, she'd been convinced she was in love with every best friend she'd ever had. This confusion usually melted away once the novelty of the friendship evaporated, and she was left with the knowledge that she didn't have that burning passion like she'd assumed she had.

There hadn't been many people in her past. Her relationship with Joseph, her high school boyfriend, had been what she'd assumed it should be. They held hands and he took her to movies and they made each other mix tapes, listening to them while they made out and talked about the kind of trivial crap that had seemed to matter at that age. They broke up when he moved away, and she'd cried for two days straight before she pulled herself together and got over it surprisingly quickly for someone having been 'in love'.

Christian, the boy she met at university, had been a whole new level of intense. She'd shared so many firsts with him, given herself to him in ways she didn't know was possible. It turned out, however, that he wasn't as invested as she was in the whole thing. When she found out he'd cheated on her with his history professor – who'd been happily married up until that point – she'd been devastated, and hadn't dated anyone since.

There had been people in between, people she thought she liked or had liked her, but nothing ever came of them, and before she knew it she was 25 and had barely even been in more than a semi-serious relationship. Love just wasn't something that was on her radar, except perhaps, when it came to her writing.

The thought of a relationship with the Doctor was borderline terrifying, and such an impossibility that it was barely worth thinking about. She didn't like him _that_ way, and he certainly didn't like _her_ that way, either.

They were friends – connected on a level that maybe transcended words, or explanation – but friends all the same.

And as far as she was concerned, it would never, ever become anything more.

The elevator dinged, the doors rolling open with a mechanical whirr, and Hartley was jolted back to the present. They were in the middle of a fight for the survival of the human race – now wasn't the time to think about such trivial things as _romance._

“Whatever you say, Harts,” Jack smirked at her impishly. “But for the record,” he added, lifting his gun onto the ridge of his shoulder, “the Doctor is everyone's type.”

Hartley couldn't help but smile back, lightened by his wit. With her free hand she toyed with the gold ring sitting on her index finger – a gift from her dad when she'd turned 12 – one of the only remnants of her old life. She stared out through the open lift doors, breathing deeply as she prepared herself for what was to come.

Jack took a moment for himself as well, then turned to her with a soft smile. “Ready to go to war?” he asked her gently, reaching over to grip her fiddling hand tightly for the briefest of moments. She didn't respond, but she didn't need to – words weren't often needed between them – gripping back and drawing what support she needed. Reluctantly she let go, picking up the weapons laying at their feet and following Jack out the doors onto the bottom floor of the Game Station.

The deck was full of terrified civilians, all shouting over one another in their frenzied states. Hartley floundered, wondering where to go from there, but Jack didn't look lost for a moment. He was a natural leader, leaping atop a pile of abandoned crates, sticking two fingers in his mouth and whistling sharply, gaining the scattered attention of the frantic mob.

“I understand you're all very frightened!” he shouted once they had all fallen silent. Hartley watched the way he commanded the crowd with ease, wondering if she'd ever be able to do the same. “But the danger we're facing is very _real_. There is a fleet of Daleks heading for us _as we speak_. I need volunteers to help create whatever army we can, to fight against these things and ensure the safety of the human race!”

Nobody moved for a beat, then slowly a handful of people broke away from the pack and scurried over to where Hartley stood. She greeted them politely, shaking hands with gratitude and patting backs in reassurances that didn't really mean a damn thing.

She wasn't as good with people as Jack was, so she didn't really know what she was doing. But nobody was staring at her, so she figured she couldn't have been doing _that_ badly. More people, however, began to shout louder than before, fear and outrage splayed across their faces. Jack whistled again in an attempt to steal back the focus, but this time nobody paid him any mind.

Hartley's pulse quickened as she desperately tried not to imagine the fleet of Daleks descending on the Station, poised to deliver almost certain death to everyone aboard. The buzz of loud, inconsistent chatter wasn't helping her anxiety, which seemed to be spiking higher and higher with every breath she took.

Suddenly, a series of rapid fire shots were released into the air above them, and the throng of terrified humans fell silent with a shared gasp. Jack had his stolen gun held in the air, staring at the group with a scowl that she'd never before seen on his face. Hartley ran her fingers over her own weapon, but it still felt awkward and uncomfortable in her hands. She wished it hadn't come to this, wished there was some other option, that there was some other way to settle this. But what's done is done, and she didn't see any outcome where anybody left this station unscathed.

“One last time!” Jack shouted at the top of his lungs, the crowd's attention finally back on him. “Any more volunteers? There's an army about to invade this station. I need every last citizen to mount a defence.”

“Don't listen to him,” an anxiety-addled civilian shouted back defiantly, shoving his way to the front of the mob, a crazed look in his dark eyes. “There aren't any Daleks. They disappeared thousands of years ago.”

Another person stepped forwards, shooting the skeptical citizen a glare as she settled into place beside Hartley, who reached out and squeezed her shoulder in gratitude.

“Thanks,” the Captain acknowledged her sincerely. “As for the rest of you, the Daleks will enter the station at floor 494, and as far as I can tell, they'll head up, not down. But that's not a promise. So here's a few words of advice,” he said slowly, voice deathly serious. The other side of the mob, the side of the afraid, shifted uncomfortably. “Keep quiet. And if you hear fighting up above, if you hear us _dying_ , then you tell me that the Daleks aren't real.” He paused long enough to shoot each of them an intense, imploring stare. “Don't make a sound,” he reminded them sharply, spinning around and leaping off the crates gracefully. “Let's go,” he prompted the volunteers, and Hartley scurried to keep up with him.

They left the floor, leaving the others standing there, lost and afraid, but Hartley couldn't blame them. If she hadn't known the Doctor, if she hadn't already seen all the things she'd seen, she might have even done the exact same thing. The Doctor seemed to lend those closest to him his courage, and right now she'd never been more thankful of the fact.

Hartley stepped back inside the elevator with Jack, shuffling closer so their arms brushed. He was a source of silent comfort that made her racing heart slow just that tiny bit more. The others to filed in after them, and with a whirr the lift took them up towards the floor where they would begin the fight for their lives. The fight for _everyone's_ lives.

Floor 494 was empty when they arrived, eerily so. “What do you want me to do?” Hartley asked Jack as they stepped out of the lift, walking deeper into the room, both on high alert for any sign of a threat.

“Ready the troops, make sure each of them knows how to use a gun,” he said quickly. Hartley wasn't totally sure how to use a gun herself – she'd been to the shooting range once when she was a kid with her uncle, but she'd hated it and had never wanted to go back. Now she kind of wished she had. “I have to go call up the internal laser codes. Can you handle things here?”

“Do what you need to do,” she told him as confidently as she possibly manage could under the circumstances. “I've got this under control.”

Jack took a moment to appraise her with appreciative eyes. He brought his hand up to his forehead, bringing it down in a respectful, yet still playful, salute. “Yes _sir_ … Lieutenant Hartley,” he added with a cheeky grin, allowing his inherent playfulness to shine through for one final moment before everything inevitably went to hell.

“Just Lieutenant?” she asked, voice saturated in flirtatious amusement. That was the pattern they had fallen into, that was how they related, and Hartley couldn't have possibly loved it any more. It was warm, familiar, comforting.

“Give it a few years,” he winked back impishly, “you can work your way up like the rest of us.” There was a companionable beat before his serious expression dropped back into place. “Alright, listen up!” he shouted to the chattering crowd, all of whom looked nervous and ill, as if already regretting their decision to join them. “Everybody pick up a weapon and turn your attention to Hartley!” He pointed at her, just in case they weren't sure who she was. “You and you,” he gestured to a pair of women standing near the front of the group, “with me.”

Everyone began to follow through on his orders, and with a nod at Hartley he turned and disappeared, slipping from the room to complete his job – to ensure the safety of all those below them, all those too weak to stand and fight.

Hartley inhaled deeply, taking a moment to steady herself, then began to speak.

She wasn't the most knowledgable person when it came to weaponry, but she knew enough to give the group a quick refresher, making sure each of them knew where the trigger was and not to point the dangerous end at themselves under any circumstances.

She got some snide looks from the older members of the small crowd, probably thinking that she was too young to be one of their leaders, but thankfully none of them said anything, listening and fiddling quietly with their guns.

She tried to throw some words of encouragement into her barely-rousing address, but it just ended up sounding like the speech from _Independence Day_ , so she stopped and focused on positioning people strategically around the room. She wasn't exactly an expert in military tactics, so she just tried to cover all the exits like they did in action movies.

The station rattled violently as the Daleks forced open the airlock on the same floor. Jack swept back into the room, like the explosion had been a beacon, moving to Hartley's side without pause. She released a breath of relief, glad to have her brother in arms at her side. There was no time to greet him properly; the battle was upon them.

“Stand your ground, everyone. Follow our commands!” he commanded the group, crouching behind what little defences they had and preparing to fire on sight. “And good luck.”

Hartley didn't have an earpiece, so she couldn't hear what was happening behind the scenes, up on floor 500 with the Doctor. All she could do was hold the gun in trembling hands and wait for the onslaught of Daleks to reach them, wondering in the back of her mind whether she'd live to see another day, or if this was where she was to meet her end.

It took a long time, and Jack communicated with Lynda and the Doctor, working out their plans in low, sure tones.

“How come I didn't get an earpiece?” she asked Jack when there was a pause in the flow of his mumbling.

“They don't materialise out of thin air,” he retorted in an attempt at humour that fell flat. He shot her a small smile in an effort to compensate, but was interrupted by someone talking in his ear, and he turned away to listen.

“Are you scared?”

Surprised by the voice, Hartley glanced over to see a woman crouching just beside her, looking over at her with wide, curious eyes. “Me?” Hartley asked, though there wasn't anybody else around, and she doubted she had been talking to Jack.

“You don't seem scared,” the woman continued, a hint of an accent to her words, and Hartley wondered where she'd come from, what her life was like back on Earth, and what she'd be leaving behind if she died here today.

“Don't I?” Hartley asked, genuinely surprised to hear so. The pretty woman nodded, and there was the unmistakeable glimmer of fear in her dark eyes that made Hartley's heart ache with empathy. “I'm terrified, actually,” she admitted without thought, eyes trained back on the door where the enemy was going to appear. “But a wise man once wrote that ' _courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgement that something else is more important than fear'._ ”

“Who was that, then?”

“A writer in the twentieth century.”

“Didn't take you for someone interested in such ancient texts.”

And even despite the crushing weight of their situation, Hartley couldn't help but laugh.

“Okay people, we're the last defence,” Jack announced abruptly, voice carrying through the mostly quiet room. “The bullets should work if you concentrate them on the Dalek's eyestalk. I've got the forcefield at maximum so Dalek fire power should be at its weakest.”

The two people below her were whispering to one another quietly, and she felt a stab of regretful longing, though for what exactly, she couldn't say.

She'd been consumed by work in her old life, and in this new one she was alone. While she would never call being with the Doctor a _lonely_ experience, she had to admit she was certainly more _isolated_ than she ever had been before. The only people she met were those on her travels, but they would never be able to stay, so she couldn't go around creating attachments. It just didn't work that way.

She meant what she said before; romance wasn't high on her list of priorities, but she had to admit there was something within her than longed for companionship, the type the Doctor, Rose and even Jack just couldn't quite fulfil.

She was happy with her life now. She had Rose, and she had Jack, both of whom had become such intense, driving forces in her life. She'd formed friendships with them that she hadn't known were possible. She had Mickey, who seemed to have taken a shine to her, if only because she was nice to him when the Doctor so blatantly wasn't. And she had the Doctor himself, even as removed as he was.

So no, a relationship wasn't something she was desperate for, but even she had to admit it would have been nice.

Though, to know for sure, first she'd have to get out of this cluster-fuck of a situation alive, _then_ she could worry about launching herself back into the terrifying, impossible world of dating.

She was distracting herself, this she knew. It was easy to stick her head in the sand and think about things like dates and romance, pretending she wasn't stranded on a space station over a hundred-thousands years in her future, surrounded by the most evil, deadly creatures in the universe, nothing but a stolen gun and the wits of a Time Lord between her and certain death.

There was no time to reminisce, however. The doors cracked open, jolting her back to the terrifying present, and Jack shouted, “open fire!” without so much as a beat of hesitation.

Hartley had fired a gun before, but it had never been at another creature. The fact that it was a Dalek, arguably the most evil creations in the infinite universes, was only of little comfort.

But this wasn't that shooting yard with her uncle – this was life and death – and so she pulled that trigger for all she was worth, letting out a grunt at the strong kickback the weapon gave, her shoulder screaming in protest.

“It's not working!” the woman below her yelled over the constant pelting of bullets, which seemed to be barely even hitting the metal casing of the creatures, not making so much as a scratch on its surface.

“Concentrate your fire! Eyestalk, two o'clock!” Jack yelled back, and Hartley re-aimed, focusing on the little glowing eyestalk and squeezing the trigger with a loud shout. By some stroke of dumb luck, it hit directly, the light going out as the thing started to scream robotically, the sounds of it dying making Hartley sick to her stomach, but she never stopped firing. “Nice one, Lieutenant!” Jack shouted proudly, but the sense of victory didn't last long, as in the next moment there was a shot from a Dalek and the woman beside her was rendered dead, collapsing into a lifeless heap on the floor.

People began to drop like flies around her, and Hartley had to swallow back bile as she forced herself to keep firing, missing widely due to her trembling hands, unable to hold her weapon steady.

Terrified screams echoed from every direction as people fell dead. Hartley felt her eyes sting with tears, and she let out an agonised yell as she fired, the terror and heartache threatening to swallow her whole.

“Hart!” Jack was yelling from behind her, the sound of gunfire having come to a stop, everyone either dead or retreating in a desperate attempt to save themselves. “We've gotta go. _Now!_ ” he bellowed.

Hartley didn't move – she couldn't – her joints seemed fused together with concrete, fear keeping her locked in place. Jack reached down to grasp the collar of her shirt, yanking her none-too-gently to her feet and shoving her behind him, turning around to lay cover fire.

“Run, Hart!” he cried, shoving her again. She flinched at the sound of his voice, the desperation it held making her hurt.

“ _Exterminate_!” the metallic drone of the Daleks was all she could hear. Time itself seemed to slow down, almost coming to a complete stop as her stormy blue eyes took in the scene before her. Jack was brandishing his gun in front of him, and a Dalek was poised to shoot, its laser glowing brightly as it prepared to fire.

It was a split second decision which, in hindsight, she probably would have regretted. But this wasn't anyone, this was _Jack_ , the person who made her feel accepted from the get-go, more than the Doctor or even any of her old friends back home ever had; if she could save him, she was going to, and _damn_ the consequences.

So it was with no thoughts of self-preservation in her head that she shoved Jack Harkness roughly to the side in the exact moment the Dalek shot, taking the hit herself. It hurt more than she'd thought it would, the pain white-hot and burning in every single cell, every single _atom,_ of her body. She cried out, head tipped back as she absorbed the blow. She thought she heard Jack cry out, but she couldn't tell over the sound of her own screams.

And it was with a final shudder and a heavy, aching heart that Hartley Daniels collapsed to the floor in a cold, lifeless heap.

* * *

Until, an impossible ten minutes later, she snapped awake with a violent gasp, clutching desperately at her aching chest. Her heart was beating wildly from within, as though it hadn't just been empty of life.

She grunted, forcing herself into a sitting position, blinking away the dust coating her eyes. Her throat was dry, and she coughed away the thickness, sucking in air as smoothly as she could. She could smell ash, or something like it, in the air, and her nose wrinkled at the unpleasant stench.

Where was she, again?

Her eyes flitted around the room, taking in the piles of pale dust spotted across the floor. She inhaled sharply, remembering with a start exactly where she was and what had happened.

Game Station. Daleks. Doctor. Rose. _Jack_.

“Jack?!” she screamed, the sound desperate as she stumbled to her feet on a set of trembling, unsteady legs. “Jack!” she bellowed, despondent and panicked in the same breath. She darted from corpse to corpse, but none of them were the handsome Captain, and she began to hyperventilate. Had something happened to him? Was he still there? Was it all for nothing?

“Hartley?!” his beautiful voice suddenly yelled back from a few corridors over. Still shaking and feeling half-dead, her joints stiff and aching, she staggered in his direction, desperate to lay eyes on him, to reassure herself he was alive.

“Jack?!” she called again, hope catching in her throat.

“Hart!” he shouted, finally stumbling into view, slightly more steady than her as he moved to her, grasping her arms tightly before drawing her into a near-constricting embrace. One hand was braced on the back of her head, holding her to him tightly, the other pressing to her back. “You were dead!” he breathed, and she pulled back just enough to see his eyes burning with emotion. “You _died._ ”

“I can't have,” she argued logically, stepping back further to observe the room.

“But you _did_.”

“Well, obviously not,” she replied, though her voice was more distracted than argumentative. She hadn't noticed before, but now she realised that interspersed amongst the dead bodies of the humans were heavy piles of thick dust that hadn't been there before. “What in God's name is that?” she asked aloud, although she wasn't really expecting an answer.

Frowning, Jack crouched down beside the closest pile, picking up a handful and watching in bewilderment as it slipped through his fingers like sand at the beach.

Confused, Hartley opened her mouth to ask more questions, to get him to fill in the blanks – what exactly had happened to her? She must have passed out, but then what? What happened to the Daleks? Did this mean the Doctor's plan was a success? Had the Delta Wave worked? – but before she could say a word, a beautiful sound filled the Station.

The familiar wheezing echoed throughout the halls, and Jack snapped to attention, eyes wide. “Come on!” he shouted, dropping his handful of dust and spinning around, booking it to the stairs.

She gasped, vaguely realising what this meant but not quite able to believe it.

“No, no, no, no,” she was begging whoever the hell was listening, begging them to _please_ just let it _not_ be true. The stairs would ordinarily wear her out, but instead she barely felt out of breath, pure blind panic rising within her, desperation leaking from her very pores, adrenaline filling her veins.

Jack exploded through the door to floor 500 first, but Hartley was close on his heels, bursting into the room after him, eyes stinging painfully as she caught sight of the dematerialising TARDIS.

“Doctor!” Jack bellowed, but the wheezing only continued to echo, the blue box fading into nothing, leaving them stranded on the Game Station, alone and surrounded by the corpses of their fallen comrades.

“No!” Hartley cried out, tears finally spilling over onto her cheeks, the water making lines on her ash-smudged face. “ _Doctor_!” she screamed after him desperately, feeling Jack's arm wind around her middle, holding her up as she sagged against him, the strength leaving her in a rush, like she'd been punched in the stomach. “No!” she repeated distraughtly. “He promised!”

“He thought we were dead, Hart...” Even though Jack was devastated, he was trying to be the calm one, the rock to support the girl falling apart in his arms.

“ _No_!” she echoed herself, a powerful sob tearing through her as she crumpled in on herself, beginning to border on hysterical.

“It's okay, Hart,” Jack said reassuringly, but she wasn't listening, eyes on the place where the TARDIS had disappeared, like if she willed it hard enough it might reappear. “Hart, listen to me,” he said seriously, spinning her around in his arms and holding her tightly, going so far as she shake her gently, trying to snap her out of it. “ _Hartley_!” he snapped, the intensity in his voice making Hartley take a deep, calming breath. It shuddered through her body, and her throat felt swollen. She blinked her eyes, everything blurry through her tears. “I have my Vortex Manipulator,” he told her, the beginnings of a hopeful smile on his handsome face as he held up his arm, the chunky device sitting around his wrist. “We can _find_ them.”

She sucked in another breath, steeling herself and tilting her flushed face up at Jack. “He promised,” she whispered brokenly, and Jack's face twisted in despair at the small, sad little sound. “Jack, he _promised._ ”

“I know,” he cooed, reaching out to tenderly brush her tangled red hair away from her face, hooking it behind her ear, then wiping gently at her smudged, wet cheek.

She took another deep breath, swallowing against the devastating pain. She had to focus, she had Jack, and there was nobody she'd rather be stranded with.

They _would_ find the Doctor, however long it took, she _would_ find he and Rose again. “Come on, then, Captain,” she said weakly, voice rough and wrecked from crying, but they both pretended it wasn't. “Let's find our friends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys liked this chapter, and where I've decided to take this story. What's going to happen to Hartley now? Will she be stuck in the past with Jack? Stick around to find out ;)
> 
> Be sure to leave me a review, telling me your thoughts on the story. I can't wait to hear from you!


	16. Interlude

“ _The most painful goodbyes are the ones that are never said and never explained._ ”

Bilal Nasir Khan

* * *

They didn't find him.

That's not to say they wouldn't have, if only Jack's Vortex Manipulator hadn't burned out, leaving them trapped in 1869 with nowhere to go and _no_ idea of what to do next.

Hartley kept herself together, refusing to break down as she had on the Gamestation. For a moment there she'd had hope, truly believing they'd find the Doctor within the space of just a few days, and that everything would be okay.

She couldn't have possibly been more wrong.

  
Coming to terms with being stranded in the 1800's wasn't easy, but at least she had Jack. Not knowing how else to cope, she reverted back to the very core of who she was – an optimist – and she decided she would do everything she could to make the most of it.

Over the next few years, Jack became obsessed with getting back to the Doctor, his intense devotion to the Time Lord and his cause not wavering for even a moment. He ate, slept and breathed finding a way to contact him. When that fell through, he started looking for a way to _find_ him. It was hard to make working technology in the nineteenth century, but Jack was brilliant, and more than a little determined.

“I was a Time Agent,” he would tell her when she brought him coffee late at night, huddled over some hunk of metal with a dozen or so wires sticking out of it, all made by hand, “I've trained for this.”

Eventually he calmed down, started enjoying life again – or as much as he could in the period they were stuck in – but was still set on finding Rose and the Doctor.

“He didn't _know_ he was leaving us,” he insisted whenever he caught the wistful, sad look in her ocean blue eyes. “He thought we were dead and gone.”

Hartley wasn't sure this was true, but it helped him cope, so she didn't argue.

They had to pretend they were married, it was the only way they could live together without it being a scandal in their neighbourhood. Jack knew a guy (in the _eighteen_ _hundreds_ , which was impressive in and of itself) who was able to forge papers for the pair of them. They found a small apartment in London, which they used as a base of operations.

They went out on trips whenever Jack's makeshift devices started chiming, signalling that there was a crack in time and space somewhere nearby, or that electromagnetic readings were going off the charts, occurrences that Jack was sure, every time, would be the Doctor. It broke her heart to see his disappointment every time it turned out to be nothing, no Doctor, no Rose and no TARDIS anywhere in sight.

The life they'd made together was good. Peaceful and quiet, if not slightly boring. All they had were each other and their memories. Hartley began to think they'd be there forever. She'd resigned herself to the fact that she was going to grow old and die in the late 1800's in London, but that didn't mean the weight of this fate didn't still hurt.

Everything changed, however, when three years into their stay, they discovered something life altering.

“It could have been him,” Jack was telling her, attention mostly on the small device in his hand, constructed out of a baking pan and some spare wires he'd found. “I think it was only off by a few miles,” he was saying eagerly. “I'll calibrate it at home, then we should be good to go!”

“Cool,” Hartley told him encouragingly. She'd long since given up hope. Not only were Jack's devices not working, but the chances the Doctor – at a time in his personal timeline that coincided with their own – would come to their exact city in their exact year? Not very likely, considering he had the whole of time and space as a playground.

She thought that maybe she'd be sucked back into the TARDIS, like she had back when she'd been in her own time, but it never happened. No vortex of swirling, shimmering light ever appeared, and she grew more dejected with every month that passed.

More than even the Doctor or Rose, she missed her family. They were lost to her, and she was gone without explanation. And by the time even her great-grandfather was born, she already would have been long dead.

Jack was wholly focused on his task, and Hartley was lost in thought as they walked, bathed in no light but the silvery glow of the moon. She was more than mildly shocked, then, when something slammed into her left side, catapulting her into Jack, who grunted at the blow, dropping his device into the mud as he turned to catch her before she fell.

“What the-” he began to say, only to be cut off when a large, hulking figure stood in their path.

It was late at night, and the streets of London were bare except for the odd drunkard or prostitute. They hadn't been expecting to see anyone on their walk back home, and for a brief, naïve moment, Hartley thought the shove had been an accident and this man was going to apologise. Then she noticed the glint of metal in his hand, and her blood went cold as she realised he was holding a gun.

“It's dangerous for a dame as beautiful as yourself to be out so late at night,” the man said in a thick accent, and under different circumstances the words might have been flattering. But he was holding a gun at them, and his breath smelled like vomit, so she was less than impressed.

“Look, we don't want any trouble,” Jack was already saying calmly, stepping in front of Hartley, fists balled protectively. She wondered whether he could take him in a fight. Jack wasn't carrying any weapons, but he was trained, and figured if it came down to hand-to-hand, Jack would come out victorious. Hopefully; first they had to deal with that gun.

“Hand over your valuables,” the man snarled, gun held out closer to their faces in warning.

It wasn't exactly the twenty-first century, but Jack had on a watch, and Hartley was wearing a simple gold necklace that Jack had given her on the first birthday she'd had there after they'd arrived. Plus they both had on their fake wedding rings, but they weren't worth much, since Jack had gotten ones made out of simple metal rather than anything fancy. Hastily she reached up and took off the necklace, only to realise Jack wasn't doing the same.

“Are you deaf?” their assailant asked with an ugly snarl. “I said hand them over!”

“Don't do this,” Jack said, but the words were more of a warning than a plead.

The man cocked his gun, and the horrible sound sent chills of disgust down Hartley's spine. She felt ill and lightheaded, and she quickly tossed him the necklace, not wanting any trouble. Jack didn't move, and the man snarled again, rotted teeth visible in the moonlight. “Jack,” Hartley prompted him nervously, mouth dry with fear. “Jack please,” she begged him.

Finally Jack moved, glowering at the man with the hatred of a thousand suns, handing over his watch. “And the rings,” he ordered, breath getting worse the longer they stood there. A light mist of rain had begun to fall, clinging to their skin like a cold sweat.

Quickly twisting off her fake gold wedding band, she handed it over, Jack reluctantly doing the same. Hartley thought he might finally leave them alone, move on to go slink back into whatever hole he'd crawled out of, but instead he stepped closer, leering at her, and the predatory glint to his eyes made her heart freeze.

“How about you take off the dress, too, for good measure?” he said slyly, the lustful lilt to his voice making her gag.

“Don't you _look_ at her,” Jack hissed, stepping further in front of her, muscles coiled in preparation to attack. She pressed her palms against his shoulder blades, a silent plead not to get himself hurt.

“What? Your mummy never teach you to share?” the creep sneered lecherously. “Step back, let me get a good look at the merchandise,” he added slyly, one hand moving down to his own crotch.

That was all it took for Jack to leap on him. Startled, heart racing with terror, Hartley let out a yelp, covering her mouth in horror as she stared at the scene before her, watching their two shapes fight one another through the thick shadows.

“Jack!” she yelled in panic, wishing she could do something – anything – to help him. They were grunting, and the sickening sound of fist meeting bone echoed throughout the deserted street. “Jack!” she shrieked again, the fear growing so strong that she began to tremble with terror.

She could barely see who was winning, could only hear the sounds of their fight, then one noise ricocheted through the alley, louder than anything before. It was a gunshot, the sound nearly shattering her eardrums with how close it was.

Terrified, Hartley was frozen in horror, waiting breathlessly to see who it was that had been injured. The two fighting figures stepped back from one another, both unharmed, and it was then that Hartley became aware of a large, white-hot heat at her stomach, her skin growing uncomfortably wet.

“...Jack,” she muttered, voice lacking volume. Her head began to swim, but she couldn't quite process what had happened. She'd been _shot_? Everything she'd ever been through, and she'd been _shot_?

“Hart,” Jack's voice was breathless, and she barely took in the shape of their assailant cussing and fleeing, probably not having been planning on murdering anyone that night. And that's what it was, suddenly: a murder. “Hart!” Jack cried, and abruptly the ground was flying towards her, but arms wrapped around her middle, stopping her descent. She cried out in pain. “No, no, no,” Jack was muttering in denial. “Not now,” he begged her, voice thick with grief. “Please, stay with me.”

He was upset, tears in his big blue eyes, and she frowned, sad that he was sad.

“It's okay,” she assured him, but there was no sound to her voice. Her mouth was filling, and she coughed, something hot and wet spilling out over her lips. Jack gave a heaving sob, and she felt guilty that she was the reason for the sound. “It's okay,” she tried again, feeling Jack desperately press his hands to her wound, trying to keep the blood in with nothing but his palms. But there was nothing he could do, she knew it as well as him.

She wasn't scared to die, she was just sad. She had so much left to do, so many places to go and people to meet and adventures to have and books to write. She wasn't _done_ , but now it was over anyway. Where was the fairness in that?

There was no fanfare to her death, not really. One moment she was staring up at the glittering constellations above her, vaguely wondering whether the Doctor would be sad to know she was gone, and the next there was nothing but an all encompassing blackness that she sank into like the sea, letting the current drag her under.

Until she woke up with a loud, desperate gasp; her lungs burning, and her stomach vaguely aching. She was cold and shaking, and there was something small and metallic in her throat. Coughing, Jack shot backwards in pure shock, but she didn't have time to look at him, instead turning over so she could spit out the small, obtrusive object. It fell out into her hand, and she held it up the the moonlight in a confused daze.

It was a bullet.

Mystified, she stared at it for a long moment, trying to piece together exactly what was happening. She'd died. She'd been _dead_. Reaching down, she pressed a hand to where the bullet had punctured her body. There was a hole in the fabric of her cotton dress, but the skin beneath was smooth and unblemished, like she'd never been shot – there wasn't even so much as the raised mark of a scar.

She was _healed_.

“Hart?” Jack's voice was shaking, and she turned to see him crouching beside her, staring at her in a strange mix of horror and delight. Hartley just blinked back, her mind strangely silent.

“Hey, Captain,” she said, the words more instinctual than deliberate, and the two of them were left in a ringing quiet, with the weight of this discovery sitting heavily on their shaking shoulders.

So, they couldn't die. They didn't know how, or why, but they assumed it had something to do with that day on the Gamestation. Jack was no scientist, his only theory was that the Delta Wave had altered them somehow, but there wasn't much evidence to support it, so they were left in the dark.

There was no extra proof it had effected Jack too, but he remembered being killed by a Dalek that day on the Gamestation. Remembered the surge of energy flooding his body as he came back to life. It stood to reason that Hartley wasn't the only one with this new ability to reanimate herself.

“The Lane's from down the street keep asking when we're going to have kids,” Jack began conversationally as he strolled through the door about a year after that day in the alleyway. He hung up his hat and coat on the waiting rack, kicking his feet against the doorjamb to rid them of dirt.

The pair had settled back into a routine; because life went on, even when you found out you were impervious to death.

Hartley poked her head around the corner, rolling her eyes at him. Things went back to normal, and though their life was nice and comfortable, it could get rather tedious in its predictability. “What's new?” she retorted sarcastically, and he snorted, heading through the doorway into the kitchen where she stood, hands buried in a ball of dough.

“What's on the menu tonight, wife of mine?” he asked jovially, reaching out to tug at a lock of hair that had fallen down over her face.

“Ugh, don't call me that,” she replied with a grimace. The thought of being anyone's wife – let alone _Jack's_ – was scary in and of itself. She just wasn't wife material, she'd made peace with that fact long ago. It was hard enough pretending to be married without the neighbours constantly griping and gossiping about their lack of children. She spent most of her time holed up in their house, away from the public eye and away from the gossip that was sure to follow.

Four years of blissfully fake marriage, and each day Hartley grew more and more wary. She wanted to go home. As nice as their two-bedroomed, one-storey, cosy little cottage was, it just wasn't the TARDIS.

“We're having soup and bread,” she finally answered him, continuing to kneed the dough under her diligent, calloused hands.

“Chicken?”

“You know it.”

They faded into silence, Jack moving over to the cupboard to pull out the jug of milk, pouring himself a glass and leaning back against the bench.

“How're the scanners behaving today?” he asked curiously, finishing off his drink and moving over to the lounge where multiple crude devices were set up, lining every available inch of space in the room. Had a member of the public wandered in, they would have thought they'd landed themselves on an alien planet – which, honestly, wasn't that far from the truth.

“Not so much as a peep,” she called back, eyes on her work as she spoke. “Are you sure you got the calibrations right?”

“Positive!” he responded through the wall, and a moment later she heard him tinkering with one of his many creations. He kind of reminded her of the Doctor when he began to work, throwing all of his energy into his task, shutting out the world around him, until he decided the silence was too much. “Y'know, it's David's birthday next week,” he began conversationally, raising his voice to be heard from the other room. David was their neighbour, a young man out on his own for the first time, fresh out of college and bursting with enthusiasm. He had a young wife, a blonde woman named Callie, who brought them over baked cookies every other Sunday and liked to talk about her cat more than anything else.

“Is it?” she asked distantly. She finished kneading the dough, turning to place it on a tray before pushing it into the roaring fire oven behind her.

“Was thinking I'd get him one of those fancy bottles of whiskey they're selling at the pub down the road.”

“Yeah, that sounds like a good deal to me,” she replied distractedly as she slipped around the corner, wiping her powdered hands on a tea towel. Jack was beside the largest of the devices, fiddling with a panel covering a handful of important looking copper wiring. The truth was, as much as she liked David, she couldn't have cared less about his birthday plans; and that scared her.

If you knew her, you'd know Hartley was always a big celebration enthusiast. Every holiday, from Christmas to National Pancake Day, was celebrated to the fullest.

A lot of things about Hartley were seeming to disappear lately, lost under the boring, deafening silence of domesticity.

“I'm not cut out for domestics, Jack,” she admitted, surprising herself with the words. She'd been thinking as much for what seemed like forever, but she was always too scared to say it out loud. She'd been burying such feelings for so long, it was no surprise they were bursting from her mouth like they were sick of staying secret.

She didn't want to upset Jack; he did well in this century. He was suave and charming, dressing perfectly for the decade and happily chattering with the neighbours about politics and paint colours or whatever it was normal people with normal lives usually spoke about.

“I could have told you that,” he told her matter-of-factly, not even looking up from his work. His words jolted her from her thoughts.

“What?” she asked, perplexed by his casual reply.

“I don't think it's any big secret that _nineteenth century domesticity_ doesn't suit either of us as well as _time travelling extraordinaire_ does.”

Hartley had to sit down, her relief was so strong. She collapsed onto the empty couch cushion, irritatedly shoving her annoying skirts out of the way so she wasn't sitting on them. “But you're doing so well,” she murmured, blinking across at him in surprise.

Jack snorted, the sound beautifully undignified. “I was also a professional con artist when we met, Harts,” he reminded her, his voice thick with amusement.

“I don't know if I'd call you a _professional_...”

“I think I can pull off being the poster boy for domesticity in 1873,” he continued without pause, ignoring her words.

She sighed, running a hand through her hair, which was up in a braid, and only serving to mess it up. “I thought you were enjoying it here,” she revealed quietly.

Jack finally paused, staying crouched on the floor but spinning around to meet her stare, wrench held loosely in his hand. “I'm making the most of a shitty situation,” he admitted, blue eyes glittering.

Hartley chuckled, but the sound was bordering on panic. Jack dropped the rusted tool held in his grip, standing to his feet and shuffling over to her, dropping to his knees so he could meet her vulnerable gaze.

“We're going to find the Doctor,” he promised her, resting his hand on her knee as he tried to convince her of his words. He believed that with all of his heart; it nearly broke hers.

“I know we will, Jack,” she said gently, placing her own hand over his and squeezing. “But who knows _when_?”

For a moment Jack looked fearful, but then the expression was wiped from his face with all the ease of erasing a chalkboard. “Soon, Hart. It'll be soon,” he replied emphatically, sounding as though, in that moment, he actually believed what he was saying. “I promise.”

She smiled sadly, the expression almost too much for Jack to bear. “Don't make promises you can't keep, Captain,” she whispered, reaching up to tap his nose, continuing to smile in a way that came dangerously close to pity.

“Come on,” he said suddenly, throwing an arm over her shoulder casually and leading her away from his plethora of gadgets. “You look like you could do with hitting something,” he told her through a small grin.

“Does that mean I can take off these ridiculous skirts?” she asked hopefully.

“Oh, I encourage it,” he winked, and she took a moment to slap him over the head before turning away, uncaringly peeling off her dress and pulling on a pair of Jack's pants, leaving her in those and a bra that gave no support whatsoever.

She missed the twenty-first century.

She turned around to see Jack already rid of his shirt, stretching his muscles as he always did before they sparred. “Ready to have your ass handed to you again, Mrs Harkness?” he asked once he noticed she was ready.

“You can try, Mr Harkness,” she teased back, sticking out her tongue and cracking her knuckles before bringing her fists up in front of her, prepared for battle.

Jack made the first move, attacking swiftly, bringing his leg up to kick her in the side. Hartley grunted but took the hit like a champ, rolling into it and using the move to get herself closer to him, jabbing her fingers into his throat. He choked, and she brought her fist up to land a punch, but he was quick, catching it and using her own momentum to spin her around with all the grace of a dancer, twisting her arm behind her back.

She cried out in pain and he released her, but instantly they were back in prepared positions, neither even close to giving up.

“You're getting quicker,” he told her through a choked laugh.

“You'd hope that after two years I'd have improved at least a little,” she responded through a laugh.

He didn't respond, merely ducking back in for another hit.

She was getting better, that much was certain. Jack had been rather wary when she'd first asked him to teach her how to fight. He hadn't been sure it was a good idea, but Hartley was nothing if not insistent and won him over eventually. More than anything it gave her something to do, something to work at during long days of nothing but books to read and rooms to tidy.

She enjoyed it, more than any 'lady' should. Her heart got pumping, her skin turning a rosy pink as the blood washed around her body. She enjoyed the endorphins, and the thrill of dodging blows. It took diligence and hard work to build her body up to a state fit enough to go toe to toe with Jack, but the ache in her muscles and the feeling of relieved accomplishment made it all worth it in the end – particularly when she managed to floor the overconfident conman, the look of proud surprise on his face making it all the more sweeter.

She'd already been at the mercy of an attacker before, and she'd died – and yeah, maybe it wasn't exactly a _permanent_ death, but she didn't plan to repeating the situation ever again. Her luck would run out one day, and she doubted she'd be making any more miraculous returns from the dead any time soon.

So things continues on as normal. That's what it was – mind-numbingly normal. She and Jack would sometimes go on adventures of the Earth-kind. They would travel out into the forest for hikes, taking picnic lunches and a book each. Sometimes they went swimming in lakes, or climbed trees just for the hell of it.

Hartley would have, before getting stranded, considered Rose her best friend. And she was; in a way she always would be – but this was different, things with _Jack_ were different. She felt like he understood her, like they connected on a deeper level. She felt totally and utterly comfortable with him, no matter the situation.

And the icing on top of the cake was that there was absolutely no pressure of romance. There was no sexual attraction, no nervous energy in sight. They were family, and she didn't need to worry about any of the relationship stuff she would have had to with anyone else. Their relationship was perfect – just about the only perfect thing she had going for her, these days.

Adventures in the forests of Earth could only entertain for so long. After a while all the trees looked the same, and the scents became commonplace rather than freeing or exciting.

There was nothing to run from, no mysteries to solve, no people to save.

It was just long days of nothing, followed by nights of even more nothing. And it was exhausting, to say the least.

She liked to experiment with cooking, getting recipes from books or borrowing them from neighbours. She liked trying different things, especially pastries, and Jack would often complain that he was going to get fat. Whenever he did, she would add extra chocolate chips to his cookies.

On one such night, almost exactly four years into their stay in the 1800s, Jack came home to find her elbow deep in a ball of dough.

“What's on the menu tonight, then?” he asked as he strolled through the door, already rolling his sleeves up over his elbows.

“Cherry pie,” she told him with a small smile. He gave a loud, theatrical moan, and her tiny grin burst into a proper laugh. “Save it for dessert, ladykiller,” she snorted, and he playfully swatted her with a tea towel as he moved past her to begin cleaning the dishes she'd just used. “How was work?” she asked as they both went about their tasks, the sense of camaraderie utterly natural.

“Same old, same old,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. “Alexander keeps asking me when we're planning on having kids,” he added, giving a huff of a laugh.

“Just tell him I'm barren already,” she muttered with a frustrated exhale.

“Then we'll get nothing but pitying looks for the rest of our stay,” he replied, scrubbing particularly hard at a stained dish. “This isn't the twenty-first century, people actually give a damn about that sort of thing in this time.”

Brow furrowed, she contemplated his words carefully. “I've always wanted to adopt,” she admitted quietly.

Jack's hands froze on his dish, horror washing over his face, like he were terrified he'd just stuffed his foot into his mouth. “You don't mean you're _really––_?”

“No, I'm not,” she said, shaking her head at him quickly before shooting him an unimpressed side-eye. “Not that there'd be anything wrong with me if I were,” she said sharply, and he had the decency to look sheepish. She returned to kneading her ball of dough. “I just figure the universe has enough people in it already. I'd rather take a kid that's already suffering and give them a good home. _That's_ worth something.”

Jack was silent a few moments, processing her words as he washed the dishes diligently.

“Plus – childbirth?” she asked with a shudder, lightening the mood instantly. “No thank you,” she said, grinning to herself when Jack snickered.

There was a minute of companionable quiet before Jack said suddenly, “I think I want my own kids.”

Surprised, she looked away from where she was folding the dough into a pie base at the bottom of a pan and raised her eyes in interest. “Really?” she hummed, blue eyes watching him work on a particularly dirty pan.

“Always did,” he said with a lift of his shoulders, like it wasn't of consequence anyway. She begged to disagree. “I know I don't seem like the paternal type,” he added when she said nothing.

“You _are_ kind of a man-child,” she agreed with a cheeky grin, and he flicked soapy water at her in retaliation. She laughed, wiping it from her face with her shoulder and looking back at her work. “For what it's worth, though, I think you'd be an _amazing_ father, Jack,” she told him sincerely, squinting at her pie as she began crinkling the edges, trying to make it perfect. “And I'll be right beside you when it happens, cleaning up after the mess you'll make,” she added jovially, peeking over at him playfully. “In fact, better name me Godmother for good measure, right?”

She saw him grin, wide and unrestrained, and she had such a strong sense of _family_ that it warmed her from the inside out. He opened his mouth to respond, but a loud beeping drew them from their conversation.

“Is that the Doctor-detector?” she asked, standing up straight and watching as Jack shot away from her, eager excitement now dancing on his face.

“That's not what it's called,” he told her distractedly. It was an exchanged they had often, but he barrelled on, too lost in his enthusiasm to bother with the usual script. “There's serious rift activity only a few miles from here!” he beamed, tapping on the gauge eagerly, like it was telling him everything he wanted to hear. “If we hurry we can get there in a half hour!”

“It's six o'clock,” she argued with a frown. “And dinner's cooking,” she added, gesturing to the oven, where their roast dinner was only just beginning to turn golden brown.

Jack paused to shoot her a shit-eating grin. “Who's the domesticated one now?” he challenged with a single brow raised.

Indignation rose within the strawberry-blonde woman, and she glared back at him with all the ferocity of a kitten. Jack chuckled, glancing down at her small stature of no more than a little over five feet, taking in her attempt at a threatening glower.

“Are you coming or what?” he asked impatiently. She never was one to back down from a challenge. Years stuck in primitive Earth may have dulled her some, but he was relieved to see she was the same cheerful spitfire underneath it all. “I mean, if you're scared...” he trailed off, knowing he had her hook, line and sinker.

“Why would I be scared?” she questioned snidely, arms crossed over her simple maroon dress. “I can't exactly die, so what's there to be afraid of?” she added offhandedly. At first it had been a point of tension between them, but over the months since that night on the street, they'd come to be able to joke about it casually. Both found it was better that way, rather than walk on eggshells over the topic.

“I like the way you think, Ms Daniels,” he grinned slyly as he wagged his eyebrows playfully.

She waved her left hand in his face, bringing his attention to the cheap ring they'd found at a small store in town after the mugger had stolen their last ones. It wasn't even close to real, but it looked it, and thankfully people were easy to convince. “After all this time you still forget,” she murmured coyly. “It's Mrs Harkness now.”

He grinned back wolfishly, leaning in to poke her playfully in the stomach before rushing directly to the door and all but shoving his feet back into his boots.

“Come on then, Hartley Harkness!” he shouted enthusiastically from the entryway. “We have a Doctor to find!”

Outside it was late autumn, and the air was beginning to chill. Hartley wrapped Jack's old captain's coat around her for warmth, as nothing made in that era could really compare to the thick, insulated material of the fifty-first century.

“What brought us here, exactly?” she asked Jack, peering up through the fog at the abandoned building they were in front of, blue eyes warily flickering over the mouldy bricks covering the outside.

“Concentration of Time Energy showing up on the scanner,” he responded, peering down at the crudely built device, so very out of place for the century they were currently stuck in.

“You think it's him?” she asked, forcing a degree of hope into her voice for Jack's sake. They hadn't found him yet, and she sincerely doubted they were going to.

“Only one way to know for sure,” he told her flippantly, and she rolled her eyes at his typical blasé attitude.

The abandoned building was creepy and silent, and she had to wonder what kind of equally creepy creature might want to call it home. She had an uncomfortable feeling in her gut, like something bad was going to happen. She bunched the material of her skirts in her fist, clutching it tightly like a lifeline as she scanned every shadowed corner, alert for any hint of danger. She wasn't exactly an expert in combat, but she wasn't nearly as helpless as she'd been before.

“Lighten up,” Jack ordered playfully, nudging her as they walked. “I'm getting strong readings. This could be it!”

“Or it could be something bad...” she whispered.

“Wow, our time on Earth really _has_ done some damage,” he mused quietly in response, and she just restrained herself from smacking him for it. “Oh, come on,” he groaned, nudging her again. “Show me that gorgeous smile!”

She covered her mouth self-consciously. “Jack,” she moaned in annoyance, a light blush appearing on her porcelain cheeks.

“It is gorgeous and don't you doubt it for a second,” he ordered, and though she rolled her eyes, she was honestly quite pleased by the sweetness he was displaying. As always he was brash and bold, and somehow in the same instant, endlessly endearing. “Doctor?!” Jack shouted, the sound bouncing through the empty, abandoned house. She was glad the focus was off of her.

“Doctor?!” she echoed halfheartedly, cupping her hands around her mouth.

She stopped abruptly, seeming to freeze in the middle of the room. “Hart?” Jack asked confusedly, glancing back at her, his eyes narrowed as though prepared for a threat to leap out at any moment. “Hart?” he asked again when she didn't answer.

“Do you hear that?” she asked, head tilted as she listened to the voices she could hear filtering through the room. The words they were saying were familiar, the voices ones she knew well.

“Hear what?” Jack asked obliviously.

A sudden tug at her waist made her flinch, and a strangled gasp caught in her throat. Jack flinched into her, clutching at her arms to steady her, a look of stricken panic on his handsome face.

“Hartley, what the hell is going on?!” he demanded darkly, tightening his grip on her shoulders.

“I'm not-” she was cut off before she could finish, another painful tug yanking at her middle, as though a grappling hook as been thrown around her waist, tugging her away from Jack. She'd experienced the sensation before. It was something she could never forget.

After all, it was how she'd found her way to the Doctor in the first place, wasn't it?

“Jack,” she gasped out, reaching down to run her fingers over the hook at her waist, only to find nothing there but her own soft flesh and the smooth cotton of her dress. It tugged again at the exact moment there was a bright flash from behind them, and Jack blinked in shock at the vortex spinning above their heads, saturating them in glittering golden light.

“What the f––?”

It wasn't fair. She built a life in her own time and it was ripped away, then her life on the TARDIS was torn from her, and now her little slice of peace with Jack was being ruthlessly wrenched away. Would she ever see him again? Who knew where or when the vortex would spit her back out? The only thing she _did_ know was that once the vortex opened, she had no choice but to dive in.

“Jack!” she had to shout to be heard over the loud stormy sounds the rupture was emitting. “Jack, I have to go now!” Her eyes stung with tears, and she swallowed thickly against the sensation in the same moment as there was another rough tug, jerking her backwards.

In a desperate but subconscious move, she thrust out her hands, and Jack took them in that familiar way, grasping on so tightly that she thought briefly that it might leave bruises.

“What are you talking about?!” he demanded furiously, and she'd never seen him look more confused, more desperate or scared.

She quickly moved, shrugging off his precious coat while she still could. “You'll need this!” she told him with tears in her blue eyes, tugging herself forcefully from his grip and throwing the familiar, beautiful coat into his listless hands, which were held out and frozen in shock.

“Hartley!” he sounded more confused than ever. Hartley wished she could explain what was happening, or why it was happening, but she didn't even know where to begin. Besides, there wasn't time.

“I don't know where I'm going!” she shouted, reaching out to grasp at one of his hands again, wanting to touch him a final time, squeezing for all she was worth. It was kind of a lie, she could hear Rose's voice talking on the other end of the swirling golden light. She had a pretty good idea of exactly where she was going to be spat out. “But I need to leave you now!”

She was wrong before. She wasn't without family. Not anymore; _Jack_ was her family, and he always would be.

“Hartley Daniels, I swear to fucking _God_ -” he shouted furiously, the panicked glint to his eyes tearing at her insides like tiny shards of glass.

“We'll see each other again,” she yelled, another yank forcing her a step closer to the whirlpool of time energy, a funnel with its own gravity, drawing her in. “We _will_! Don't give up hope!”

“Harts – don't leave me!” he begged in a rare show of vulnerability, reaching desperately for her hands, grasping thin air as she inched back towards the vortex. “You can't leave me here alone! You _can't_!”

“I don't have a choice!” she yelled back sadly. There was another tug, this one more violent than any. She winced against the feeling, stumbling completely from Jack's reach. “I love you!” she promised him, eyes burning with devastated tears. “I love you!” she repeated, making sure he knew she'd never said anything more true.

“Hart, don't go, please don't-”

She didn't get to hear the rest of his sentence, as there was a final bruising yank and she fell backwards into the rupture in space and time.

It was like the universe's wildest water slide; she fell through time energy, sounds coming from the light around her, though none were louder than the confused voices of the Doctor and Rose, who were without a doubt on the other end, watching the vortex in utter confusion, no clue what – or who – was about to tumble out of it.

She wasn't sure how long she was falling down the proverbial rabbit hole, all she knew was that either a minute or an eternity later she was rather unceremoniously spat out the other end, collapsing into a heap on a cold, stone floor.

She was still for a long moment, breathing heavily as she struggled to come to grips with how abruptly everything had just changed. Her world, her life, once more ripped out from underneath her as she was again thrown into the great deep unknown.

“Oh my _God_!” Rose's familiar voice finally shrieked, and she glanced up, meeting the girl's bewildered brown eyes. “ _Hartley_?!” she squeaked, stunned by the appearance of her old friend.

Swallowing around the lump in her throat, tried to calm her racing pulse. “Hey, Rose,” she attempted a smile that fell flat, forcing herself upright, smoothing her maroon skirts down with her hands, making sure nothing indecent was exposed.

Her faint smile wavered, and her eyes flickered away from the familiar blonde and over to a skinny, suited man with a great head of hair. She met his warm chocolate eyes, noting not only the pure shock shining from within his deep, never ending gaze, but also the familiarity with which he stared at her. It was like he knew her intimately, rather than her just being some chick in period clothing who'd tumbled out of a rupture in time and space and landed without dignity in a heap before him.

Wearily, she turned to look back at Rose, who was still gaping. Forcing her lips into another weak smile, Hartley brightened. “Long time no see.”


	17. Together Again

“ _Life is to be lived, not controlled.”_

Ralph Ellison, _Invisible Man_

* * *

“Oh my _God_!”

Hartley stood to her feet, wobbling slightly, still shaky from the brutal fall through time and space. It never had been the most relaxing experience. “You said that already,” she pointed out, smoothing down her corset and skirts again before reaching up and running a hand over her messy red hair, which had slipped from the braids it had been in during her fall. “Where are we?” she asked when it became clear Rose could do little more than gape.

“Second moon of the planet Windfall in the Vamana System,” the unfamiliar, unnamed man said in a breezy, confident way. His voice was laced with authority he hadn't yet earned. Hartley cocked an eyebrow at him skeptically.

“Who's the tagalong?” she asked Rose in a whisper, casting the stranger a wary glance. The man reared back, indignant, like her question had offended him.

“Ah, it's hard to explain,” Rose began carefully, shooting the man an expression of pinched discontent. “He's, well, he's...” she trailed off unsurely.

“It's me, Hartley,” the man said, rather than allow her to finish. Hartley stared back blankly, not understanding.

“You're _who_?” she pressed impatiently when he only peered back expectantly, as though he'd already told her everything she needed to know.

“ _Me_!” he insisted, like it would magically make sense.

“Look mate, I have no idea what you're...” she trailed off, meeting his deep brown eyes. There _was_ something blatantly familiar about them, the way they seemed bottomless and old, haunted like they'd seen things, more horrors than any no one person should ever have to see…

But it couldn't be – it wasn't _possible._

“...Doctor?” she finally murmured, mind scrambling to make sense of what was happening. The Doctor grinned, the expression wide and open, startling her with the strength of it. “You can't be serious,” she said flatly, brows pulled down in a heavy frown.

“Dead serious,” he confirmed with a sombre nod that was negated by the massive, out of place grin on his lips.

“ _You're_ the Doctor?” She still couldn't wrap her head around it. He just nodded brightly. “Are you wearing the best disguise known to alien kind?” she asked, stepping closer and reaching up to tentatively touch his face. His smile dropped as she grew nearer, and he went perfectly still, not moving as she brought up her shaking hands, fingers gently brushing along his sharp cheekbones.

His skin was cool under her fingertips, and it certainly didn't feel like a mask or any sort of illusion. He stared back at her, eyes full of a thousand things he probably wouldn't ever say, not to her, and she suddenly knew, without doubt, that he was telling the truth.

“How?” she asked, dropping her hands and taking a big step backwards, her racing pulse telling her that she needed some space.

“Time Lord trick,” he informed her, and she wasn't sure whether or not she was imagining the way his voice wavered, not quite as strong as it had been before. “When we're about to die, our bodies rewrite themselves at a molecular level,” he began to explain in a way so unlike the _Doctor_ she knew that she began to doubt herself once again. “Changes us, makes us different. Same memories, same knowledge, same person; just...different casing.”

She blinked up at him, barely understanding what he was saying. It was him, but it wasn't, and she couldn't comprehend these two wildly contradicting facts.

“Prove it,” she demanded without thinking, but once it was out there it couldn't be taken back.

He didn't look surprised by this order, however, rocking back on his heels as he thought for a moment. “The first place I ever took you was to the moon of Jupiter, Callisto,” he finally spoke, voice even and measured, a spark of remembrance in those endless eyes. “We had banana waffles. You thought it was the most wonderful place in the world. I thought you were naïve, because it was just a shopping centre, but you refused to be disheartened by my surliness.”

Hartley swallowed around the lump in her throat. It'd been so long ago – five long years since that had happened, but she remembered it like it was yesterday. She recalled the way the Doctor had rolled his eyes at her sense of wonderment, and how she'd been so fascinated that she hadn't even cared. She remembered the waffles were drizzled with honey and the cafe had smelled of butterscotch.

“Okay,” she agreed without meaning to, her voice breathless with the weight of the memories. “You're him.”

He lifted a hand, giving a bright, cheery sort of wiggle of his fingers. “Hello,” he said, voice much more gentle than it had ever been with her before, and she swallowed again, internally preparing herself to get used to this new reality she was suddenly facing.

“Hang on a moment!” Rose suddenly exclaimed from the left, and Hartley startled, having almost forgotten she was there. She stepped back, further away from the Doctor, and blinked at Rose innocently. “Hartley – you _died,_ ” Rose said slowly, as if the older woman had somehow failed to notice, her voice shrill to a point that had even the Doctor wincing.

Hartley whirled around to fix the Doctor with a glare that wasn't actually very intimidating, but made him feel guilty nonetheless. “You _left_ ,” she hissed in accusation. The Doctor at least had the decency to look slightly ashamed.

“You were a fixed point, Hartley,” he said defensively anyway, stubborn to a fault. “There was nothing I could do! The TARDIS probably wouldn't have even let you on board. I _had_ to leave!”

Pain burned white hot inside of Hartley as horrible realisation gripped her. “Jack said you didn't know,” she said to herself, staring at this new Doctor in dismay, barely wanting to believe it, “but you _did._ You knew all along and you _still left us_!”

“I didn't have a choice,” he argued, but it was weak at best.

She said nothing for a moment, letting his words sink in, her eyes burning with humiliating, unshed tears. “There's _always_ a choice, Doctor,” she whispered brokenly. “And the worst part is, _you're_ the one who taught me that.”

Shame glittered in his eyes and he dropped his gaze to the floor, mouth pulled into a deep frown.

“You _knew_ she was alive?!” Rose gasped in unadulterated shock, spinning around to stare, wide eyed, at the Doctor. “What the hell happened? What aren't you telling me?!” the words were more hissed than spoken. She was horrified that he'd kept something like this from her.

The Doctor hesitated, reaching up to tug nervously at his collar. “Go on then, Doc,” Hartley goaded him, unable to help herself, crossing her arms over her chest and cocking her hip at an angle, callous anger growing within her like a bubble. She could only hope it wouldn't burst, coating her insides with its bitter acid. “Tell her.”

“It's complicated...” the time traveller said lamely, which only served to make Rose more infuriated. Fire seemed to glint in her hazel eyes, and he was smart enough to take a tactical shuffle backwards.

“You sure as _hell_ better have a decent explanation, Doctor, or so help me _God._..” Rose trailed off, but there was no need for her to finish, he got the picture loud and clear.

“Look, is this really the best time – or place – to be pointing fingers?” the Doctor asked, gesturing to their surroundings. For the first time since arriving, Hartley realised they weren't in the TARDIS as she'd originally assumed. She'd been so focused on seeing her old friends that she hadn't taken in the fact they weren't aboard the ship at all. Instead they were in some kind of cave, only there was no visible exit except a barred door, one uncanny to that of a medieval prison.

“Are we in jail?” Hartley asked with surprising calm, pointing at the door with a single raised brow. Her outrage was levelling out, shrinking within her. There would be time to argue and blame later, for now, they had more pressing matters to be focused on.

“Uh, it would appear so; yes,” he told her, tugging at his ear and peering through the dark at the door with a frown on his new face.

“What did you do?” she demanded immediately, turning to eye him critically.

“Why do you immediately assume _I_ did something?” he whined.

“Because _you_ always do.”

“Hart?” The bickering pair stopped bickering, turning around to look at Rose, who was staring at Hartley with wide eyes that were glistening with tears.

“Yeah?” the girl in question asked, cocking her head expectantly, slightly wary.

Rose's eyes suddenly took on a deeper shining quality, and without warning she flew into Hartley's arms. She slammed into her with all the force of a freight train, and Hartley stumbled backwards, catching herself before she fell. Rose was squeezing so tightly that Hartley struggled to breathe, but she couldn't bring herself to care. “You're alive!” she exclaimed emotionally into Hartley's shoulder, overwhelmed by her happiness as she giggled, still in shock over the entire thing. “I can't believe you're _alive_! I've spent _months_ thinking you were dead – and here you are, completely and utterly fine!”

“It's a _very_ long story,” she murmured back, squeezing her once more before stepping away and shooting her what she hoped was a comforting smile, before she suddenly frowned, something striking her. “How long has it been? Since I've been gone?”

“Seven months,” Rose answered quietly, running her fingers under her eyes to make sure her makeup hadn't smudged.

Hartley hummed thoughtfully, if only they knew she'd been away from _them_ for more than five times that amount. It'd been years since she'd seen them, but for the life of her, it might as well have been a matter of _days._ Rose opened her mouth to say something else, but before she could there was a loud, sharp bang on the bars at the mouth of the cave, and the trio within jumped at the sudden noise.

“The warden will see you now,” a man who held a striking resemblance to _Shrek_ said in a deep, gravelly voice. He seemed to be holding a mace as his choice of weapon, and that made Hartley grimace. Nice people didn't generally walk around with maces in their hands.

“Brilliant,” the Doctor piped up cheerfully, sticking his hands into his pockets and strolling casually towards the door in a way that was completely unfamiliar to her. Both girls paused, meeting each other's eyes cautiously before heading after him, their own heads ducked to avoid drawing attention to themselves.

The guard unlocked the cell, and they filed out into the corridor. Hartley gripped her skirts in her hands, taking care not to step in the deep puddles of mud speckled throughout the cave. “Oi,” the stocky, green-tinged man snapped, spitting on them slightly as he spoke. “Weren't there only two of ya before?”

“No, no,” the Doctor waved his hand like someone in a fancy establishment would do so to cancel an order of food. “There was always the three of us.”

“Then what's she dressed like that for?” he snarled deeply, gesturing to Hartley's British period-attire. “I'd remember arresting a sheila dressed like royalty, I would.”

“You're just mistaken,” the Time Lord was quick to say. “She's very quiet and unassuming, you see. I'm not surprised you overlooked her.”

That was rough, but Hartley resolved not to let it get to her. She tilted her chin up, meeting the ogre's gaze head on. He assessed her quietly, nothing but a disgusting snort breaking the tense silence. “Get on with it, then,” he finally spat, and Rose reached up to wipe at her cheek with a grimace.

They walked ahead of the guard, keeping close together to avoid the hands reaching through the bars on either side of the hall, desperate moans of pain pouring from the prison cells like water.

“What did you do?” Hartley demanded again under her breath as they walked, beginning to head up a steep flight of stone steps.

“It isn't important,” the Doctor hissed back softly.

“I beg to differ,” she replied sharply. He only shot her an irritating glare, so she turned to Rose expectantly, who glanced over at them both with a fond roll of her eyes, the whole situation reminding her of the good old days.

“There was this...what was it called?” she paused to ask the Doctor, who pouted as he murmured back to correct pronunciation. “There was this Clycamodpod,” she began again. “They're these tiny little mouse looking things, and they can go invisible. So one runs into the castle and the Doctor _has_ to follow it-”

“It was admitting an impossible amount of radioactive energy-” he interjected in an attempt to explain himself, but was silenced by Rose's scowling glare.

“So we sneak in, but as medieval as they look, they have some kind of advanced alarm system. Next thing we knew, we were being handcuffed to a pipe and told we were being sentenced to death for trespassing on royal ground.”

Hartley blinked. “Sorry, I thought you just said you were _sentenced to death_ ,” she murmured through a heavy frown, her voice still quiet so they didn't attract the attention of the ogre ahead of them.

“Yes,” the Doctor confirmed, predictably calm.

“So, right now we're being led to-”

“The gallows.”

“Brilliant.”

“Don't worry,” Rose whispered, eyes shooting over to the guard, who was digging a finger into his ear. “We have a plan.”

“What's the plan?” she asked just as quietly.

“No time to explain,” the Doctor said quickly. “Just follow our lead.” Before Hartley could argue, the Doctor was already storming ahead, rushing so he was in front of the ogre, cuffed hands held up like he were surrendering. “Now, now,” the Time Lord began loudly, and the guard came to an abrupt stop. “We invoke the right to parley!”

The ogre was silent for one long, stretched out moment before he laughed, the horrible sound making her wonder if he was simultaneously gargling nails.

“Parley?” he repeated in that crackling tone, holding up his mace threateningly. “You get no _parley_ ,” he spat like it were the punchline to a joke. “The King orders you to die.”

“Come now,” the Doctor continued on smoothly. “There's no need for that! Why don't you just let us be on our way? The King never needs to know,” he grinned widely, showing off his teeth in an attempt to sway the beast.

It laughed again, the sound thicker and more rough than before. “Puny human,” he sneered, lifting his mace up high. “The King cares not where you perish. A death in the dungeons like a common rat seems befitting,” he grumbled, snorting loudly and beginning to bring his weapon down on a wincing Doctor.

“Bloody hell,” Hartley had only been back with the Doctor for ten minutes, and already she was more exasperated than she'd been in four whole years with Jack. She leapt forwards, catching the chain of the bloodied mace in deft hands and wrenching it towards her. Thanks to the element of surprise, she used her leverage to wrench it from his big, meaty hands.

“Hart!” Rose exclaimed in shock, watching as her previously passive friend adjusted her grip on the weapon and began to swing it in large, confident circles. The Doctor watched on with raised eyebrows, unsure what was happening, and unsure whether or not to stop it.

The ogre-man laughed, its sickly green skin folding unpleasantly, beginning to become damp from sweat. “What do you think you could possibly do to me, you pathetic swine?” the alien asked her through a sneer, eyeing her like she was the most disgusting thing he'd ever seen. He was at least three times her size, and could obviously snap her like a twig, were he given the opportunity.

She heard Jack's voice in her head then, clear as day, as though he were standing directly behind her.

_Don't give him the opportunity._

Jack had taught her a lot over their years together on Earth, particularly a lot about fighting. She wasn't strong, he would say with a smirk, but she was fast, and sharper than a tack.

_There's one hit you can take_ any _species down with, Harts._

Thinking fast, she kicked up her leg, her knee slamming with full force into the alien's crotch. The ogre groaned, its beady black eyes shutting tight as it abruptly dropped to the dirty ground. The prisoners on either side of them began to scream their exultant cheers.

The Doctor and Rose didn't seem to quite know what to say, so she merely smiled, dropping the weapon to the ground and grasping Rose's hand, tugging her past the groaning ogre and down the hall as quickly as she could.

“What is going on?!” Rose shouted in bewilderment, allowing her ball-gown wearing friend to yank her towards the door. The Doctor paused long enough to fetch his sonic from a shelf of confiscated items and with a quick buzz the door cracked open and the three of them spilled out into the daylight.

“Where's the TARDIS?” Hartley asked, but instead of replying the Doctor merely took off in a run, heading for the tree line where, if she squinted, she could spot a hint of blue peeking out from the thick underbrush.

Alarms began to sound as they ran, the wailing piercing the air, and she heard shouts from behind them as guards followed in their wake.

“Faster!” the Doctor urged them loudly. Hartley hefted up her inconvenient skirts and sped up, her delicate shoes sinking into the muddy ground of the alien planet.

“ _Fire_!” she heard the guards shout from behind her.

She knew she had a split second to act. The Doctor would be okay, he could do that changing trick thing, should worse come to worst; Rose, on the other hand, was fragile and human, and there were no guarantees she wouldn't be hit by a stray weapon. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw a horde of arrows sailing towards them, slicing through the air, and there was no doubt in Hartley's mind that Rose was going to get hit.

Her decision was made in an instant, and Hartley spun around, stepping into the projectile's path just in time for the arrow to sink into the flesh of her chest. Had she not moved, the arrow would have hit Rose, who surely wouldn't have survived.

“Well, shit,” Hartley muttered to herself, feeling herself go into shock for the length of one single heartbeat before she was falling backwards into a set of thin arms. Her legs were still moving underneath her, almost as an afterthought, and her helper desperately dragged her away from the castle and the slew of arrows raining upon them.

“Hart, you need to run!” the Doctor was shouting in her ear, half pulling her along. They were only a few yards from the beautiful blue of the TARDIS, and she urged her legs to cooperate, struggling to make them move in her state of shock and rapid blood loss.

It was a pure miracle that they made it into the safety of the TARDIS before the next wave of arrows, and the moment they were inside its walls Hartley collapsed to the floor, her body no longer willing to cooperate.

Looking down and seeing an arrow sticking out of your own chest was unsettling even for the strongest of people. Hartley had died twice before now, and each time was as painful and upsetting as the last. And this time was looking to be no different. She gasped for breath, sucking in as much air as she could, despite the fact that every single time her lungs expanded it caused her unbearable agony, the arrow tip lodged inside her chest slicing through her inner organs like a hot knife through butter.

“Oh my God, Hartley,” Rose was crying, holding her in her arms, much as Jack had done the last time she'd 'died'. “I only just found you again,” she cried, staring down at the bloody mess that was Hartley's chest, tears leaking from her warm brown eyes.

“Rose, it'll...it'll be...okay,” Hart struggled to talk, though her words were more wheezed than spoken, mouth filling with the tangy, metallic taste of her own blood. “P-promise.”

“Rose, stand back,” the Doctor said, moving away from the console and crouching over the bleeding woman on the floor. “I've got to pull the arrow out.”

“No!” Rose shouted. “It'll kill her!”

“She's already dead, Rose,” he responded calmly, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder.

Rose sobbed, and Hartley's heart ached, and not just because there was now an arrow imbedded inside of it. Rose was reluctant to leave her, and she cried aloud as the Doctor angled her away, then he reached down and wrapped his fist around the stalk of the arrow.

He caught Hartley's gaze, luminescent blue meeting warm brown, and with the last bit of strength she had she nodded her head. He yanked, dislodging the weapon from her aortic pump.

Everything went black for one long, terrifying, horrible, endless stretch of time, and then she was shooting upright, spluttering and clutching at her chest like it would somehow ease the pain, although she knew, from previous experience, that it wouldn't.

“Hart?” Rose's voice had gone quiet, a great contrast to how shrill it had been only a short moment ago. She was sitting on the jump seat, staring down at her friend with a wide, disbelieving gaze, her cheeks damp with tears. “How're you _alive_? I just...I just watched you _die_.”

“Takes more than an arrow to kill me, these days,” Hartley joked, still out of breath as she wheezed, sucking in delicious, beautiful air. The TARDIS smelled amazing, not _of_ anything in particular, just the familiar scent of an old home.

“ _How_?” Rose demanded.

Hartley took a full minute to regulate her breathing, one hand on her chest where her heart, now whole once again, was beating strongly under her fingertips. “I, uh, I actually don't know,” she admitted. “But something tells me _he_ probably does,” she added, moving her gaze from Rose to the Doctor, who was leant against the railing with a resigned expression on his face, like he'd known all along that it would come to this.

“Give us a minute or two, Hartley?” he asked flatly, never moving his eyes from Rose.

“What?” the blonde was incredulous. “She needs to go to a hospital!”

“Believe me, Rose,” Hartley assured her gently, “I'm fine.”

“I just watched you get shot in the _chest_. You have to have a doctor look you over, at the least.”

“Good thing we've got one on hand,” she responded cheekily, glancing pointedly at the Doctor. Rose didn't look amused in the least. Hartley sighed, reaching up to rub at her chest again, which was still tingling from her rapid healing. “I'll go change out of this,” she murmured, knowing the Doctor desperately needed to explain himself to Rose, and although she was curious about what he would say, she knew it wasn't for her to know. “It'll be nice to finally stop having to wear a corset,” she attempted a spot of humour, but neither was very receptive, so with a heavy sigh she left the control room.

Navigating the halls was like riding a bike, or maybe the TARDIS was simply being nice to her because she'd just been revived again.

Her room was exactly how she left it, but she didn't give herself time to enjoy it, instead going straight to her bathroom and soaking in a _blissfully_ hot shower with _fantastic_ water pressure. She changed into track pants and an old teeshirt, taking the time to stretch her sore muscles – resurrections always seemed to leave her feeling stiff.

She didn't let herself think about what this meant as she ran a brush through her hair. She just tried to get by, taking everything minute-by-minute. Because if she let herself think she would surely fall down a pit from which she could never escape.

She finished her hair and took a moment to stare at her room. It was exactly the same as it had been when she'd left. Nothing was different. She wondered whether anyone had even been inside in the time she'd gone away.

She was just turning for the door when something caught her eye. On her mirror – which was littered with photo strips and other keepsakes from their adventures – was something that certainly hadn't been there before.

A white envelope was tucked into the spot her mirror met her vanity, and across it was written her name in large, flowery script that wasn't her own. In fact, it reminded her a lot of Jack's handwriting – his Hs had the same loop as her name did here.

With a racing heart, deeply curious about what this could be, Hartley plucked the envelope from its place, turning it over in her hands before finally throwing caution to the wind and opening it.

_Hartley,_

_This is going to be confusing, but bear with me._

_I'm writing to you from somewhere in your personal future because you told me I had to – and also the Doctor said something about it being a causal loop. Wouldn't want to create a paradox; after all, you know how those make him cranky._

_Now, these next words are very important, and you're going to want to fight against them with everything you have, but believe me when I say it is_ vital _you go against your instincts and listen to me._

_You can't come back and get me, you have to wait for me to come to you._

Hartley stopped reading, putting the letter down on her vanity and dropping her head into her hands. She took a deep, shuddering breath, collecting herself before continuing.

_I'm not going to tell you that I don't wish you had come back for me, because it would be a lie. I spent lots of nights – too many nights – staring up at the stars and wishing you and Rose and the Doctor would appear to save me, to sweep me away to the better life. But the fact of the matter, Harts, is that you can't._

_Things happened this way for a reason. I was on a different path to you, I always have been. Your destiny is to travel with the Doctor... And mine? Well, to be honest I'm still figuring that out, but I have a feeling I'm finally on the right track._

_I'm happy now, and I promise you Hartley, I find you again. It's been a long time for me, longer than any one person should have to endure, but that's the way it was meant to be. I see that now, and so do you._

_Stay with the Doctor and Rose, and forget about me – I turn up eventually, back to annoy you into any early grave (what a feat that would be, am I right?). And you're so happy to see me that you cry. It's all very flattering._

_I miss you like hell, and I know you'll miss me too, but it's for the best. Don't feel guilty for even a second – because this is me, forgiving you for it all._

_Stay sharp, Pretty Lady, and I'll see you sooner than you think._

_Yours,_

_Captain Jack Harkness_

Hartley read the letter over once more before putting it down and reaching up to run her fingertips under her eyes, skin damp with tears.

What he was asking of her was a lot – maybe _too_ much.

To leave him, just _abandon_ him in the 1870s? He said in his letter that it would be a long time for him – did that mean he had to live through the entire twentieth century, until he found a version of them that lined up with him? The thought alone made her feel sick.

But he was very specific in his words; he was happy where he was now. Did she want to gamble that guarantee of happiness just to satisfy her own need to keep Jack close? She knew he was hurting in the short term, but it sounded like in the long term everything worked out. Was she comfortable risking that?

The answer was no, she wasn't. If Jack was happy in their future, then she wasn't going to do anything to jeopardise that. Because he was her priority, always.

Folding up the letter, Hartley placed it gently in her desk for safe keeping. She had a feeling that over the coming months – maybe years – it was something she was going to want to reread often.

Stepping out into the hall, Hartley was met with yelling from the direction of the console room. Whatever it was the Doctor was saying, Rose wasn't liking it. Hartley paused before she hit the console room, staying just far enough away that she couldn't hear exactly what was being said, only close enough to know it wasn't anything good. It lasted another long minute, before finally she heard heavy footsteps on the grating and then Rose stormed past her, barely pausing to give her a glance, let alone say anything.

Hartley waited a beat before moving into the control room, steps quiet and hesitant, because the last thing she wanted was to be on the other end of the Doctor's post-argument-with-Rose wrath.

The Time Lord didn't look up as approached, but she could tell he knew she was there. She said nothing, perching herself on the edge on the jump seat, her legs swinging underneath due to her small stature. It was strange to be back, it barely even felt real – like it was all some huge, elaborate dream, and she was going to wake up soon to find she'd fallen asleep reading again, Jack waving a cup of coffee under her nose enticingly.

The silence in the control room was anything but calm, the Doctor glaring morosely down at the keypad on the console. She wondered who he was angry at: himself for lying, or her for reappearing when she clearly wasn't welcome.

Finally the silence got to be too much, and Hartley decided she needed to speak, needed to _try_. “She'll get over it soon enough,” she said gently, hooking her ankles together and letting her eyes trail over his hunched, tensed shoulders. He was so different, she was still having trouble believing it was even really him. “She'll forgive you,” she continued like the whole situation wasn't completely freaking her out.

“Maybe I don't deserve to be forgiven,” the Doctor mused softly, only just loud enough for her to catch. The confusion and pain in his voice surprised her, and she trailed her eyes over his new, skinny form, taking in his tight pinstripe suit, so different to his old, baggy leather jacket.

She wanted to be mad, she wanted to scream and yell and bellow at him, make him feel the pain she'd felt when he'd abandoned her, but she couldn't do it. It just wasn't in her nature.

“You made a bad decision under pressure,” she replied with a simple shrug, because it was true. “Happens to the best of us.” He reached out, pretending to be focused on adjusting the range of multicoloured knobs on the console. She could tell he wasn't convinced, and she frowned sympathetically. “True, you probably should have told her we were alive. But in time she'll understand why you didn't.” Realising suddenly that she herself wasn't sure why he didn't, she couldn't help but add, “why _didn't_ you tell her, though?”

The Doctor's shoulders moved with a sigh. “I was being selfish.”

She let them fall back into silence, pondering what he meant by that. She'd had a long time – years – to get over the devastation caused by his abandonment. It didn't cause her agony anymore, just a dull ache in her chest region from time to time, the reminder of a promise broken.

“Why did you leave?”

She hadn't meant to ask in that moment, but after so many years stranded on Earth, out of contact with the Time Lord, she _had_ to know. Only he said nothing, pretending to be distracted by his tinkering.

“You promised you wouldn't,” she murmured almost to herself, small voice full of confusion and reflection. “But I guess that's what you always do in the end, isn't it? Break promises and leave us stranded,” she mumbled, finding herself suddenly exhausted.

The Doctor tensed, but his face was angled away from her so she couldn't get a very good read on what was going on in his head. She felt a stab of guilt for being so unthinkingly malicious, and she forced herself to take a deep breath in an effort to calm down.

“After the Game Station, we used Jack's Vortex Manipulator to try and find you,” she revealed quietly, watching as his hands resumed tweaking at the console, doing a bad job of pretending he wasn't listening to every single word. “I didn't think it would actually work, but I didn't want to take away what little hope he had. We ended up in 1869, but before we could continue on the Manipulator burnt out, marooning us in London in the nineteenth century. Jack used what household items he could to try and build devices to track Time Energy and the such.”

“Is that how you opened the vortex?” the Doctor asked, giving his ruse away, though she wasn't going to point it out. “How you appeared in that cave?”

“No,” she shook her head. “Like when we met, that was an occurrence out of anyone's control.” She smiled somewhat bitterly, glad he wasn't looking. “Looks like something more powerful than either of us wants us stuck with each other, huh, Doc?”

The Time Lord was silent, the only sounds filling the room were those of the keys as his fingers pressed down at lightening speed. She sighed once the silence stretched on, believing the Doctor was going to begin to ignore her all together.

“Looks like you and Jack got quite close, then,” he finally spoke, breaking the tense silence, and a spark of hope flickered to life in her chest before she processed his words.

“Huh?” She was more than a little perplexed by the statement.

“Your left hand,” he said tightly, still facing away from her.

She glanced down, finally noticing the very beautiful but very fake rock sitting on her left ring finger. A laugh bubbled up from her stomach, and the sound of her laughter filled the control room. “No, no, no,” she giggled, grinning down at the ring, stroking its cool surface fondly. “He wishes,” she added with a mirthful smirk.

“So you _didn't_ get married?” she could put a name to the emotion in his voice.

“'Course not,” she snorted, wiggling the metal band off her finger, pausing as she held it up to the light, watching it sparkle. “We needed to live together, easiest way to get away with it in that century was to pretend to be newlyweds.” She slipped the little trinket back onto her hand, only this time on her pointer finger, rather than her ring finger. The charade of a marriage had finally come to an end. It joined her other ring, the one from her dad, the only thing left from that life. Both felt as important as the other, now.

The Doctor was silent, processing the information slowly. “How long?” he asked, and although there was no context, she knew what he meant in an instant.

“Four years.”

He nodded, finally giving up the pretence of fiddling with the console and turning around, bracing himself on the side of it and crossing his arms over his chest. “You're not any older,” he said bluntly, and she winced at the reminder.

“Probably because I don't seem to age anymore,” she admitted quietly, reaching up to touch her frozen features. “Side effect of my new little talent, I suppose.”

He reached into his pocket, drawing out the sonic screwdriver and holding it in her face, the blue tip lighting up as it began to buzz beautifully, a sound she hadn't heard in what felt like decades. “You're still aging, just at an incredibly slowed rate,” he revealed, taking in the readings with narrowed eyes.

“How slow?” she questioned warily.

“I'd say about one year to every thousand regular human years,” he sniffed matter-of-factly.

“So after a thousand years, I'll have only aged an extra-”

“One year, yes.”

She met his eyes, the bewilderment in her own seeming to be mirrored in his. She couldn't quite get a read on him. What did he think about that? Did he pity her?

“How did you find out?” he asked, mask falling back into place and cutting off any hint of emotion in his deep brown eyes – so different to their previous icy blue.

The memory was clear as day in her head, and a chill travelled down her spine, her stomach stinging with a phantom injury, an echo of that night in the rain. “We got mugged, I took a shot, bled out in Jack's arms.” She smiled grimly, and the expression was anything but happy. “Bit of a nasty shock for him when I woke up a few minutes later, coughing up a storm and spitting the bullet out into my hand.”

The Doctor turned away again, but for a split second she thought she saw something dark in his eyes, something thick and haunted, before the expression disappeared from sight, like it'd never been there in the first place. “And since then?” he asked lowly, fiddling with a flashing purple button idly. “Any other deaths to speak of?” he spoke casually, like they were discussing the weather.

“Nah,” Hartley shrugged, playing off the subject of her multiple deaths as though they weren't the most traumatic thing she'd ever experienced. “Just the three times.” The thought of Satellite Five made her wince, but she shoved it into the recesses of her mind, keeping it from overwhelming her again, lest she say something more inappropriate to the Doctor and upset him further, or even make things awkward – that was the last thing she wanted.

They were quiet, the Doctor going back to his pointless tinkering as Hartley watched him. Both were unsure what to say. She wondered, vaguely, if he was ever going to apologise for leaving them there; she wasn't counting on it, and this knowledge hurt her.

“Do you know why I'm like this?” she asked instead – because he had to know, didn't he? The Doctor tensed but didn't turn to look at her.

“No,” he said flatly, and she flinched at the blatant lie.

She wanted to scream and cry, demand answers, but she got the feeling that something was wrong, that there was more to this than a simple moody episode. It was like it was hard for him to look at her, like the sight of her caused him pain.

“Why can't you look at me?” she asked him quietly, and he paused again, shoulders hunching over.

He seemed to struggle for words. “You're...” he trailed off uncomfortably. “What you are now-” he began again, cutting off once more. He swallowed, the sound loud in the empty control room. “It's unnatural, Hart,” he said quietly. “It goes against every instinct I have as a Time Lord.”

Hartley frowned, confused. “What do you mean?”

“You've become a living, breathing fixed-point,” he explained quickly, spinning around and pinning her with a troubled stare that had her heart racing. “Everything in me is telling me you're _wrong_.”

This time it was Hartley who swallowed. “Maybe I should go check on Rose,” she murmured, suddenly desperate for a reason to leave the room.

“I can do it,” the Doctor was quick to argue, but Hartley had already jumped to her feet, holding out a hand to stop the Doctor in his tracks.

“No offence, Doc, but I think you're probably the last person she wants to see right now,” she said sternly; she was telling him, not asking him. He looked reluctant to comply, even indignant that she would try and tell him what to do, but there was something about the glint in her bright blue eyes that made him reconsider.

“Fine,” he relented with a sniff, spinning around and stalking his way back towards the console.

Convinced he wasn't going to barge after her, Hartley left the control room in the direction of Rose's bedroom. It wasn't in the place it used to be, and she knew without a doubt that the TARDIS had done one of her frequent room shuffles. She pressed a hand to the coral wall, breathing deeply as she gently thought about Rose and her room. She opened her eyes and started walking again, this time coming across the door less than a minute later.

She knocked hesitantly, hearing a call to come in from the other side of the ornately carved wood of the door. “Hey, gorgeous,” she greeted Rose delicately, and the blonde looked up from the book she was attempting to read, relieved it was just Hartley and not their designated driver. She said nothing though, moving only to put her book down, then curling into a ball on her bedspread and peering across at Hartley through distant eyes. “You okay?”

“I thought he trusted me more than that,” she murmured, staring right at Hartley, who at the same time got the feeling she wasn't really _seeing_ her. “I can't believe he lied.”

“That's rule one of life aboard the TARDIS: the Doctor lies,” Hartley recited grimly, letting the door shut behind her and cautiously walking up to her bed, hesitantly taking a seat on the end, smoothing her hand over the fluffy pink linen.

“I know,” Rose frowned. “I just thought...it's stupid...but I thought, maybe, I was the exception,” she mumbled embarrassedly, reaching up to rub self-consciously at her face.

Hartley knew what she meant, but she also knew what the truthful answer was: there _were_ no exceptions. She knew saying this would only hurt Rose more, so she said nothing, merely giving a sad smile and reaching out to squeeze her hand affectionately.

“ _Life is to be lived, not controlled._ ”

Rose looked up, eyes wet and makeup smudged but no tears spilling over. “Which book is that from, then?” she asked quietly, clutching Hartley's hand back for all she was worth.

“Invisible Man,” she told her with a smile. “It's worth a read if you have the time.”

“You say that about _every_ book.”

“Because _every_ book is worth reading.”

It got Rose to laugh, and that was enough for her. She grinned, squeezing again before pulling back, then crawling up the bed until she was leant up against the headboard beside Rose, curling into her side affectionately.

“Go on, then,” she prompted after a beat of easy quiet, “catch me up. Tell me all about the adventures I missed.”

Rose beamed, the sadness melting away like ice cream in the sun, as it so often did when Hartley Daniels was near.

* * *

Once she'd finished chatting with Rose – an entire three hours and four cups of tea later – she wandered through the TARDIS' halls towards her room. It was lovely to be back, but she couldn't help but note how empty she felt. Jack was always there back in London.

  
He was there when she woke up, bursting into her room to shock her awake and get them started for the day. He was there at lunch, bringing her sandwiches and jokingly gossiping about the neighbours. He was there at night, listening to her hum as she knitted to keep her hands busy, working away on one of his makeshift devices.

She couldn't sit in her room by herself, not while knowing Jack was back on Earth in the 1800s, completely and utterly alone.

She was content to sit in silence, legs hanging out into open space as she perched on the lip of the TARDIS entry. She wasn't surprised, however, when she heard footsteps on the grating behind her. She knew Rose had gone to bed, and so it could only be the Doctor.

“We can't go get him,” she said knowingly, a fresh pain saturating her voice. It was one thing to think it and another thing entirely to say it out loud. The Doctor didn't know about the letter she'd found in her room, but despite this he seemed to agree. She wondered whether that should have annoyed her.

“The TARDIS can barely handle _one_ impossibility, let alone two,” he told her, tone surprisingly gentle, taking the sting from his words. “I'm surprised she's even still operational with you on board.” He paused to sniff. “Then again, she always _has_ had an inexplicable fondness for you,” he added thoughtfully, and she stared quietly out into the encompassing black of beautiful, wonderful space, getting the oddest sense of _home_.

“I'm quite fond of her, too,” she whispered back absently, and the ship seemed to hum louder in her mind before dulling again, relenting to the priceless peace of the galaxy. A question niggled at her mind, and deciding that she was too tired to filter it, she spoke anyway. “Can you handle it?” she asked him, quiet and curious.

“Handle what?” he asked dumbly, but she knew he already knew.

“An impossibility,” she said, peering out at the stunning purple and blue nebula splayed across the sky like a perfect painting done by the hand of God, letting herself get lost in the beauty of it all.

“It's...difficult,” he confessed, and she was glad he couldn't see her expression, the pained wince she gave hidden within the speckled expanse of space. “You shouldn't even exist, Hartley,” he continued softly, the grating beneath his feet creaking as he shifted. This time no amount of softness could cushion the blow of the words. “It isn't easy for me to wrap my head around, let alone live with.”

“And that's why you left,” she finished dully.

“Yes.” The single word was an admission and an apology, or at least as close to one as she was likely to get.

She wanted to ask if he regretted it, if he would change it if he could, but she also knew she probably wouldn't had liked the answer. “Can I stay?” she asked instead, her voice trembling with her anxiety. She wondered whether she would survive his reply, an irony in and of itself.

The Doctor didn't say anything for a long while, the silence eventually turning thick with tension. He cleared his throat, but she didn't turn away from the glittering carpet of stars, attempting to draw some semblance of comfort from the familiar, humbling view.

“Do you want to stay?” he eventually asked. She could hear the frown in his voice.

“Yes.”

“Then you can stay,” he said with a conviction that left her breathless.

Fighting past the onslaught of emotion hitting her, she attempted a smile. “Even if my very presence gives you a headache?” she asked, aiming for humorous but unsure if she hit it. He didn't laugh, but that wasn't a particularly good way to judge it.

“Not so different to before, then,” he replied, mirroring her attempt at humour. It made her laugh, a single huffed chuckle of surprise, and she leant to the side, pressing her temple against the doorjamb and smiling out into the cosmos. The quiet between them wasn't as tense as it had been, the strain now relaxed by their familiar back-and-forth. “I'll get used to it,” he added, the grating creaking beneath him again.

They drifted back into silence, and she absently twisted her fake wedding ring around her finger, suddenly remembering Jack's cheeky, shit-eating grin as he'd presented it to her proudly, holding it dramatically as he'd dropped to one knee, a rose held between his teeth.

She'd laughed so hard she'd gotten a cramp.

“I feel like I can't ever be happy,” she admitted after a few minutes had passed. The Doctor hadn't made a sound, but she knew he was still there. He shifted again, but she just continued, her voice soft and reminiscent. “I tried to live my life at home, and it was ripped from me. Then I was happy here, and you abandoned me,” she continued. The words weren't said with bitterness or resentment, merely with a matter-of-fact sort of hum, like they were discussing weather patterns and not the complete upheaval of her entire life. “Then I built a life with Jack, with dinner parties and friends and a mailbox, and even _that_ was yanked out from underneath me, the universe thrusting me back into _this_ life without even stopping to ask if it was what I wanted.”

The Doctor said nothing, probably not knowing what he could possibly say to make it better. It was for the best, she doubted he'd be able to come up with anything worthy.

Finally he murmured, “I'm sorry,” with surprising sincerity. He was different, which she supposed was a given what with the whole 'changes-his-body-to-survive' thing. It was still jarring. She felt as if she was standing with a stranger, while in the same instant knowing who they were down to the very molecular level. A rueful smile quirked at her lips at the thought. “You must miss him,” the Doctor added quietly, and it didn't take a genius to figure out who he meant.

Hartley didn't know how to reply to that. What could she say other than yes, she missed him very much.

“He has a destiny,” she eventually replied, her blue eyes tracing over the constellations mapped out before her. “I just _know_ he does. I can feel it,” she told him assuredly, saying nothing of the letter stuffed deep in her drawer, “one too big for me to go messing about with.” She paused, taking a beat to collect herself, glad she didn't have to suffer through the humiliation of any more tears. “We'll see him again,” she said with a nod, because she knew they would, and it gave her great comfort.

“Will we?” the Time Lord asked distantly, and she cracked a small smile at the reluctant tone he'd used.

“I have to believe it,” she replied, “it's the only thing that's going to keep me going.”

She could have told him the truth about Jack's letter, but at the same time the Doctor hadn't told her the whole truth either. They were just as bad as each other.

The Doctor was silent, pondering her carefully, but Hartley was content to finally let the conversation fade. The two reunited travellers stared out into the inky, star-speckled galaxy, a sense of old but familiar companionship enveloping them like a blanket. And both knew, deep in their bones that despite their reservations they were _exactly_ where they were supposed to be.


	18. School Reunion

_"You can be the moon and still be jealous of the stars_.”

Gary Allen

* * *

“Doctor,” Rose began slowly, walking around the console, fingers trailing over the controls. There was an impish, hopeful sort of expression on her face; the kind that usually meant she wanted something. “I was thinking maybe we could visit home for a bit.”

The Doctor looked up from the display he was eyeing, blindly typing coordinates into the keypad. “Hm?” he hummed, glancing at the blonde from over the top of his clever-glasses. Hartley smiled into her mug of hot chocolate, electric eyes flickering between her two friends.

She was back aboard the TARDIS, back in the swing of travelling with the Doctor and Rose. She missed Jack more than she thought possible, and she found herself reading his letter over and over at night, taking comfort from his words. She had to remind herself that this was what he wanted – or needed, at the very least. There was something bigger than either of them at work here, and she didn't intend to go making ripples in time by changing a fixed point.

“Well, you see, Mickey rang...” Rose admitted, and Hartley looked up from the depths of her drink. Although the Doctor was pretending not to pay full attention, he still grimaced at the mention of her human kind-of-boyfriend. “He said there's something really weird going on at this school down the road. Says tests scores are going through the roof, and that there's something strange about the number of new teachers they're supplying.”

“Sounds boring,” the Doctor dismissed the idea with a flippant wave of his hand.

“Oh, come on,” Rose sighed. “You know he wouldn't have called us if he didn't think this was serious.”

“You,” he corrected her shortly. “He called _you_.” Rose was quiet, taking a step towards him before pausing, tilting her head and blinking up at him owlishly, expression one of innocence and hope. The Doctor humphed, pointedly looking away as he attempted to resist her charms. “Don't,” he warned weakly, struggling not to glance at her pouting expression. He sighed, reaching up to slide off his glasses and rub at the bridge of his nose. “Alright, _fine_ ,” he snapped tiredly, shoving his glasses back into his pocket and turning around to glare at her without any hint of genuine anger, “we'll check it out. But that's all, I'm not promising anything.”

Rose cheered, beaming as bright as the sun, reaching forwards to wrap her arms around him in an exuberant hug. “Thank you!” she pulled away, grinning even as he rolled his eyes. He turned back to the controls, muttering to himself as he keyed in the correct date and time. “Excited to go on another adventure?” Rose turned to Hartley eagerly, hopping up onto the jump seat beside her.

She'd been back for three days, and all they'd done was drift in the vortex and stop in modern day Thailand for some noodles.

Sipping back the last of her hot chocolate, Hartley wiped her mouth and grinned. “More than you know.”

And that was how it began. It had all seemed so inconsequential at the time – just another breezy adventure – but somehow it wasn't even a full twenty-four hours later that Hartley found herself walking down the length of a hallway, shoulders hunched and expression drawn, like a criminal being led to the gallows.

“Got everything?” the Doctor asked distantly, glancing back at Hartley to check on her, glad to see she didn't _quite_ look like she was going to throw up. She was pale and wincing, but still upright, which was something, he supposed.

“I think so,” she murmured back, smiling awkwardly at a young group of students who scurried past them, whispering amongst themselves cheekily, eyeing the Doctor appreciatively.

She ignored them, smoothing her hands down her pink blouse, second guessing what she'd chosen to wear. Teachers wore pencil skirts and blouses these days, right? The decades tended to blur together with the Doctor, not to mention her recent stint in the nineteenth century. She was still _just_ getting used to not wearing a corset every time she was out in public. It was like she had to relearn how to live as a twenty-first century woman. It was awfully inconvenient.

“Do you think they can smell fear?” she asked him lowly, ensuring the passing group wouldn't overhear.

“They're children, not wild dogs,” he reminded her through his amusement. “You'll be fine. You have your Masters in Literature; teaching middle school English should be a breeze.” Somehow, this wasn't as comforting as it probably should have been. They paused outside a classroom just as the bell rang, and the Doctor pointed to the right. “This is where I leave you. Your classroom's down that hall there. See you at lunch.”

And with that he ducked into his class, the door clicking shut behind him with a note of crushing finality.

Hartley hesitated, eyeing the empty hallway warily before steeling herself with a deep breath and marching towards the English classroom. She slipped inside and immediately every young head in the room swivelled around to stare at her. She felt uncomfortable immediately, but barrelled on, refusing to allow herself to get shy now. They were in the middle of an investigation, for Pete sake.

“Good morning, class,” she greeted them once she was firmly placed behind the supplied desk, the wood acting as a sort of protective barrier between her and the children. The Doctor had said they weren't wild dogs – but Hartley's own experience in middle school had taught her differently. “I'm Ms Daniels, your new English teacher,” she said with as much confidence as she could muster.

“Obviously,” a pointy-nosed girl from the back of the room mumbled, only just loud enough for them all to hear. The class giggled like it was the funniest joke ever made in the history of time.

Hartley cleared her throat, very much out of her element, silently wishing she'd taken the job in the kitchens instead. “Today we'll be looking at Hamlet, Act I, scene I. Who would like to read?” Nobody so much as flinched. The time traveller clicked her tongue awkwardly. _They're just kids_ , her brain supplied in the Doctor's lilting voice, _not murderous aliens_. Although, she thought brazenly, she'd really have rathered the murderous aliens. “Okay,” she said bracingly, “I guess I'll start.”

* * *

“How's your day going?” the Doctor asked politely as they made their way through the cafeteria, heading for the lunch station to get their food. The buzz of childish chatter filled the room, and Hartley stuck close to the Doctor's side, smiling gently at a group of passing eighth graders.

“That girl, Melinda, she takes _every_ opportunity she gets to undermine me,” Hartley admitted under her breath, and he winced sympathetically.

“Yeah, she's in my second period Physics class,” he told her, snatching up a tray and handing it off to her before taking one for himself. “She really has it out for authority figures, eh?”

“Brilliant,” she mumbled back before shaking herself out of it. “But, on the bright side, there are a lot of great kids in this place. One eighth grader even gave me an apple this morning.”

“You've probably peaked,” he interjected smoothly, and she gasped in playful indignation, letting go of her tray to smack him on the shoulder.

“I'll have you know, despite my earlier misgivings, I think I may have found my calling,” she admitted, smiling politely at the lady behind the counter as she spooned a handful of chips onto her tray.

“I could have picked it,” the Doctor said distractedly as they came to a stop opposite a familiar figure posing as a lunch lady. “Hello,” he greeted Rose with a cheeky grin, tongue peeking out from between his teeth. She glowered at the pair of them, cursing the fact that they'd gotten to be teachers while she was stuck slaving away in the kitchens.

Hartley smiled at her too, though with much less cheekiness, turning and forcibly leading the Doctor to an empty table before he could antagonise her any further.

Slipping back into life with the Doctor and Rose was easier than she'd expected it to be. Things were almost _better_ this time around. Maybe it was because the Doctor was fundamentally different now, or maybe it was because she herself had grown as a person during her time with Jack, but all she knew for sure was that the lingering barrier of distrust between herself and the Doctor had finally begun to fade.

“So you're enjoying teaching, eh?” he asked her conversationally, taking a bite from a chip before grimacing and putting it back down, moving instead to his sloppy looking lasagna and poking at it semi-enthusiastically.

“Surprisingly, yeah,” she nodded, eyeing the chips contemplatively before popping one in her mouth. They tasted good, and she eagerly ate some more, starved from a busy morning of teaching. “I mean, I miss being an author; but maybe if the book thing hadn't worked out I could have gone into teaching.”

“You still could,” he suggested, and though the words were light they still made Hartley freeze, a chip halfway to her mouth.

He was unknowingly suggesting she could leave them and start a life on Earth. It hurt that he cared so little for her presence that he didn't mind suggesting she leave, as if it were an option to keep in mind for the future. She wondered how long he'd keep her around this time, before he got sick of her and found an excuse to leave her stranded somewhere again with nothing but a pack of gum and the crushing weight of her newfound immortality.

“Two days!” Rose's voice jolted her from her negative thoughts, and she flinched, turning to look at her friend dressed up in an apron as a cover. She was leant over the table, scrubbing at it with a damp cloth, a sour look on her pretty face.

“Sorry, could you just...” the Doctor pointed to a smudge on the tabletop, and despite the sick feeling in her gut, Hartley cracked a smile. “There's a bit of gravy. No, no, just-just _there_.” 

“Two _days_ , we've been here,” she continued once she'd decided he'd gotten enough of a glare in retaliation.

“Blame your boyfriend. He's the one who put us onto this,” the Doctor replied accusingly. “And he was right. Boy in class this morning – got a knowledge _way_ beyond planet Earth.”

“You eating those chips?” Rose asked, uninterested by his findings.

“Nah,” he said as she swooped in and stole one, biting into it with a satisfied sigh. “They're a bit different.”

“I think they're gorgeous,” she moaned around the mouthful of chip.

“Right?” Hartley agreed, stealing some of the Doctor's chips as well, smiling at his narrowed eyes.

“Wish I had school dinners like this,” Rose said after swallowing her mouthful.

“It's very well behaved, this place,” the Doctor said like she hadn't made a sound, head twisting as he surveyed the room carefully. “I thought there'd be happy slapping hoodies. Happy slapping hoodies with ASBOs. Happy slapping hoodies with ASBOs and ringtones,” he paused to grin at his companions gleefully. “Oh, yeah. Don't tell me I don't fit in,” he beamed.

There was a beat. “I have no idea what you just said,” Hartley admitted, and Rose broke out into hysterical giggles as the Doctor's expense.

“Oh come on,” the alien rolled his eyes, but Rose only continued to giggle amusedly. Hartley had missed this – being with the Doctor. And now that he was kinder to her, now that he was giving her a _chance_ , she was finally starting to feel at home once again.

A shadow fell over the table, and they stopped their chuckling to look up at the newcomer expectantly, find it to be the head dinner lady. She glared down at them disapprovingly, like the very sight of them was offending her. “You are not permitted to leave your station during a sitting,” she scolded Rose in a rough, grating voice.

“I was just talking to these teachers,” Rose explained.

“Hello,” the Doctor beamed up at her, receiving only a twisted scowl in response. Hartley didn't bother – the woman didn't seem particularly agreeable – so she just took another bite of her food as an excuse not to have to talk.

“He doesn't like the chips,” Rose said lightly, popping another one onto her tongue.

The dinner lady looked like she'd been personally attacked, a look of outrageous offence appearing on her lined face. “The menu has been specifically designed by the headmaster to improve concentration and performance,” she sneered like she was reciting it from the school's manifesto. “Now, get back to work,” she snapped at Rose acidly, sneering one final time before turning around and marching back to the kitchen.

“See? This is me,” Rose muttered pathetically, grimacing as she stood and looked down at herself, taking in her stained apron and oily hands. “Dinner lady.” With a final sigh she reluctantly walked away, her shoulders slumped in resignation.

“I'll have the crumble!” the Doctor called cheekily after her retreating figure.

“I'm so going to kill you,” Rose hissed back, and Hartley broke into giggles once more, finding the whole exchange hilarious.

“Oh, Jack would pay good money to see this,” she laughed without thought, placing a hand over her chest. A ripple of pain tore through her, and suddenly she wasn't laughing from amusement so much as suffered hysteria.

The Doctor looked contemplative as her pained laughter petered off. He watched her pick up a spoonful of undercooked carrot and pop it into her mouth, expression slack with sudden exhaustion. “You're different,” he said suddenly, and she looked up from where she was pushing dry peas around her plate to blink at him in confusion.

“I am?” she asked, genuinely surprised by the observation.

“You've changed while you were gone,” he said simply.

She shot him an exasperated look for the comment. “You're one to talk,” she mumbled, pointedly trailing her eyes over his brand new body, so very different to the one she'd come to know him as. Even the Doctor had to concede that she had a point with that.

“What happened during those years?” he asked her, rather than admit it. Hartley realised they hadn't properly talked about it – her time with Jack. He knew they'd gotten stuck when the vortex manipulator broke, knew she'd lived with him in the eighteen hundreds, knew she'd been pulled back by their cosmic-magnetism, as it were. But as for what she'd done with her time back during those long years, he hadn't a clue.

So she decided to tell him, if only for reminiscent sake.

“I was a typical housewife, Jack worked a nine-to-five job; it was all very domestic,” she revealed with something of a listless shrug. “After...the incident,” she added carefully, the phantom ache in her gut appearing at the mention of the shooting, “I begged Jack to teach me how to fight. He was reluctant at first, but he gave in eventually. Spent a lot of time after that learning how to defend myself. However, I've never sparred with anyone but him, so who knows? Maybe I'm awful at it.”

The Doctor hummed, not looking particularly delighted that she'd taken up violence as a hobby. He sniffed, looking away from her and toying with what little food he had left on his tray.

“What was it about that that made you feel like you needed to learn to fight?” he finally asked, confusion in his voice. He really didn't get it.

She considered her next words carefully. “There's something about getting shot that makes you feel powerless,” she told him steadily, holding his gaze without flinching. “I decided I never wanted to feel that way again.”

The Doctor pursed his lips, but before he could formulate a reply he was interrupted by a bark that cut through their conversation like a knife. “Melissa!” a tall, dark teacher called from across the room, striding to the table beside theirs and looking down at the student in question. “You'll be joining my class for the next period. Milo's failed me, so it's time we moved you up to the top class.” He paused, glancing at the kid sitting beside her. “Kenny, not eating the chips?”

“I'm not allowed,” the boy responded with a shrug. 

With a final, stoic nod the imposing teacher stalked away, leaving Hartley and the Doctor to watch him go. The Doctor was silent for a moment, then he said, “bit odd, this place,” like he were commenting on the state of the weather.

“But that's why we're here,” she countered, and there was nothing he could do except agree.

The bell rang loudly from overhead, and all the students hurriedly began climbing to their feet, rushing in the direction of their next class.

“Come on,” she prompted him, reaching out to grasp his suit jacket, pulling him up after her. “We've got a free period, and I've been eyeing those crackers that were left over in the staff room yesterday.”

She let him go the moment he was standing, sure he could manage to walk on his own. They waved at Rose as they left who scowled after them unhappily, only serving to make Hartley laugh.

The staff room was bustling with teachers. There were a group of casually-dressed, regular-looking adults by the water cooler; whereas near the fridge was a group of formally-dressed, exceedingly-still teachers, all of them staring into thin air, not saying so much as a word to one another.

They gave Hartley a bad feeling – had since the first day they'd been introduced – like an unsettling churning in her gut. She contented herself with sending them a wary glance every few minutes, just to make sure they weren't up to anything nefarious. She poured herself a cup of tea and sipped it every now and again as she listened to the other, not-so-creepy teachers around her talk amongst themselves.

“Yesterday, I had a twelve year old girl give me the exact height of the Walls of Troy – in _cubits_ ,” Parsons, the History teacher, was telling the Doctor, disbelief shining in his eyes. Hartley bit down on a cracker as quietly as she could, one hands wrapped around the warmth of her mug.

“And it's ever since the new headmaster arrived?” the Doctor prodded casually.

“Finch arrived three months ago. Next day, half the staff got flu,” Parsons continued in a hushed voice. “Finch replaced them with that lot,” he added with a subtle nod of his head towards the creepy group in the corner, “except for the teachers you two replaced, and that was just plain weird, Janet winning the lottery like that.”

“How's that weird?”

“She never played. Said the ticket was posted through her door at midnight.”

“Hmm,” the Doctor hummed, and Hartley bit her lip to smother the smile growing there, memories of picking up a winning lottery ticket then posting it through the mail slot at midnight flashed through her mind, and she took another sip of tea just to be sure nobody would see. She really did _love_ time travel. “The world is very strange,” he murmured non-committally.

“And the English teacher, Harrison,” he continued, bemusement written across his face. “Winning that all-expenses-paid trip to Hawaii?” he shook his head. “There must be something to this karma nonsense.”

The Doctor tugged on his ear, nodding along with him. “Must be.”

The door opened and the Headmaster slipped into the room. Hartley had to swallow back a groan. Finch was as creepy as it got – those suited minions had nothing on him. He was tall and bird-like, with cold, dead eyes that cut through her like acid. He made her uneasy, but thankfully he was about as interested in spending time with her as she was in facing another fleet of Daleks.

“Excuse me, colleagues. A moment of your time,” he called to the group in that steely, slimy sort of voice. “May I introduce Ms Sarah Jane Smith. Ms Smith is a journalist who's writing a profile about me for the Sunday Times. I thought it might be useful for her to get a view from the trenches, so to speak. Don't spare my blushes,” he added at some weak attempt at gross humour, before he turned and left the room, leaving the teachers to each go back to whatever they'd been doing before.

Nobody else seemed to be swarming up to talk to the journalist, but Hartley liked what she saw in her eyes, the warm glint to them that made her seem kind, caring, and wholly approachable.

“Hi!” she stepped forwards enthusiastically, her hand already outstretched for a handshake. “I'm Hartley Daniels, it's nice to meet you,” she said sweetly, smile on her lips bright and friendly.

“Lovely to meet you as well,” the reporter responded lightly, shaking her hand firmly, a polite smile on her lips. Hartley glanced back at the Doctor, who was staring at the woman rather peculiarly. She couldn't put her finger on exactly what it was, but it was almost like he was looking at a ghost, one he was strangely elated to be seeing.

“This is my friend and colleague, John Smith,” she introduced them, lest the Doctor make even more of a fool of himself. She had no idea what was going through the alien's head half the time; Poor Sarah Jane probably already thought he was absolutely bonkers.

“John Smith,” Sarah Jane repeated, in somewhat of a daze, the same indescribable glint to her eyes. “I used to have a friend who sometimes went by that name.”

“Well, it's a very common name,” the Doctor replied, reaching out to shake her hand with both of his, rather enthusiastic for someone he only just met. Maybe he thought she was pretty? Though, the Doctor wasn't really one to get flustered over that sort of thing, so that theory didn't make sense.

“He was a very uncommon man,” Sarah Jane was murmuring with a faraway look in her eye, making Hartley snap from her thoughts. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you,” the Doctor echoed. “Yes, very nice. More than nice. _Brilliant_!” the Time Lord was borderline manic by this point, beaming at the woman so brightly that it hurt to look directly at him, like the expression were born from the sun.

Sarah looked slightly uncomfortable under the intense gaze, but otherwise didn't react. “Er, so, have either of you worked here long?” she asked conversationally, moving along before it could get awkward. Hartley decided she liked her. She liked her a lot.

“No,” the Doctor was quick to shake his head, that maniacal kind of enthusiasm barely even dimming. Hartley sent him a questioning look that went completely and utterly ignored. “It's only our second day.”

Sarah Jane appeared thrilled by this news. “Oh, you're new, then,” she said eagerly. “So, what do you think of the school? I mean, this new curriculum? So many children getting ill? Doesn't that strike you as _odd_?”

The Doctor was positively beaming by this point; Hartley had to wonder if it was hurting his face. “You don't sound like someone just doing a profile,” he said slyly, an impish familiarity in his tone. By now Hartley was well and truly lost – what on Earth was she missing?

“Well, no harm in a little investigation while I'm here,” Sarah Jane answered coyly.

“No. Good for you,” the Doctor was still grinning broadly.

Deciding to throw the woman a life raft, Hartley stepped between them, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and angling her away from the wild-eyed Doctor. She knew as well as anyone how intense the alien could get when he was in that sort of mood. “Tell me about yourself, Sarah Jane,” she began, glancing over her shoulder to send the Doctor a 'calm the frell down' look. He responded with raised eyebrows and imploring eyes, but none of this made any sense, so she just rolled her own before switching her attention back to the woman and smiling calmly.

“Not much to tell, really,” Sarah murmured, returning the expression, seeming to have missed the brief exchange. “Investigative journalist, through and through.”

“Sounds much more exciting than teaching,” she told her with a laugh.

“To each their own,” she responded calmly, glancing over at the group of creepy teachers by the fridge. A spark of intrigue appeared in her eyes, and she murmured carefully, “do you mind...?”

“No, no, of course,” Hartley gently pushed Sarah Jane in their direction. “Go; investigate,” she told her, and the woman smiled again before wandering over to the group of creepy teachers. Hartley wasn't sure what they were, exactly, but she was fairly confident they wouldn't do anything in the middle of the day, surrounded by the rest of the staff. Hartley turned back around and headed for the Doctor, who was still staring after Sarah Jane with a bemused, stunned sort of look on his handsome new face.

“Go on, then,” she prompted him, reclaiming her spot beside him and draining what remained of her tea. “Who is she?”

“Why do you think she's anyone?” he countered, but his voice was an octave too high to be anywhere in the realm of believable.

“Because I have eyes,” she answered as she rolled them. “I'm not an idiot, no matter what you may think.”

He turned to her, the dazed expression was wiped from his face, replaced by something far more serious, a tinge of sadness – or maybe guilt – to his endless brown eyes. “I don't think you're an idiot,” he told her sincerely, and she blinked in surprise. “I never did.”

There was a long moment of silence, and Hartley was helpless to do anything but stare back into his eyes, taking in his words, processing them slowly, questioning again what exactly went on inside the Doctor's big, brilliant head.

The bell rang from above and the Doctor abruptly turned away, picking up a cracker and biting into it just for something to do with his hands. Hartley blinked, reaching up to run a hand through her hair. “Come on,” she said once she was able to speak again. “One more class for the day, then we can get back here tonight for some investigations of our own.”

* * *

The school at night was eerie, particularly when they knew something was afoot within its walls. The Doctor had sent Hartley with Rose to fetch the oil from the kitchens. He'd given her a strong look before they'd left, one that said 'protect Rose' without using words, and she took the job very seriously. Nothing would ever happen to Rose on her watch – that is, if she was to stick around to be sure of it; the Doctor's words from earlier echoing in her mind.

“Alright?” Rose asked Hartley as they stopped in the kitchens, pulling on protective gloves as she prepared to get the oil sample.

“Why wouldn't I be?” she countered, and Rose hummed. Everything was quiet and still, all she could think about was the Doctor's comments earlier in the eatery. Would he really be so unaffected if she were to leave? Was that what he _wanted_? Did she really mean nothing to him?

The thought crossed her mind that maybe she just didn't bring anything to the table. Maybe to the Doctor she was nothing but deadweight. No, she thought, it wasn't like Rose or Mickey had any brilliant skills that warranted them a spot on Team TARDIS; they were there because the Doctor considered them friends, friends that he cared about immensely.

There was an avian-like screech from above them, and both girls flinched, glancing up at the bare ceiling. Hartley's pulse jumped but she still shuffled closer to Rose, just in case whatever was in the shadows was thinking about attacking them. Better _her_ to die than Rose – because at least she wouldn't _stay_ dead.

“What was that?” Rose whispered nervously.

“Get the oil,” Hartley told her just as softly. “I'll be right back.”

“No, Hartley––” Rose tried to argue, but she was already ducking through the next door, after where the sound had disappeared.

“Hello?” Hartley asked the room, which was nearly pitch-black, filled with more shadow than light. “Who's there?” she tried again, reaching out and grabbing the closest thing she could find – a spatula – and holding it up in front of her like a weapon.

Another avian screech flew past her ear, and with a strangled yelp she lifted her makeshift weapon in defence, only she wasn't fast enough. Pain tore through her hand and she dropped the spatula with a pained hiss, turning and hightailing it back into the brightened kitchen, where Rose was standing anxiously by the door, waiting for her to reappear.

“There you are,” Rose whispered in relief. “What were––?” she cut herself off when she spied Hartley's new injury, and Hartley glanced down at her burning hand with wince, a wave of nausea crashing through her at the sight.

Something had torn into the skin from her hand, marring the stretch of palm just beneath her thumb. Crimson blood dripped down her fingertips and onto the white tiled floor.

“Shit!” Hartley cussed, tears springing to her eyes as the pain got worse the longer time went on; she could see a sliver of starch white bone poking out from her shredded flesh. She hopped up and down, her free hand darting to hold her wrist as she sucked in sharp breaths, trying to keep the pain under control. “Holy hell,” she whimpered, staring down at her hand, which was starting to leak blood at a faster rate, spilling all over her shoes and the floor.

Before Rose could properly react, a sudden _human_ scream echoed throughout the otherwise silent building, the sound bouncing off the walls eerily, making it seem louder than it really was. Rose flinched and stared at her friend in horror.

“Oh, my God,” Rose gasped, ripping off her gloves before slapping her own hands over her mouth in horror. “Are you okay?” Hartley didn't bother answering, staring back at her with watery eyes. “What _did_ that?” she pressed in disgust.

“Too dark. Didn't see it,” Hartley answered in clipped sentences.

  
Rose looked torn over what to do, but Hartley was in too much pain and shock to bother trying to help her figure it out. But eventually Rose came to a decision. “Come on,” she prompted the injured woman, knowing they needed to get to the Doctor as soon as they possibly could. Just looking at the leaking wound was making her ill, she couldn't imagine how Hartley herself felt.

“No, Rose, it's alright,” she assured her, cringing through the pain. “I'll heal.”

Rose ignored her and ran ahead, desperate to find the Doctor, only to come to an abrupt stop when she found he wasn't alone, an unfamiliar woman standing at his side. Her worries for her friend flew from her mind, focusing instead on the woman staring her down critically.

“Who's she?” she asked sharply, on the defensive.

Hartley shuffled into the hallway, pulling her sleeve down over her gruesome wound to hide it from sight. The last thing she needed was to inconvenience the Doctor with an avoidable injury. If she hadn't gone after the creepy noise, she wouldn't have been hurt. It was her own fault. Had horror movies taught her nothing?

“Rose, Sarah Jane. Sarah Jane, Rose,” the Doctor was introducing them as she approached, struggling to keep the expression of pain from her face. “Oh, and Hartley – but you already met her,” he added, pointing to the girl in question. Hartley shot Sarah Jane as much of a smile as she could possibly manage, a stabbing pain shooting up her arm every time the wound came into contact with the material of her shirt.

“Hi, nice to meet you,” Sarah Jane said to Rose mildly, eyeing the younger girl with narrowed eyes. “You can tell you're getting older. Your assistants are getting younger,” she added snidely, and Rose's eyes widened, about ready to pop out of her head she was so insulted.

“I'm not his _assistant_ ,” she snapped defensively, hazel eyes practically going red.

“No? Get you, tiger,” Sarah Jane murmured to the Doctor, and Hartley grimaced once again, both from the pain and the tension practically suffocating the small space between them. Any movement of her hand hurt, so she just held it awkwardly at her side, hoping her healing would kick in – because if she could spit out a bullet, surely she could heal a little scratch, right?

“Come on,” the Doctor interjected impatiently, rushing forwards, leading them around the corner to where the scream had come from, cursing himself for getting distracted. Hartley found it extremely difficult to run, every movement of her hand making her bite down on her tongue to stop herself from crying out in pain.

“Sorry! Sorry, it was only me,” Mickey was saying in the other room as she shuffled through the door, sniffling quietly against the agony. She'd have rathered the wound be fatal – a thought no human should ever be able to so casually think – but at least that way she'd have died through the pain and woken up better again. “You told me to investigate, so I started looking through some of these cupboards and all of these fell on me.”

“Oh, my God, they're rats. Dozens of rats. Vacuum packed _rats_ ,” Rose was revolted.

“And you decided to scream?” the Doctor asked Mickey snidely.

“It took me by surprise!” he shouted back defensively.

“Like a little girl?”

“It was dark! I was covered in rats!”

“Nine, maybe ten years old. I'm seeing pigtails, frilly skirt.”

“Hello, can we focus?” Rose snapped in a bark. “Does anyone notice anything strange about this? _Rats_ in _school_?”

Hartley could barely listen. The scratch didn't seem to be healing, and if anything, it was getting worse, continuing to burn and sting. Her hands began to shake with the force of the pain. She choked back another whimper, the last thing she wanted was to interrupt, or be in any way a burden.

“Well, obviously they use them in Biology lessons. They dissect them. Or maybe you haven't reached that bit yet,” Sarah Jane murmured condescendingly to Rose, and had Hartley not been in such mind-numbing pain, she might have reprimanded her for her tone. “How old are you?”

“Excuse me, no one dissects rats in school anymore. They haven't done that for years. Where are you from, the dark ages?” Rose countered through a derisive sneer.

“Anyway, moving on,” the Doctor once more interjected, but Rose and Sarah Jane only continued to glower at one another with an inexplicable hatred. “Everything started when Mr Finch arrived. We should go and check his office.” He pointedly waved them down the hallway ahead of him, hanging back with Mickey and watching them bicker.

“Ho, ho, mate. The missus and the ex. Welcome to every man's worst nightmare,” Mickey said gleefully, and it made Hartley's chest sting almost as badly as her hand. She certainly didn't want to be the Doctor's missus, and she without a doubt didn't want to be his ex. But she undeniably wanted to be _something_. It would have been nice to have made the list in some way, shape or form. _Friend_ might have been a nice medium.

The Doctor sonicked the Headmaster's door, and it opened with a near-silent click. Hartley hung back, she didn't fancy pushing through to see for herself, not when pain was shuddering up her arm with every movement she made.

“No way!” Mickey had apparently seen enough, he turned tail and ran, fleeing from the sight of the giant bat-like creatures hanging from the ceiling of the Headmaster's office, the sight of which she caught a peek of over Rose's shoulder. The others were quick to follow, closing the door softly and running after him. Not wanting to run, but certainly not wanting to be left behind, Hartley jogged as fast as she dared, tears stinging in her eyes as she moved, pain ricocheting up her arm like constant gunshots.

She was relieved when they burst out into the open air of the night. She sucked in a deep breath, hoping it would help with the pain, but it only continued to throb like a son of a bitch.

The others were talking, saying something important probably, but Hartley couldn't process through the pain. Her vision went blurry, and she tried to blink it clear again. Once she did, the Doctor appeared in front of her, looking down at her with a heavy frown.

“Why're you crying?” he asked, almost accusingly. She realised the blurriness in her eyes was caused by tears, and she bit down on her lip, sinking into the folds of the jacket she'd pulled on before they'd left the TARDIS. “Hartley,” his tone was flat and stern, telling her she _had_ to answer.

She couldn't make herself say it, the fear of being a burden was too much. She'd thought she was over the Doctor leaving her on Satellite Five – it had been four whole years ago, after all – but suddenly the sound of the dematerialising TARDIS was all she could hear, panic that it would happen again spreading through her system like a virus.

“She heard a noise and disappeared!” Rose supplied once she realised Hartley wasn't planning on saying anything. “She came back missing a chunk of her hand!”

“What?” the Doctor snapped, though he didn't seem angry at _her_ specifically _,_ so she figured that was some kind of progress.

“It's a really bad wound,” Rose continued to snitch, eyeing the teary redhead worriedly, and if she was feeling better, Hartley might have mouthed a bitter 'traitor' in her direction.

The Doctor held out a long, pale hand. “Show me,” he ordered, surprisingly gentle considering the circumstances. Hartley hesitated, and the Time Lord shot her a look of stern impatience that made her move, lifting her hand with a wince and laying it in his. “Oh, Hart,” he sighed once he'd pulled back the fabric covering the wound and a slight glimmer of surprise wiggled through the haze of burning pain, because he wasn't usually one to refer to her by her nickname.

Mickey let out a retching sound from behind them. “It that her _bone_?” he asked through a gag.

The Doctor let go of her hand and reached forward. She gasped as his hands went to her middle, only to grasp the fabric of her shirt and give it a tug. It split evenly, and he ripped, pulling a long line of it away from the rest until he yanked it off. His fingers brushed the skin of her now exposed middle, and she felt herself shiver as his long, cool fingers accidentally ran over her soft stomach.

The moment was over before it had even begun, and he was back to examining the wound with methodical eyes, leaving her convinced she'd imagined the whole thing. A moment later he brought the material up to it, beginning to tie it around the injury. Hartley hissed loudly, instinctually trying to pull away from the pain, but he held her steady. “We need to keep it wrapped,” he told her, putting the finishing touches on a quirky little bow. “How long do scratches usually take to heal for you?” the Doctor asked her quietly, and as she looked up at him she all but forgot the others were even there. She was almost never enough to warrant his undivided attention, and she found herself enjoying it despite the agonising pain in her hand.

“Usually only a few minutes – twenty at the most,” she whispered back, worried her voice wouldn't sound steady should she try to use it. “But this feels different.”

“Probably because this isn't a regular scratch – it was done by whatever those creatures in there were, and who knows what kind of contaminants are in their talons?” he murmured back, meeting her electric blue gaze. This regeneration's eyes were dark, she noticed. At first glance, they looked nearly black, but up close, staring into his concerned gaze, she found they were more of a milk-chocolate, warm and inviting with flecks of molten gold, and they were so very beautiful. “We need to analyse that oil, see where it's from and if it'll inflict any lasting damage,” he looked away, sniffing and tugging at his ear. “If there _is_ anything that can inflict lasting damage to _you_ , that is,” he added wryly.

“Haven't found it yet,” she jested with a grin, determined to regain her usual footing, only to wince when her hand gave another painful throb.

“Come on,” he said abruptly, turning to head into the school once again.

“What?” Mickey squeaked. “No! I'm not going back in there.”

“I need the TARDIS,” the Doctor looked back at him like he were an utter idiot. But, granted, everyone was an idiot to the Doctor. “How else am I meant to analyse the oil?”

“I might be able to help you there,” Sarah Jane spoke up, a look of giddy excitement on her pretty, mature face. “I've got something to show you.”

* * *

The coffeeshop they found was small and out of the way. Hartley liked it, and they offered food, which was good. After Hartley woke up from a death, or got seriously injured, she always found herself hungry – starving, actually. It wasn't as though she or Jack could exactly get a medical professional's opinion on it – at least, not on Earth – but they'd theorised that it was because it took a lot of energy and nutrients to heal completely from an injury. It made sense they'd need to compensate in their diet.

“I'll have a black coffee and a burger, thanks,” she told the cashier at the counter, the older man nodded, eyes bleary and unfocused as he asked for the correct amount. “One moment,” she said, turning to Rose with a hopeful smile.

The blonde rolled her eyes and dug some change from the depths of her pocket. “Just this once,” she murmured, and Hartley threw her uninjured arm over her friend's shoulder in a brief hug, a desperate attempt to distract herself from the pain shooting up her arm like daggers.

“You're a legend, you are,” she said sincerely, squeezing tightly.

Rose pushed her off with a laugh, taking care not to jolt her wounded arm. “You've gotta start carrying your own money,” she chuckled before adding her own choice to the order, then paying for them both together.

“Where'm I meant to get the cash in the first place?” Hartley asked her, propping herself up against the counter and tilting her head at the blonde. “I'm not about to get a job, and I'd sooner marry a Slitheen than ask the Doc for money that doesn't come in one of those futuristic little sticks he likes to throw at us.”

“Fair enough,” Rose nodded, glancing over at the table near the window where the Doctor and Sarah Jane sat, chatting amicably, bright and happy grins on their faces.

Hartley got the feeling they were reminiscing about old times, and it made her frown. The Doctor had never mentioned her, never once has she ever heard the name Sarah Jane before today. It made her wonder, what could they mean to him in the end? What happened to them, to their memory, once they were gone?

“Who does she think she is?” Rose asked suddenly, a grumpy look on her face. “Just waltzing in here...calling me an _assistant_...” she muttered, voice thick with disdain.

“They're old friends,” Hartley told her softly, peering over at the pair, whose heads were bent close together while the Doctor's hands fiddled with K9's wiring – he was an advanced sort of robot dog that Doctor seemed incredibly fond of. Hartley had to admit, the little guy had a certain charm, even if he did look like something out of a old, low-budget sci-fi movie. “But you shouldn't feel threatened, Rose,” she added firmly.

“I don't feel threatened,” Rose snapped back, seeming to almost surprise herself with the defensiveness behind it. Hartley smiled, just a little sad.

“ _You can be the moon and still be jealous of the stars,_ ” Hartley quoted gently, but Rose only turned on her with a deep scowl, taking offence.

“What're you saying?” she asked sharply, as if it had been some kind of a dig against her.

“I'm saying that you were both chosen by the Doctor for a reason,” she replied, utterly unperturbed by her friend's crabby demeanour. “Maybe you have more in common than you think,” she added, and Rose grimaced like the thought disgusted her. Hartley sighed tiredly. Whatever, she was in too much pain to bother trying to convince her differently.

Mickey appeared at their side, a wicked grin on his face as he observed the Doctor and his old companion chatting merrily, while Rose glanced their way through narrowed, suspicious eyes. “You see, what's impressive is that it's been nearly an hour since we met her and I _still_ haven't said I told you so,” he gave a shit-eating grin, clearly more than pleased.

“I'm not listening to this,” Rose hissed impatiently, turning to glare at her ex-boyfriend.

“Although, I have prepared a little 'I was right' dance that I can show you later,” he beamed, unaffected by Rose's glower.

“Mickey,” said Hartley, not quite in reprimand, but certainly disapproving.

The old man behind the counter cleared his throat, and the two women turned to him, reaching out to take their orders with a thankful smile. Rose grabbed Hartley's coffee for her, as she only had one good hand to use, and then they moved to a table of their own, Rose setting her drink down in front of her then tucking into her order of chips.

Hartley took a bite of her burger, stomach gurgling happily as it recognised food. It wasn't the best burger in the galaxy, but it was good enough to help ease her ravenous hunger.

“All this time you've been saying he's different – when the truth is, he's just like any other bloke,” Mickey's smug expression didn't so much as falter, taking no notice of Hartley's scolding frown.

“You don't know what you're talking about,” Rose muttered irritably into her serving of chips. 

“Maybe not,” he allowed. “But if I were you, I'd go easy on the chips.”

“Mickey, that's enough,” Hartley snapped, coming to Rose's defence. She understood why Mickey was behaving the way he was, but that was still no excuse to rub Rose's sadness and feelings of inadequacy in her face.

Mickey turned to look at her like a scolded little boy, all big, sheepish eyes. Needing to ease the tension, Hartley scooped up one of her chips with her good hand, tossing it directly at Mickey. It hit him right between the eyes, and he blinked in surprise.

“Oi!” he growled around an unmistakeable laugh, and Hartley stuck out her tongue, causing him to shoot an equally silly face back at her. She giggled, glad that even Rose suddenly seemed to be smiling, and took another large bite of her burger. The pain in her hand was incredibly bad, but she found it easier to cope with when she wasn't thinking about it.

The happy vibe didn't last for long, as a moment later Rose grew distracted by the old friends in the front of the shop. She leaned towards Hartley to mumble, “what d'you suppose they're talking about?”

Mickey sighed heavily, letting his head fall onto his folded arms in pure defeat.

“They're just catching up with one another, Rose,” she murmured back exasperatedly, and it was everything she could do not to roll her eyes. Her hand gave a throb, reminding her that it was very much still there, demanding attention. She flexed her fingers, hoping to feel a pull of freshly woven skin, but there was none. It _still_ hadn't begun healing, and she was starting to grow worried. What if it never healed and she was left with a massive hole in her hand for the next few thousand or so years?

She knew she had one option to get rid of it; cut off her arm. But that was an extremely painful and drastic measure to take, and growing back a limb was not going to be an easy feat. She wasn't totally sure it would even _work_.

“What if you're wrong?” Rose asked her quietly, as though Mickey wasn't even there, making the boy's face drop in disappointment. “What if she does stick around, and we're reduced to the _other_ table for the rest of our lives?”

Hartley sighed, letting go of her grip on the burger to reach out for Rose, squeezing her hand tightly. “I promise you, Rose,” she said gently, meeting the girl's whiskey coloured eyes with what she hoped was reassurance. “Everything is going to be okay.”

Rose sighed too, although it was more tired and resigned than relieved, and she pulled away to rub at her temples before picking up another chip and popping it into her mouth.

“Oh, hey! Now we're in business!” the Doctor's cheery voice resounded around the coffeeshop. Hartley stood quickly to her feet and threw the remains of her burger into the bin, holding her sore arm gingerly as she moved over to where the Time Lord stood by a creaking, blinking K9.

“Master,” the tin dog rumbled as the trio of friends approached.

“He recognises me,” the Doctor looked so happy she wouldn't have been surprised if he'd broken out into hysterical giggles.

“Affirmative.”

“Rose, give us the oil.”

Rose handed over the oil carefully. “I wouldn't touch it, though. That dinner lady got all scorched,” she warned.

“I'm no dinner lady,” he replied easily. “And I don't often say that.”

“And Hart's hand, can't forget that!” Mickey interjected, gesturing to the quiet redhead beside him.

The Doctor shook his head. “Despite her new little talent, she _is_ still anatomically human.”

“Wait, what talent?” Sarah Jane asked aloud, but nobody answered her. It was a long story, and one that Hartley was highly self-conscious of. She didn't feel like sharing it with a stranger, no matter how trusted by the Doctor she might have been.

The Doctor dipped his finger in the oil, making Hartley wince warily, only for nothing to happen to his skin. She frowned, but didn't comment, watching as he smeared the substance onto K9's reader.

“Oil. Ex-ex-ex-extract...ana-ana-analysing,” the tin dog wheezed out, still waking up. “Confirmation of analysis. Substance is _Krillitane Oil_.”

“They're Krillitanes,” the Doctor looked stunned by this information, and very unhappy with it, making Hartley wary. What the Doctor was worried for, they should all be.

“Is that bad?” Rose asked carefully.

“Very. Think of how bad things could possibly be, and add another suitcase full of bad.”

“And what are Krillitanes?” Sarah Jane questioned.

“They're a composite race,” the Doctor answered, a faraway look in his eyes. “Just like your culture is a mixture of traditions from all sorts of countries, people you've invaded or have been invaded by. You've got bits of Viking, bits of France, bits of whatever. The Krillitanes are the same. An amalgam of the races they've conquered. But they take _physical_ aspects as well. They cherry pick the best bits from the people they destroy. That's why I didn't recognise them. The last time I saw Krillitanes, they looked just like us except they had really long necks.”

“What're they doing here?”

“It's the children,” Hartley spoke up, and the Doctor glanced back at her with raised eyebrows. Suddenly not as sure of her answer, she backtracked. “It must be, right? Why else set up shop in a school?”

“You're right,” he nodded after a pause, brow creasing in worry. “They're doing something to the children.” There was a beat, and the Doctor looked out the window at the sky. “It'll be light soon,” he said. “We need to get back to the school, we won't be able to figure anything out from here.” He turned to Mickey expectantly. “Help Sarah Jane get K9 back into the car,” he ordered, and the both of them nodded, setting about completing their task like obedient employees.

“What can I do?” Hartley asked eagerly, halfheartedly hoping he'd have some kind of task that a smaller woman with only one working arm would be _perfect_ for.

“Sit down,” he ordered her sternly, pointing to an empty, waiting chair. “I need to check your hand now that I know what the cause is.”

Rose took a spot behind the chair she was perched on, looking down over the pair as he gently unwrapped the hand. She hissed in pain as his fingers brushed the deep gash, and he moved even slower, trying his hardest to keep from hurting her. She appreciated the effort, although doubted anything would keep the pain from hitting her as he continued to prod at the wound.

“Is it healing yet?” he asked her, holding her hand up to the light to get a better look. A sliver of bone was still visible, and now that the blood was dry they could see her flesh sliced open grotesquely by way of a massive, jagged talon.

“No,” she answered with a sigh.

“Well, I'll need to take a scan from the TARDIS infirmary to be sure, but it should heal on its own given time. Though, the Krillitanes have evolved so much that there could be a new composite to their physiologies that I don't know about – hopefully there isn't any kind of degenerative poison in their feet...” he paused, looking away from her hand to peer at her carefully. “Are you going to be all right until I can do that?”

“I'll be fine,” she nodded quickly, seeing the opportunity to prove she wasn't going to be any sort of burden. “Besides, nothing's been able to do me in yet,” she added cheerfully, shooting the Time Lord a bright, mostly false, smile. “I'll be right as rain in no time.”

He assessed her for a moment longer before nodding, accepting her answer and patting her hand kindly, letting her go to tie the bandage back onto it securely, shooting her a weak smile before standing to his feet. He held out a hand to help her up and she took gratefully, allowing him to pull her to her feet. His touch was gentle and careful, like she were something delicate, to be handled with care.

She knew Rose needed to talk to the Doctor, and she knew it was very important that she gave them a moment alone to do so. Trying not to look awkward as she did, Hartley shuffled out of the way. The Doctor turned to Rose expectantly, sensing the conversation that was coming. Hartley let them have their moment of privacy and walked out the door, stepping out into the cool night air.

She headed for the car where Sarah Jane and Mickey stood, walking as slowly as possible, trying to draw out the journey as much as she could.

“How are you feeling?” Sarah Jane asked, not unkindly, although there was just a hint of hostility in her tone. Hartley imagined she was just as threatened by her as she was by Rose, despite the fact that there was absolutely no need for it.

“I'll live,” she murmured back, lips quirking at the grim inside joke. “You were the Doctor's companion before Rose?” she asked, deciding she'd rather the conversation be focused on Sarah Jane rather than herself.

“Yes,” Sarah Jane replied tersely.

“He's really happy to see you again,” Hartley told her, somewhat of a peace offering. Sarah Jane paused, frowning as she looked away from the Doctor and Rose to peer at her thoughtfully.

“How can you tell?” she challenged her curtly.

Hartley allowed herself to smile. “Because I have eyes,” she said for the second time that day. “And the Doctor isn't as difficult to read as he'd like to believe.”

Sarah Jane was quiet, chewing on her words before she spoke again, smoothly but blatantly changing the subject. “What's your story, Hartley?” the woman asked her, dark eyes flickering up and down her body, as though trying to determine whether she was friend or foe.

“I'm from here and now,” she said evenly, cradling her wounded hand to her stomach, trying not to jostle it too much, pain stabbing at her nerves. “I was an author, lived in a flat in Westminster. Nothing special.”

Sarah Jane appraised her carefully. “And how did you meet the Doctor?”

Hartley lifted a single shoulder in a shrug. “I kind of...beamed onto the TARDIS one day. He just about had a fit, put me through about a hundred different tests before he finally left me be, slightly more convinced I wasn't a threat. We're connected through something called 'cosmic-magnetics'. We're stuck together, whether we like it or not.”

It was a haphazard explanation, but Sarah Jane accepted it nonetheless.

“Huh,” the older companion hummed thoughtfully, eyes sweeping over the current companion's form. She was still in her pencil skirt from the day at school, and her blouse was ripped from where the Doctor had torn off a bandage for her hand. Her jacket was soft and warm, and she huddled back into it under the scrutiny. “What do you suppose they're talking about?” Sarah Jane asked suddenly, turning her attention to Rose and the Doctor, who were now having their heated discussion in the middle of the street.

Hartley had to smirk, knowing it was an exact echo of what Rose had asked her only a few minutes before. The two women were more alike than they thought, and she hoped they realised it sooner rather than later.

The Doctor and Rose's voices raised to a near shout, and although Hartley tried valiantly not to listen in, they were so loud that she couldn't help but overhear.

“I have to live on,” the Doctor was saying harshly. “ _Alone_.”

“Not anymore, though, apparently,” Rose snapped back snidely, decidedly bitter.

“What does that mean?” he asked, suddenly less angry and more confused.

“Hartley,” she said, voice flat with the forced absence of emotion. “She can't age. She can't die. She'll be able to be with you forever.”

The Doctor was quiet, and Hartley looked away pointedly, staring up at the large, shining moon, gritting her teeth against the onslaught of emotions hitting her in that moment. “She'll leave too,” this time the Doctor spoke so quietly that she had to strain to hear. “They always do.”

Hartley felt like lightning had hit her, and she shut her eyes tightly. He thought she was going to leave him, thought that even thought death couldn't take her, something else eventually would. Suddenly his hostility and frostiness began to make sense. Could it be that he was just afraid of losing her? Was that the cause of the unspoken rift between them?

When Rose spoke again, her voice was edged with the metallic ring of a challenge. “Do you wish it had been me?”

If the Doctor was surprised by the question, then Hartley was in a state of total shock. “What?” he asked, echoing Hartley's bewilderment.

“Do you wish it had been me that had, y'know, become immortal?” Rose asked, chin tilted up defiantly.

The Doctor was silent, the quiet stretching out so long it was painful. Hartley wondered what his expression was saying, but she wasn't brave enough to look over and find out. It didn't matter what he said, he was damned either way. Either he said yes and reduced Hartley to nothing but ash, or he said no and destroyed the foundation of the relationship he'd built with Rose.

Before he could say anything, however, there was an ear-piercing screech and they all had to duck for cover as a lone Krillitane swooped at them from the sky, its mighty jaws nearly taking Mickey's head off before it disappeared back into the night. And just like that, all thoughts of damning questions and moral dilemmas were gone from their minds, blowing away like smoke.

It was nothing that couldn't wait until the battle was over.

* * *

The sun rose that morning to find Hartley, Rose and Sarah Jane walking through the school, heading directly for the computer lab, intent on cracking open the desktops and getting eyes on the hardware inside. Everything was tense, silent and uncomfortable. Rose wasn't speaking to either Sarah Jane or Hartley, Sarah Jane was consumed by bitterness and jealousy, and Hartley was so damn confused by the whole situation that she could do nothing but remain silent and hope things worked themselves out.

When Sarah Jane couldn't make any progress with the computer, struggling to get the sonic screwdriver to cooperate, that was when things finally came to a head.

“It's not working,” Sarah Jane exclaimed, frustration on her face.

  
“Give it to me,” snapped Rose, snatching it from her hand and getting the job done herself.

  
Sarah stepped back, suddenly listless. “Used to work first time in my day,” she said in a weak attempt to regain her footing.

  
“Well, things were a lot simpler back then,” muttered Rose bitterly.

Sarah Jane frowned, eyes darting to Hartley who wanted no part in this particular squabble. She held her hands up in the universal sign for surrender, looking away with a click of her tongue.

Sarah Jane sighed. “Rose, can I give you a bit of advice?” she began slowly.

Hartley glanced at Rose in time to see her roll her eyes. “I've got a feeling you're about to,” she griped.

  
“I know how intense a relationship with the Doctor can be, and I don't want you to feel I'm intruding,” Sarah Jane told her, attempting gracious but not quite hitting it. Hartley winced.

  
“I don't feel threatened by you, if that's what you mean,” barked Rose, popping her head back up to glare at her defensively.

  
Sarah Jane looked surprised by the retort. “Right. Good,” she said quickly. “Because I'm not interested in picking up where we left off.”

  
Hartley was anything but convinced, and Rose saw through it like glass. “No? With the big sad eyes and the robot dog?” she snapped. “What else were you doing last night?”

  
Sarah Jane was blindsided by the accusation. “I was just saying how hard it was adjusting to life back on Earth,” she insisted.

Rose couldn't have cared less for her excuses. “The thing is, when you two met they'd only just got rid of rationing,” she said with faux innocence.

“Rose,” said Hartley in warning, silently begging her not to go too far.

Rose paid her no mind. “No wonder all that space stuff was a bit too much for you,” she muttered smugly.

  
Hartley could see the righteous indignation that filled Sarah Jane at the words, and suddenly wished she had some kind of hole to crawl into to avoid the upcoming confrontation. “I had no problem with space stuff. I saw things you wouldn't _believe_ ,” said Sarah Jane with feeling.

  
Rose scoffed. “Try me.”

  
Sarah Jane squared up, and Hartley could only pray it didn't turn into some kind of wildly inappropriate cat fight. “Mummies,” said Sarah Jane proudly.

  
“I've met ghosts.”

  
“Robots. Lots of robots.”

  
“Slitheen, in Downing Street!”

  
“Daleks!”

  
“Met the Emperor.”

  
“Anti-matter monsters.”  
  


“Gas masked zombies.”

  
“Real living dinosaurs.”

  
“Real living werewolf.”

  
“ _The Loch Ness Monster!_ ”

  
There was a beat.

“Seriously?”

Hartley had to laugh, a giggle of pure relief bubbling up in her chest. The two squabbling women turned to look at her, finding her grinning broadly at the sudden destruction of the tension in the room.

“More alike than you are different – yeah?” she asked, meeting Rose's eyes. Her cheeks were flushed pink from the heat of the argument, and she smiled, small and amused. Hartley saw Sarah Jane laughing as well, hands pressed over her lips to hide her smile.

Rose glanced down at her feet. “It's like me and my mate Shireen,” she began carefully. “The only time we fell out was over a man, and we're arguing over the Doctor,” she mused.

Sarah Jane gave a huffing laugh, and Hartley grinned, sensing progress. Rose glanced up at her, and she eagerly encouraged her on. With a smile, Rose continued.

“With you, did he do that thing where he'd explain something at like, ninety miles per hour, and you'd go, _what_? and he'd look at you like you'd just dribbled on your shirt?” she asked quickly.

Sarah Jane just about began to bounce at the reminder, laughing brightly. “All the time!” she exclaimed, and Hartley wandered a little closer, confident they weren't about to start throwing punches. “Does he still stroke bits of the TARDIS?” Sarah Jane asked around a laugh.

  
Rose giggled. “Yeah! Yeah, he does,” she beamed. “I'm like, do you two want to be alone?”

Hartley snorted with laughter, the sounds of her giggles joining the other two's as they cackled with unbridled amusement. Rose gripped onto Hartley's shoulder, and Hartley leaned into her, able to ignore the ache in her hand as she laughed, tears gathering in her eyes.  
  


“How's it going?” came the Doctor's voice all of a sudden, and their laughter kicked up a notch. “What?” he asked, voice ringing with confusion. “Listen, I need to find out what's programmed inside these.”

The hysteria was setting in, the girls holding one another up as they laughed.  
  


“What?” whined the Doctor, beginning to grow self-conscious. “Stop it!” Their laughter slowly began to peter off. “We honestly don't have time for this,” the Time Lord huffed, pushing up his sleeves and hurrying forwards to crack open the closest computer, instantly shoving his hands inside and beginning to expertly pull out a heap of multicoloured wires.

Hartley, Sarah Jane and Rose all gathered themselves, wiping at the tears that had collected in their eyes and turning towards the Doctor and his work.

“I can't get in,” he grunted, shaking his sonic like it might help it to function better, but it was useless. He was thwarted by the deadlock seal. “What are they teaching these kids?” he asked in pure confusion.

Sarah Jane tapped away at the keyboard, it was the only sound that filled the room for a long minute. Suddenly, like magic, all the screens lit up with green light, symbols flashing across it, ones that Hartley didn't have a hope of understanding. She wondered why it wouldn't translate, but figured that if it were a numerical code of some kind, it probably wouldn't. She suddenly wished she'd paid more attention in computer sciences at school.

“You wanted the programme?” Sarah Jane asked with a self-satisfied grin. “There it is.”

“How'd you...?” Hartley began to ask, but Sarah Jane only smirked, and Hartley knew it was the best answer she was going to get.

“It's some sort of code...” the Doctor was mumbling to himself. “No. No, that can't be.” Thankfully he was the most (self-proclaimed, but also potentially literal) brilliant man in the universe, and he caught on quick. “The Skasis Paradigm,” he whispered with a note of horror that Hartley wasn't sure she'd ever heard from him before. “They're trying to crack the Skasis Paradigm.”

“The what?” asked Hartley, glancing at the others, glad to find she wasn't the only one who looked confused.

“The god maker,” he told her grimly. Hartley hopped off of the desk she was sat upon, stepping closer to the Doctor, looking over his shoulder at the code on the screen, concern like a curdling in her gut. “It's the universal theory. Crack that equation and you've got control of the building blocks of the universe. Time and space and matter, yours to control.”

“What, and the kids are like a giant computer?” Rose frowned.

“Yes. And their learning power is being accelerated by the oil. That oil from the kitchens, it works as a conducting agent. Makes the kids cleverer.”

“But that oil's on the chips. We've been eating them,” she said with wide eyes, turning to look at Hartley with a tinge of fear.

The Doctor looked unconcerned. “What's fifty nine times thirty five?” he asked as an afterthought.

“Two thousand and sixty five,” both Hartley and Rose answered without a moment of hesitation. Their eyes widened in shock. “Oh, my God,” Rose breathed, and Hartley reached up with her good hand to press her palm over her lips in something that wasn't _quite_ horror.

“But why use children?” Sarah asked, oblivious to the two younger companions' horror. “Can't they use adults?”

“Imagination,” Hartley spoke up, then blinked, not having planned to open her mouth at all. The Doctor turned to look at her briefly, their eyes meeting across the desk. “That's what kids have that adults don't. They don't have broad enough imaginations,” she continued, answering the old companion's question. She knew this to be true on an instinctual level – it was what had consumed her life back in her old life – children's imagination. “Right?” she asked the Doctor, knowing she was.

“Yes, that's right,” he nodded, and she spared a tiny, happy smile for having been right. It seemed a background as an author wasn't completely useless after all. “They're not just using the children's brains to break the code, they're using their _souls,_ ” hissed the Doctor grimly.

“Let the lesson begin,” came the Headmaster's voice from behind them, and Hartley flinched, spinning around so she was facing him, refusing to have her back to such an enemy. “Think of it, Doctor. With the Paradigm solved, reality becomes clay in our hands. We can shape the universe and improve it.”

“Oh yeah?” the Doctor challenged him through a disgusted sneer. “The whole of creation with the face of Mister Finch? Call me old fashioned, but I like things as they are.”

“You act like such a radical, and yet all you want to do is preserve the old order? Think of the changes that could be made if this power was used for good.”

“What, by someone like you?” the Doctor scoffed.

“No, someone like you,” the Krillitane said through an ugly, twisted smirk. Hartley felt her chest tighten in fear. What if he listened? She swallowed thickly and listened closely, keeping her eyes on Finch the whole time. “The Paradigm gives us power, but you could give us wisdom. Become a god at my side. Imagine what you could do. Think of the civilisations you could save. Perganon, Assinta. Your _own_ people, Doctor, standing tall. The Time Lords _reborn._ ”

“Doctor, don't listen to him,” Sarah Jane cried from behind them.

“And you could be with him throughout eternity. Young, fresh, never wither, never age, never die. Their lives are so fleeting. So many goodbyes. How lonely you must be, Doctor. Join us,” purred the Krillitane posing as Mister Finch.

“I could save everyone,” the Doctor whispered.

“Yes.”

“I could stop the war.”

“No. The universe has to move forward. Pain and loss, they define us as much as happiness or love. Whether it's a world, or a relationship, everything has its time. And everything ends.”

Sarah Jane's speech was exactly what the Doctor needed, and Hartley felt relief like a wave crashing over her, because she was nowhere near eloquent enough to say something powerful enough to break the Doctor from his stupor.

In the blink of an eye the Doctor had grasped a chair and thrown it with all his might into the screen, smashing it to pieces. Hartley leapt out of the way of the shattered glass, and Rose was quick to grab her uninjured hand and tug her from the room as they ran for their lives.

They ran and ran, meeting up with Mickey along the way, until finally they found an empty classroom and locked themselves inside. But Hartley knew the safety wouldn't last for long. They had to get out of the school.

“It's the oil!” the Doctor snapped his fingers in a eureka moment. “Krillitane life forms can't handle the oil. That's it! They've changed their physiology so often, even their own oil is toxic to them. How much was there in the kitchens?” he asked Rose quickly.

“Barrels of it,” she answered.

There were several loud thumps on the door, before suddenly the Krillitane's claws began to pierce through the wood, the door itself threatening the come down at any moment.

“Okay, we need to get to the kitchens. Mickey,” the Doctor began hurriedly, casting a glance back at the creaking hinges of the door.

“What now, hold the coats?” Mickey responded bitterly, but the Time Lord didn't have time for it.

“Get all the children unplugged and out of the school,” he ordered. “Hart, you go with him, make sure he doesn't screw up.” Mickey looked affronted by the comment, but didn't rise to the bait. Hartley nodded surely, up to the challenge despite the flaring agony of her palm. “Now then, bats, bats, bats. How do we fight bats?”

Nobody really noticed the kid in the room until he threw his elbow into the fire alarm, the sound piercing through the school from every corner. The Doctor looked gleeful at the turn of events, and he ruffled Kenny's hair as they passed him, darting out the doors and taking advantage of the way the Krillitanes were incapacitated by the alarm.

Hartley snapped her good arm out, grasping Mickey by the sleeve and dragging him down the hall after her. Her chest began to burn, as she hadn't run from an evil group of aliens in far, far too long, but she powered through it, not in the mood to be bothered by burning lungs or an aching gut.

“Here,” she gasped out, all but throwing Mickey into the room before her. They crashed through the doors and raced towards the kids.

Hartley didn't want to waste time, so she ran directly to the power socket and yanked the chord from the wall, every computer screen in the room fading to black instantly.

“Out! Everybody out! _Now_! Let's go!” Mickey was yelling desperately, directing the suddenly panicking kids towards the open doors.

“I'll sweep this floor, you go down to the one below it,” she shouted over the noise the kids were making.

“Roger that,” he called back clinically, and she took a beat to smile exasperatedly before rushing from the room, heading directly for the next classroom on the floor. It took less time than she'd thought it would to clear the classes, most of the students grouped together in large numbers, all working tirelessly on the equation.

Hartley burst out into the open, relieved to see all the kids out in the car park, standing around looking more than slightly confused. She darted forwards, heading right for the group of adults at the back of the group, all of them looking slightly less cheerful than the children surrounding them.

Rose greeted her, relief on her face to see her unharmed. Mickey nodded, eyes sweeping the gathered children to make sure they were safe.

Looking around, it became clear that one member of their ragtag team was missing, and Hartley grimaced with sympathy when she realised who exactly had been the one to stay behind, ensuring the plan's success.

She hadn't known much about K9 other than he was a good and loyal tin dog. She knew the Doctor – and Sarah Jane – were both very attached to the old thing.

The school exploded behind her, and she glanced back quickly before hurrying up to the Doctor and Sarah Jane. Her instincts told her to do something to help, but she didn't want to get between the Doctor and his oldest companion. She instead stayed beside Rose, watching as the Doctor comforted his old companion.

“Do you think she'll be okay?” Rose asked over the sounds of the thrilled, cheering kids. Hartley could understand – she'd hated school enough when she was their age; seeing it blow up was the thing of dreams.

“Yeah. I think she will,” Hartley whispered back, grinning reassuringly before turning back to the celebration happening before them. And not even the pain radiating up from her hand was enough to dull her smile.

* * *

Things all calmed down rather quickly after that. Sarah Jane had places to be – she had to explain to the police what had happened, get UNIT involved to sort through the wreckage for whatever alien matter might have been left behind. No goodbyes were said, however.

“We'll meet you,” the Doctor had promised Sarah Jane sincerely. “Name the place.”

She'd looked skeptical, like she didn't trust him to actually keep his word, but the Doctor's expression was imploring, and she nodded. “Stout Park?” she'd suggested. It had sounded rather vague, but the Doctor seemed to understand, smiling at her calmly before stepping into the TARDIS along with Rose and an eager Mickey.

Hartley took a moment to grin at Sarah Jane, who had reached out and grasped her arm, pulling her to a stop. Confused, Hartley had turned back around to find her staring back with concern.

“He will be there, won't he?” the older woman had asked, a glint of desperation in her pretty eyes. Hartley hadn't been sure why she was asking _her_ , but she'd answered anyway.

“I don't think he'd be able to live with himself if he wasn't.”

So now, here they were, sitting within the idle TARDIS in the middle of a great, sprawling park. Hartley wanted to go outside and feel the sun on her face, but her wound was still hurting too much to consider moving, so she was sitting curled on the jump seat, trying not to jostle her arm too much.

“Just gonna sit there?” the Doctor's voice washed over her, and Hartley started, whipping her head around to watch as he strode in from the hall, hands tucked into deep his pockets. The other two were off somewhere in the ship; Rose had mentioned something about showing Mickey the recreation room.

“I'm fine,” she responded without thought.

“Wasn't the question.”

“But it was the answer you were looking for,” she countered.

“Yeah,” he hummed, “shame it was a lie.”

She sighed, too tired to worry about keeping up her front. “It hurts,” she said with an unconscious pout down at her haphazardly wrapped hand, tugging sullenly at the little bow it was tied up with.

“Then it's a good thing I generated this, I s'pose,” he said cheerfully, and she looked back up to see him pulling a small vile of something purple and glittering from his pocket.

“What is that?” she asked, frowning at it warily. “And what d'you mean you _generated_ it?”

“The TARDIS,” he said like it were obvious, which she supposed it was. “S'got a tonic generator in the med-bay.”

“A tonic generator?” she repeated skeptically.

“I could have called it an Analeptic-Transcendent Medibank, but I figured that in your state you'd appreciate the layman's terms,” he told her casually, a hint of a cheeky grin on his lips.

“What'll it do?” she asked carefully.

He came to stand in front of her, placing the small vial beside her on the jump seat and holding a hand out for hers. She was reluctant, knowing it was likely to hurt, but she still gave it up, biting down on her tongue as he began to unwrap her injured hand.

“Now that you're...” he trailed off, not seeming to know what to call it; invincible or immortal didn't really feel right, not to her, and certainly not to him. “Now that you're _you_ ,” he finished rather lamely, but it still made her smile, “your body can regenerate from anything. You are, however, still susceptible to the effects of poisons.”

“But I thought the Krillitane oil only harmed Krillitanes,” she said, confused.

“Wasn't the oil,” he told her calmly, finally pulling the bloodied cloth from her hand and then holding it up, closer to his face to get a good look at the wound. She could still see her own bone, and she tried not to gag at the sight. “Like I said before, it was the contaminants in the Krillitane's talons. A hidden aspect of their DNA. Acts like a poison, keeps destroying your cells, faster than you can regenerate them. If you weren't... _you._..it would have spread, and you'd likely be dead by now.”

She swallowed at the casual reminder. “And this will heal me?” she asked, watching as he picked up the small vial, the liquid within glittering like somebody had bottled the stars themselves.

“Put some of the contaminants into the generator, plus a sample of your blood, and out popped this baby,” he said brightly, uncorking it and holding it up to her hand.

She flinched away before he could pour it over the deep, gruesome gashes in her skin. “Will it hurt?” she asked, meek and afraid.

He levelled her with a stern but also somehow soft expression, and she relaxed under his familiar gaze. “I can't imagine it'll be any worse than the pain you're already in,” he told her logically, and she had to admit he had a point.

“All right,” she conceded, wincing and turning away, giving him the go-ahead to pour it.

There was nothing for a beat, then a burning sensation, like someone had lodged a red hot poker into the wound. She whimpered, biting into the flesh of her cheek until she tasted blood, but after only a short moment the pain faded into a pleasant warmth, like the sunshine on her skin on a cool spring day.

Feeling brave, she turned back to look at it with one eye, relaxing when she realised the skin was knitting itself together – like magic. She'd felt herself heal before, but she'd never actually seen it with her own eyes.

It took maybe a full minute, but finally the wound had disappeared, nothing but smooth, unblemished skin in sight. Her hand remained in the Doctor's for another moment, both staring at the healed wound, then the Doctor dropped her arm, stepping away with a smile.

“Any pain?” he asked, motioning for her to wriggle her fingers.

She did as she was told, copying his movements. “Nope,” she replied happily. “Right as rain.” He nodded, turning to leave, but she caught his arm, stopping him. “Thanks, Doc,” she said sincerely, and he gifted her with a large, unrestrained smile that made her heart leap, shoving the empty vial back into his pocket and dancing around the other side of the console like a bunny on crack.

In that moment, laughter filled the room, and she turned to see Mickey and Rose stepping in from the hall, smiles on their faces.

“What're you two so happy about?” Hartley asked curiously, legs swinging in the air beneath the jump seat.

“Telling Mickey about the time the Doctor nearly lost an arm on the rollercoaster on that planet … you know, the one with the green water?”

“Kellan?” she suggested, and Rose clicked her fingers.

“It was so hilarious,” her friend laughed freely. “Shoulda seen the look on the Doctor's face!”

Mickey cackled loudly just imagining it, and Hartley giggled herself at the Doctor's expense. The Time Lord made a face at them, but there was a spark to his eyes that told her he wasn't really cross, and he was enjoying the easy teasing just as much as they were.

A flicker of movement on the monitor caught Hartley's attention, and she stopped giggling long enough to tell the Doctor, “Sarah Jane's coming.”

He took a beat to stare at her approaching figure on the screen before heading towards the doors. He stepped out, and the other three left inside were hardly subtle about the way they stared at the doors, waiting for he and his previous companion to reappear.

Sarah Jane stepped into the ship first, and the look of absolute adoration was spread clear as day across her face. She smiled with all the brilliance of the sun, and Hartley stood to her feet.

“You've redecorated,” Sarah Jane said, staring up at the ceiling with a reverence Hartley could certainly understand.

“Do you like it?” the Doctor asked, closing the door after him and strolling up the ramp towards them.

“Oh, I, I do. Yeah,” she stammered, struggling for words, most likely overwhelmed. “I preferred it as it was, but er, yeah. It'll do,” she added fondly.

“I love it,” Rose interjected with a wide, welcoming smile. It was a far cry from how she'd been when they'd met, but Sarah Jane's answering smile sparked Hartley's own.

“Hey you,” the older woman greeted her gently, “what's forty seven times three hundred and sixty nine?”

“No idea,” Rose answered proudly. “It's gone now. The oil's faded.”

“But you're still clever,” she told her surely. “More than a match for _him,_ ” she said with a nod in the Doctor's direction.

“You and me both,” Rose replied.

“Hartley,” Sarah Jane said suddenly, and the woman in question looked up, surprised to have been addressed. “How's your hand?” she asked gently, and Hartley held it up, wiggling her fingers in a wave.

“All better, thanks to the Doc,” she replied cheerfully, shooting their alien friend a large, grateful grin. He didn't look up from where he was idly tinkering with the console, but she could swear she saw his cheeks twitch as he smiled.

“Doctor?” Rose said, prompting him to speak.

The Doctor finally looked up, giving a strangely shy sort of grin that she hadn't expected. “Er, we're about to head off,” he began slowly, staring at Sarah Jane with hopeful eyes, and she suddenly knew what was going to come next, “but you could come with us.”

It wasn't that surprising, she supposed. Sarah Jane deserved to be there as much as any of them, if not more. She turned to the older woman with a large, hopeful smile that was mirrored on the faces of her friends.

Sarah Jane looked torn, eyes flickering between each of the people standing around her, before finally her shoulders dropped as she made her decision. “No,” she said, almost too softly for them to catch. “I can't do this anymore,” she explained with more conviction. “Besides, I've got a much bigger adventure ahead. Time I stopped waiting for you and found a life of my own,” she said, but Hartley got the feeling she was trying to convince herself, rather than them.

There was a pregnant pause while they each considered her words.

“Can I come?” Mickey asked abruptly, and Hartley spun around to stare at him with wide eyes. “No, not with you,” he said to Sarah Jane, who appeared mildly alarmed. “I mean with you,” he corrected, nodding at the Doctor, whose eyebrows crept up his forehead. “Because I'm not the tin dog, and I want to see what's out there.”

Another pregnant pause hung in the air of the console room. Hartley didn't have a problem with it – Mickey was a sweet kid, and he deserved to see the stars. From the look on the Doctor's face, he wasn't sure he agreed.

“Oh, go on, Doctor,” Sarah Jane said blithely. “Sarah Jane Smith, a Mickey Smith. You need a Smith on board,” she half-jested.

“Okay then, I could do with a laugh,” the Doctor drawled. Hartley was surprised, expecting him to have taken more convincing.

Rose was suspiciously silent from where she stood across from them. Hartley couldn't see her face to know what was going through her head, but by the tense hunch of her shoulders, she could hazard a guess.

Mickey was celebrating with a happy little dance, but when Rose didn't speak, he stopped, looking over at her cautiously. “Rose, is that okay?” he asked carefully.

“No, great,” she said without even a second of hesitation, but the lie was more than obvious, making the others in the room fall into something of an uncomfortable silence. “Why not?” she added sarcastically, and Hartley winced at the poison in her voice.

“Well, I'd better go,” Sarah Jane was the braver of the lot, breaking the silence in a forcefully cheerful voice. Hartley wandered closer, still wanting to speak with the woman, learn more about her, her life and her time with the Doctor. “What's your story, Hartley?” Sarah Jane asked her again, before she even had a chance to say anything. Surprised, Hartley let out a small puff of amusement, lips curling upwards.

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” she admitted.

The two women exchanged gentle smiles, and Hartley wondered what she might have been like, back when she'd been a companion of the Doctor's. Would she have been fearless and brave like Rose? Or soft and kind like herself? She could see the way the Doctor looked at her, with a deep affection she'd only ever seen him direct at Rose.

“He cares about you, more than you think,” Sarah Jane said suddenly, and Hartley blinked at her uncomprehendingly.

“I don't-” she began to say, but the older woman interjected, still smiling peacefully.

“From what I can gather, you think he doesn't want you here,” she continued in a soft voice, so nobody else could overhear. Mickey and Rose were watching from over near the jump seat, but neither made any move to interrupt. “But if that was that case, you _wouldn't_ be,” she finished kindly.

Maybe Sarah Jane had a point, but Hartley knew that it'd take more than a few soft spoken words from an old companion to change the sense of alienation she felt deep inside her very bones.

So instead, she smiled, nodding her head in gratitude. “I hope we meet again, Sarah Jane,” she said honestly, and the older woman smiled.

“Me too, Hartley,” she nodded, then stepped in for an embrace. Hartley was thrown by the gesture, but she wasn't about to refuse. She wrapped her arms around her, noting that they were about the same height, and squeezed tightly, thanking her without words. Sarah Jane squeezed back, then pulled away and turned to Rose.

Sensing the shift in attention, Hartley shuffled back until she was standing beside Mickey, the two silent as they watched Rose and Sarah Jane murmur between one another in low tones. After a few moments they too embraced, then Sarah Jane smiled at them all before turning and wandering back down the ramp, where the Doctor was waiting.

The doors closed after them, leaving the three human companions in a tense, but somehow not awkward, silence. The quiet was broken when Mickey clapped his hands together loudly, making both women jump. Spinning around, they saw him grinning madly.

“Come on, then,” he said cheerfully, rubbing his hands together like a starving man staring at a freshly baked pie. “I believe you said this thing had a pool?”

Both Hartley and Rose hesitated, glancing towards the doors. Hartley wanted to stay, talk more to the Doctor about Sarah Jane and just generally make sure he was all right. She suspected Rose wanted to do the same. She was surprised, then, when Rose huffed out a sigh and turned back to Mickey with something of a forced smile. “All right then,” she said as brightly as she could, “I could go for a swim.”

“Sweet!” exclaimed Mickey like an overexcited child. “Hart, you in?”

She hesitated again, shifting her weight from foot to foot, but ultimately she knew it was pointless. The Doctor was about as likely to talk to her about his feelings as he was to jab safety pins into his eyes for fun. “You bet,” she said, hoping she didn't sound as reluctant as she felt, and Mickey bounced away happily, chattering on about bathing suits and water temperatures.

Casting a final look back at the closed doors, Hartley stuffed her newly-healed hand into her pocket and followed them deeper into the labyrinthine halls of the TARDIS.


	19. The Girl in the Fireplace

“ _Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart.”_

Haruki Murakami

* * *

The sound of the kettle beeping made Hartley look up from the magazine she was flipping through. _Fashion for the Modern Alien_ , it was called, and she'd found it in her room amongst her other souvenirs from different worlds and centuries. She assumed she'd picked it up on one of the occasions they'd travelled to future-earth, and it was a surprisingly good read.

She put down the magazine, the scent of bubblegum floating up from the paper as it moved – all the issues were scented, a brilliant addition to future literature that she appreciated.

She stretched, reaching for the ceiling until her back popped before she stood and moved over to the counter, swiping a mug from the cupboard above the sink. Footsteps echoed on the floor behind her, and Hartley glanced over her shoulder to see a melancholy looking Rose shuffle into the room. “Morning, Rose,” she greeted her gently. “Fancy some tea?”

“Yeah, s'pose so,” the blonde answered vaguely, taking a seat in the chair she'd just vacated, eyes on the far wall.

She was clearly lost in thought and deciding that asking what was wrong would only serve to be counterproductive, Hartley wordlessly pulled out another mug, filling it with boiling water before moving over to the pantry to fetch some sugar. No words were spoken so Hartley began to hum through the quiet, never having been a fan of total silence. She figured Rose would speak when she was ready – and when she was, Hartley would be there to listen.

It took less time than she'd thought it would. Rose opened her mouth just as the older woman had set her mug down in front of her. “The thing is...” she began, reaching out to wrap her hands around the steaming mug. She didn't continue, instead sighing tiredly and taking a sip of tea. “It's stupid,” she murmured, eyes closing in defeat – and she hadn't even begun.

“You're not happy about Mickey joining us,” Hartley said knowingly, deciding to help the younger girl along. Rose looked up in surprise, apparently not having expected anyone to pick up on it. “You're not as difficult to read as you might think,” Hartley added with a tiny smirk, cupping her own hands around her novelty mug (“ _may the fourth be with you_ ”) and basking in the warmth it offered. “Or perhaps I'm just overly observant.”

“Both, probably,” Rose said, only slightly bitter.

“Where's Mickey now?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder just to make sure they were truly alone.

“Sleeping,” she admitted. “He wants to be rested up for his first real adventure with us.” She paused, drinking more tea before speaking. “Where's the Doctor?”

“Last I knew he was in his study, muttering something about calibrations and supergravity,” Hartley told her, and they both relaxed, confident they wouldn't be disturbed. She let the silence settle, blue eyes flickering over Rose perceptively. “Why don't you tell me why you don't want Mickey here?”

The blonde sighed, shoulders hunched exhaustedly. “It's not that I don't _want_ him here...” she trailed off, struggling to find a better way of putting it. “It's just that I'm worried he'll...change things.”

“How so?” Hartley asked patiently, tucking her legs up underneath her and shrugging into the warmth of the sweater she was draped in.

“I guess I just … I liked it when it was just the Doctor and me,” she admitted, only for her eyes to fly wide open in horror, looking over at Hartley apologetically. “Not that I don't love having you here too, Hart,” she said quickly, trying to rectify her mistake. Hartley felt a sting at her words, but she couldn't hold it against her. She loved the Doctor, quite possibly more so than any of his other companions, herself included – so she couldn't blame Rose for feeling the way she did. “Ugh, I'm a terrible person,” Rose sighed, burying her face in her hands and bringing Hartley's attention back to the moment.

“You're not a terrible person, Rose,” Hartley quickly assured her, letting go of her mug to reach out and grasp her younger friend's hands, trying to drag them away from her face, squeezing in comfort. “Not at all. I completely understand.”

Rose still seemed upset, sagging down further in her seat, overcome with a ridiculous sort of shame.

“Listen, I'm not upset with you. In your position I would feel the same way,” she continued gently, calmly taking a sip of her tea and watching the younger blonde softly.

“Really?” Rose's mortified voice was muffled by her hands.

“Really.”

With a sigh, Rose reappeared from behind her hands, taking a deep sip of her cooling tea. “It's different with you,” she said, peeking over at her, taking in her steady, understanding gaze before averting her own to the tabletop. “You've been here since before me. I have no _right_ to have any sort of claim over the position...”

Hartley knew knew the point was moot, and that that was how she felt nonetheless. She was thankful, though, that she didn't have to hear too much of that. As understandable as it was, it could still be painful. Would she always be cursed to be the one in the way?

“About Mickey,” Hartley began bracingly, forcing her lips to curve upward in a smile, telling herself that now wasn't the time to go around asking herself such existential questions. “Try not to think of him as intruding. He's not here for any grand scheme, or to ruin your time with the Doctor. He's here to see the universe with his own two eyes, and you can't begrudge him that.”

Rose groaned, letting her head drop to the table again, the thump echoing around the TARDIS' sizeable kitchen. “You're right,” she mumbled into the polished wood tabletop. “Of _course_ you're right. How is it that you're always right?”

“Pure talent and an uncanny knack for giving great advice,” Hartley responded cheekily, shooting her a bright, glittering grin before taking another sip of her tea. “Besides, he won't stick around forever,” she added softly.

“He won't?” Rose sounded bewildered. “What's that mean?” she asked sharply, head flying up so fast Hartley was momentarily concerned about whiplash. “D'you think something's gonna happen to him?”

“ 'Course not,” Hartley quickly assured her. “I'm just saying, you don't have the best track record with boyfriends aboard the TARDIS.”

“Mickey's not my boyfriend,” Rose said in a flare of instant denial.

Hartley calmly lifted a single eyebrow at her friend over the top of her still-steaming mug of tea. “Does he know that?” she asked, utterly unperturbed.

Rose's face dropped into one of irritation, though Hartley knew it was directed at herself rather than her. She groaned again, once more dropping her head to the tabletop with a muted _thud._

They fell into silence again, and Hartley considering what to say next very carefully. “You care about him very much, huh? The Doctor?” she blurted out only to wince, wishing she'd been more tactful in her approach.

To her credit, Rose didn't blush like she thought she would, merely lifting her head to look at her with a small, self-conscious smile. “I guess I do, yeah,” she agreed, but Hartley knew she was downplaying her affection.

“Good,” she nodded, shooting her an appeased smile before turning back to her tea. The Doctor deserved the best – and it didn't get any better than Rose Tyler. “But then, of course, the problem is that if Mickey and you never really 'broke up'...” Rose exhaled noisily, a strand of light blonde hair drifting away from her face before dropping stubbornly back in front of her eyes. “I think you need to be straight with Mickey.”

Rose winced again, and though the last thing she wanted was to upset her friend, Hartley knew she had to be honest and tell her to get her act together – for her own good.

“Do you want to be with him?” she pressed cautiously.

“Mickey or the Doctor?” Rose asked confusedly.

Hartley had to smirk at the fact that she even had to ask – it showed exactly where her mind was at. “Mickey,” she said slowly, and this time Rose's cheeks did turn pink as she realised her mistake.

“I dunno,” Rose answered truthfully, frowning deeply at where her hands were twisted together on the table.

“Well, if I were you, I'd make figuring that out your top priority,” she murmured back gently, almost worried Rose would react badly to the advice. Thankfully, she did nothing more than sigh, nodding her head and taking another sip of her tea. Hartley turned back to her casual reading material, finger tapping a gentle beat on the side of her half-empty mug as they faded into a companionable silence once more.

“How long do you think it'll be before the Doctor comes to storm the room, impatient to get going?” Rose eventually asked with a smile on her face. Hartley giggled at the imagery, leaving the serious moment behind them with ease.

“You go wake Mickey,” she instructed, a smirk pulling at her lips as she gathered both mugs, pouring their remaining contents into the sink. “I'll go let the Doctor know we're ready to roll.”

Rose hopped to her feet, only to hesitate in the doorway, glancing back at Hartley who stood rinsing the mugs. “Hart?” she asked quietly, and the redhead glanced over her shoulder curiously. “Thanks,” she smiled gratefully, the expression lighting up her face, making her hazel eyes glitter.

Hartley felt warmed by the acknowledgement, grinning back with gratitude before waving her away. “Go on,” she prompted. “Time's a-wasting.”

“We're in a time machine,” Rose countered through a laugh, and Hartley threw a soggy dishcloth in her direction, watching with a smile as she finally disappeared, heading for the room that Mickey had claimed as his own. Hartley checked that everything was in order, smoothing her hands down over her grey sweater before nodding to herself and striding from the kitchen.

She stopped by her room first, pausing at the sparkling silver nameplate with ' _Hartley_ ' written in beautiful cursive. As she pushed open the door, she felt a wave of calm that came with being in her own space. If there was something she missed the most during her years stuck on Earth with Jack – except the Doctor and Rose themselves – it was her room, perfect for her in every way.

She moved over to her closet, reaching down to pull out her favourite boots – worn in and perfect for running, which they certainly did a lot of, so that was a _must_. She ran a brush through her hair and rubbed on some strawberry lip balm before deeming herself ready for their next escapade.

The Doctor was still in the study when she passed by, so she stuck her head in to see him hovering over a thick, dusty tome written entirely in Gallifreyan. “Whatcha doing?” she asked casually, leaning her weight against the doorjamb, only for the Time Lord to jump in shock, not having heard her approach. He spun around, fixing her with a narrow-eyed look of irritation.

“Important work,” he said grumpily, pushing his pointless spectacles further up his nose.

“More important than going on an adventure?” she countered playfully, but he didn't perk up like she'd expected him to. “Rose just went to wake Mickey, so we're-” The Doctor's shoulders hunched as she mentioned Rose's current sort of/maybe boyfriend. “Not you too,” she grumbled tiredly, reaching up to rub at a throbbing point above her right eyebrow.

“Hm?”

“Nothing,” she murmured, not wanting him to find out about her conversation with Rose in the kitchen. “Look, I know you're not Mickey's biggest fan-”

“Who said I wasn't?” he snapped defensively, pointedly turning his attention to the Gallifreyan notes written before him, refusing to give her any focus.

“Anyone with eyes,” she responded flatly before continuing on without pause. “He just wants to see something amazing. Can you really begrudge him that?” she asked, using the same phrase she'd used on Rose. If it ain't broke... “Reminds me a little of someone else I know, actually...” she added, pink lips accentuating her smirk.

The Doctor sighed, yanking his clever-glasses from his face to rub at the bridge of his nose.

“You know I'm making sense,” she singsonged, pushing off from the doorjamb to make her way over to where he stood at one of the many cluttered desks. “He's not going to attempt to steal Rose from you,” she said bluntly, and he glanced up at her in shock. She stared back evenly, unflinching under his powerful gaze. “Besides, he couldn't if he tried.” She might as well have been on the bloody pay roll with all the free psychology sessions she was offering out, but she liked being able to help, even if it was only in this small way.

The Doctor's chocolate eyes appraised her silently, flickering up and down her form, taking in her squared shoulders, tilted head and patient, knowing gaze.

He was surprised when he found he felt reassured, but that was one of Hartley's talents, he supposed; comforting people who required it, offering advice they never knew they needed.

But he wasn't one to get swept up in the wishy-washy things, so he sniffed indelicately, spinning around to slam his book shut, shoving his glasses into his front pocket and turning back to grin at her toothily. “Onwards, then, Hartley Daniels,” he said cheerfully, wagging his eyebrows before slipping around her and bouncing towards the door like Tigger on acid.

Hartley smiled, the expression amused and fond, thinking about how very different _this_ Doctor was from the old one, and how much she found she actually _liked_ it.

She followed the Doctor to the console room at a much slower pace, thoughts a whirlwind of memories from her year with the big-eared, leather-jacket wearing Doctor. He may not have been exceedingly fond of her, but they'd had their own relationship, in their own strange, somewhat unhealthy sort of way. She missed him, even knowing he'd resented her – why, exactly, she couldn't say. But it had shown.

This Doctor seemed to have let go of that resentment. She hoped one day she could ask him why that was, and that maybe, if she was very lucky, she'd actually get a straight answer.

Mickey and Rose were already in the console room, idling on the jump seat and murmuring something about ghosts; Hartley assumed she was retelling their tale with Charles Dickens, and recalled that particular adventure with a smile.

“Now then,” the Doctor exclaimed brightly, and Mickey, who wasn't used to sudden outbursts of alien enthusiasm, jumped violently. “Where to?” he asked the room at large, either not noticing or completely ignoring Mickey's reaction. “We could go see the Beach Boys live in concert. We could visit the 62nd century, there's this brilliant little noddle place that Rose favours, nestled into the heart of an asteroid. Oh! How about the planet Chicolatta in the year, say, 300,800? They've got excellent wifi and a bear that sings show-tunes,” he paused, glancing at Mickey's slack-jawed look with unrestrained satisfaction. Hartley glanced over at Rose, both exchanging a look of exasperation at his inherent need to show off. “Or, how about we set the old girl to random, see where she takes us?” he suggested, finally saying something the poor kid could properly process.

“Sounds good to me!” Rose jumped in, slapping her hands down on Mickey's shoulders and grinning at him broadly.

“Righteo!” the Doctor grinned maniacally, slapping his hand down onto a button on the console and sending them into the vortex. The TARDIS trembled violently, sending Mickey off the chair. Rose chuckled, helping him to his feet with a grin.

The shaking came to a stop as they landed, and the Doctor beamed, swiping his coat from where it was hanging from a bit of coral and sliding it on over his suit.

“Are you ready for what's outside those doors, Mickey Smith?”

“Uh, what _is_ outside the doors?” Mickey asked carefully.

The Doctor shot Rose the most unimpressed expression that Hartley had ever seen in her life. “Does he not know what the word 'random' _means_?” he asked snidely, and though it was a little rude, Hartley couldn't help but smother a chuckle.

“But why would you ask if you didn't-” Mickey tried to argue, but Rose wasn't having it.

“Come on,” she snapped, grasping her maybe/kind of boyfriend by the shirt and yanking him towards the doors where the Doctor stood waiting. The Time Lord pushed them open, the first to take a step out into their new adventure.

“It's a spaceship!” Mickey sounded thrilled as he followed after the Doctor, staring around the small, cluttered room in awe. “Brilliant! I got a spaceship on my first go.”

Hartley closed the TARDIS door behind her, blue eyes scanning across the messy hull with cautious eyes. She immediately caught the scent of some kind of cooking meat, and she realised she hadn't had any breakfast. Maybe there'd be a chance to eat on the go?

“It looks kind of abandoned,” Rose commented, eyeing the empty room thoughtfully. “Anyone on board?”

“Nah, nothing here. _Well_ , nothing dangerous. _Well_ , not that dangerous. You know what,

I'll just have a quick scan, in case there's anything dangerous,” the Time Lord murmured with a sniff, reaching into his pocket to fetch his sonic, the tip lighting up as he ran it over the cluttered counter.

“So, what's the date? How far we gone?” Rose inquired curiously, and Mickey looked up eagerly.

“About three thousand years into your future, give or take,” the Doctor told them, fiddling with a button on the board in front of him until suddenly the roof parted to reveal the stars and nebulas twinkling above them. “Fifty first century. Diagmar Cluster,” he continued, almost like that of a tour guide. “You're a long way from home, Mickey. Two and a half galaxies.”

Mickey leaned over to the window, face practically pressed to the glass as he stared out in wonderment. “Mickey Smith, meet the universe. See anything you like?” Rose asked playfully, and the kid was grinning so widely, Hartley was sure it must have been hurting his face.

“It's so realistic!” he exclaimed.

Hartley laughed, drawing his attention. “Of course it's realistic, Mickey,” she said brightly, beaming almost proudly at the scene they gazed upon, as though it were in any way _hers_ to be proud of. “It's _real_ ,” she reminded him amusedly.

Mickey didn't respond, turning his full attention to the stunning constellations once more.

“Dear me, had some cowboys in here. Got a ton of repair work going on. Now that's odd.

Look at that,” the Doctor leaned over a small, glowing screen, eyeing the readings carefully. “All the warp engines are going. Full capacity. There's enough power running through this ship to punch a hole in the universe, but we're not moving. So where's all that power going?”

“Where'd all the crew go?” Rose asked.

“Good question. No life readings on board.”

“Well, we're in deep space. They didn't just nip out for a quick fag.”

“No, I've checked all the smoking pods,” he said before pausing and tilting his head, inhaling briefly. “Can you smell that?”

“Sunday roast, definitely,” Mickey added eagerly, and Hartley's stomach gave another rumble.

The Doctor was still fiddling with a console when suddenly the door behind them swung open. All eyes turned to see where it led to. Surprisingly, Mickey was the first to step through, bravery multiplying by the second, eager to explore more.

Hartley stepped in last, her eyes instantly moving to the grand fireplace placed along the wall. It was beautiful and regal, a fire crackling warmly within it. She moved over to it, running her fingertips over the surface. It felt real, but what in the hell was it doing on a _spaceship_?

“Well, there's something you don't see in your average spaceship,” the Doctor spoke up, noticing it when she made her way directly to it, watching the way she ran her hand over the craftsmanship before he snapped to work and began to scan it with his sonic. “Eighteenth century. French. Nice mantle. Not a hologram. It's not even a reproduction. This actually _is_ an eighteenth century French fireplace. Double sided. There's another room through there.”

“There can't be,” Rose argued, on her tiptoes to look out the porthole beside the fire. “That's the outer hull of the ship. Look.” The Doctor moved over to see, just to be sure.

Hartley, on the other hand, knelt down to the floor, an excited smile lighting up her face as she ducked, peering through the flames eagerly. There was indeed another room connected to it, and it wasn't empty, either. “Hello there,” she murmured to the little girl sitting calmly on the other side, taking in her pretty, youthful face and beautiful long hair.

She peered back without fear, simple curiosity in her sparkling blue eyes.

“Who're you-?” the Doctor began, only to realise what was happening and drop to the floor beside her. “Oh,” he blinked before smiling broadly at the young lady. “Hello.” 

“Hello,” the young girl greeted them bemusedly. Hartley wondered why she wasn't afraid of the strange grownups in her fireplace, but she wasn't going to risk upsetting her by asking it.

“What's your name?” the Doctor asked her kindly.

“Reinette,” the child revealed, voice lilting with a slight French accent.

Hartley glanced over at the Doctor for an explanation, but he had none, turning back to the girl with a sweet smile. “Reinette, that's a lovely name. Can you tell me where you are at the moment, Reinette?”

“In my bedroom.”

“And where's your bedroom?” he prompted with endless patience. “Where do you live, Reinette?”

“Paris, of course.”

“Paris, right!”

“Monsieur, Madame, what are you doing in my fireplace?”

“Oh, it's just a routine...fire check,” he finished lamely. “Can you tell me what year it is?”

“Of course I can. Seventeen hundred and twenty seven.”

“Right, lovely. One of my favourites... August is rubbish though. Stay indoors. Okay,

that's all for now. Thanks for your help. Hope you enjoy the rest of the fire. Night, night.”

“Goodnight Monsieur.”

The Doctor popped back up, but Hartley remained crouched. “Sweet dreams, Reinette,” she wished the girl with a peaceful smile, and she smiled back broadly before, reluctantly, Hartley stood to her feet, effectively breaking the connection.

“You said this was the fifty first century,” Mickey's voice sounded almost accusing, as though the alien was somehow running a giant con right under their noses, and they were really in some warehouse in Cardiff rigged with a whole lot of computer effects to trick them into thinking they were on a spaceship.

“I also said this ship was generating enough power to punch a hole in the universe,” the Doctor replied shortly. “I think we just found the hole – must be a spatio-temporal hyperlink.”

“What's that?”

“No idea. Just made it up. Didn't want to say magic door.”

Hartley laughed quietly into her hand before recovering and smoothing her fingers down the front of her loose-fitting sweater. “And on the other side of the 'magic door' is France in 1727?” she asked, bemused by the situation they'd found themselves in, but even she couldn't deny her excitement at the fascinating mystery laid out before them.

“Well, she _was_ speaking French. Right period French, too,” the Doctor said thoughtfully.

“She was speaking English, I heard her,” Mickey argued testily.

“That's the TARDIS,” Rose informed him with a wide grin. “Translates for you.”

Hartley let them talk, sitting back and watching the Doctor as he fiddled with the mantle. “Why would there be such a connection, Doc?” she asked him instead, tuning out Rose and Mickey's bickering behind them. “Why a fireplace in a spaceship that leads to one little girl's bedroom?”

“If I knew that, I wouldn't have to do this,” he told her, but his tone wasn't as curt as it might have been, once upon a time. Instead he cast her a cheeky, excited sort of beam and grabbed onto a switch that rotated the fireplace like something from a Bond movie. Hartley's eyes widened as he spun from view, disappearing into Paris with a wild grin.

“Where'd he go?!” Mickey squeaked, blinking at the now empty fireplace in pure shock.

“France, of course,” Hartley told him, leaning back against the cool metal wall of the ship, smiling at them cheerfully.

“How can we be in another galaxy, but he can also be in France?” Mickey sounded like he was having a lot of difficulty wrapping his head around the whole thing.

“There're books on it in the TARDIS library, if you wanted to study the science of it all,” she said with a teasing glint in her eye.

Mickey visibly cringed, shaking his head at the mere thought of studying.

“Doctor!” Rose suddenly exclaimed, and both companions spun around to face the fireplace where the Doctor had swung back into view, bringing a large clockwork droid back with him. The Doctor grasped a seemingly ordinary tube from the wall, spinning around and pulling the trigger, firing the contents on its face. The droid seized up, all its movements coming to a shaky halt.

“Excellent,” Mickey grinned enthusiastically. “Ice gun!”

The Doctor just about rolled his eyes. “Fire extinguisher,” he corrected slowly, handing the device off to Rose, who gripped it in steady hands.

“Where did that thing come from?” she asked, eager to alleviate the tension.

“Here.”

“So why is it dressed like that?”

“Field trip to France. Some kind of basic camouflage protocol. Nice needlework, shame about the face.”

The Doctor reached out, taking the mask from the android's face in a smooth movement, revealing an interesting clockwork design that the Doctor practically fell in love with on sight.

“Oh, you are beautiful!” he gasped in wonderment. “No, really, you are. You're _gorgeous_! Look at that. Space age clockwork, I love it. I've got _chills_! Listen, seriously, I mean this from the heart – and, by the way, count those – it would be a crime, it would be an act of _vandalism_ , to disassemble you,” the look of affectionate fascination melted from his face, the Time Lord turning serious once more. “But that won't stop me,” he warned, voice steely and dark, a promise if Hartley had ever heard one.

Before he could make any move whatsoever, there was a beam of light and the android disappeared. Mickey started with a loud yelp, shocked by the sudden occurrence.

“Short range teleport,” the Doctor explained casually. “Can't have got far. Could still be on board.”

“What is it?” Rose questioned.

The Doctor wasn't listening, already bouncing back towards the fireplace. “Don't go looking for it!” he instructed sternly over his shoulder.

“Where're you going?”

“Back in a sec.”

With a flick of his wrist the Doctor disappeared back through the portal, and everything was silent for one moment before Rose hefted the fire extinguisher in her hands as though it were a big gun, a wicked sort of grin on her face that Hartley was intimately familiar with. “He said not to look for it,” Mickey frowned warily, recognising the look of mischief on her face.

“Yeah, he did,” she agreed blithely.

There was a beat, then Mickey grinned impishly, scurrying over to the rack of extinguishers and pulling one off the wall.

“Now you're getting it,” Rose beamed wolfishly.

Hartley rolled her eyes, chuckling to herself as she reached for a long piece of lead pipe resting against the wall, throwing it over her shoulder and smirking at the pair. “Come on then,” she said bracingly, eyes alight with barely contained mischief. “We've got some exploring to do.”

She'd almost completely forgotten what it was like to be a companion of the Doctor's. On Earth with Jack it had been all potatoes and gravy and hair rollers and corsets, with the Doctor it was never ending excitement and mischief, causing trouble and finding more fun than they usually knew what to do with. She felt, deep in her bones, that it was what she was meant for. _Born_ for, even.

She wanted to be a companion – a _friend_ – of the Doctor's; forever. She could only hope he would let her.

“So what's the story, then?” Mickey asked as they walked, sweeping his gun from side to side and creeping around each corner like he were playing Policeman #5 in an episode of some cliché procedural crime drama.

“Whatcha mean?” Hartley asked, much more casual as she strolled through the hallways. She was on alert, but she wasn't too worried about getting hurt. Now that she'd been trained by Jack, she could mostly take care of herself – not to mention the whole 'immortality' thing.

“Well, you were gone,” Mickey said obviously, and she resisted the urge to make a sarcastic comment in response. “When the Doctor did his changing thing on Christmas, I asked where you were and they said you were gone.”

“The answer to that question is a complicated one,” she warned him idly, scanning each corridor as they entered it, watching for any hint of danger.

“I'm sure I'll be able to keep up.”

Hartley breathed deeply, preparing herself for the monologue to follow. “Got stranded on a satellite a fair few centuries in the future, discovered the Doctor had abandoned me because I can now never die, then found myself on Earth in 1869 with Jack. Pretended to be married for convenience sake, made a lot of _really_ bad soup until I stumbled upon a rupture in space and time that sent me back to the Doctor, and I've been with him again ever since.”

Mickey was silent, blinking at the sudden onslaught of new information he'd just received.

“Maybe when we're done here she can explain it in more detail,” Rose suggested quickly, a smirk sitting on her lips. “She'll even be able to draw you a diagram if it'll help.” She gave her signature tongue-in-teeth grin, shooting a teasing look at the boy.

“That'd be helpful,” he nodded, still looking too bewildered by her response to bother getting annoyed by the joke at his expense. Before he could say any more, something dropped down into the space between them, pointing itself at the bewildered Mickey. He reared back in shock, then gathered his wits and recovered. “Are you looking at me?” he asked the camera theatrically before suddenly realising that in place of a usual lens was an eyeball. “Look at this,” he said to the girls, staring at the oddly placed eye. “That's an eye in there. That's a _real_ eye.”

No sooner had he spoken was the camera sucked back into the bulkhead. Rose approached cautiously, crouching down to pull at a small hatch beside where the eye had disappeared into. There was a haunting _thump-thump, thump-thump_ , and both her and Mickey crouched down to get a better look. Hartley had a sinking feeling that she knew what they would find, and refused to lean down to look.

“What is that? What's that in the middle there?” Mickey questioned confusedly. “Looks like it's wired in.”

“It's a heart, Mickey,” Rose answered him grimly, staring at the pumping organ bleakly, and Hartley thought to herself that she really _hated_ it when she was right. “It's a _human_ heart.”

“Come on,” Hartley prompted them, glancing over her shoulder warily. She could feel the weight of eyes on the back of her head, making her uncomfortable. They were being watched, she knew it on an instinctual level. She only hoped the Doctor was okay, wherever he'd ended up. “Let's keep looking.”

Rose grimaced as she shut the hatch, climbing back to her feet. Hartley reached down to help Mickey off the floor. He held his fire extinguisher tightly, swallowing loudly as he began to follow the two women out of the creepy, half-human corridor.

“Maybe it wasn't a real heart,” the kid whispered, clearly trying to convince himself it was true. Like a child telling themselves the monster under the bed wasn't real.

“ 'Course it was a real heart.” If Rose didn't feel so sick she might have rolled her eyes. Even Hartley had to sigh sympathetically at Mickey's naïve sense of hope.

“Is this like, normal for you?” he asked incredulously, and Hartley rolled the pipe over her shoulder, gripping it tightly as she kept an eye on each corner, just on the off chance there was a threat looming. “Is this an average day?”

“Life with the Doctor, Mickey,” Rose drawled. “No more average days.”

Hartley, who was walking ahead of them, taking on the roll of protector, stopped abruptly at a large set of windows where they could see into a beautiful room that was clearly located in France. The other two stopped beside her, Rose ducking out of the way of Hartley's makeshift weapon when it threatened to bop her on the head.

Hartley thought it was absolutely stunning – the beautiful craftsmanship of the walls, gold plating lining the décor. She wanted to step inside, but who knew what might happen if she did? Besides, she didn't want to leave Mickey and Rose unprotected.

“It's France again,” Mickey exclaimed, still not over the fact that they were on a spaceship yet somehow _looking_ into France. She supposed it all felt somewhat dreamlike to him – she knew that was how she'd felt, those first few adventures after she'd met the Doctor. “We can _see_ France,” he whisper-shouted eagerly.

“I think we're looking through a mirror,” Rose murmured.

A man sauntered into the room, nose held high in the air as he moved, two guards following after him like loyal pets. “Blimey, look at this guy. Who does he think he is?” Mickey asked through a scoff.

“The King of France,” the Doctor spoke up as he approached, hands tucked into his pockets, ultra casual as he gazed through the glass curiously.

“Oh, here's trouble,” Rose murmured amusedly, turning to look at the Doctor suspiciously. “What've you been up to?”

“Oh, this and that,” he said nonchalantly. “Became the imaginary friend of a future French aristocrat, picked a fight with a clockwork man...” There was a loud neigh that made Mickey jump violently, whirling around to stare at the horse behind them in shock. “Oh, and I met a horse,” he added blithely.

“What's a horse doing on a spaceship?” poor Mickey questioned in consternation, blinking at the animal blankly.

The Doctor's expression soured, and he grimaced at the kid, more than unimpressed. “Mickey, what's _pre-Revolutionary France_ doing on a spaceship? Get a little perspective,” he sneered rudely.

Hartley shot him a scolding look that he ignored with ease, and then when he wasn't looking she allowed herself a smile of guilty amusement.

“See these? They're all over the place. On every deck,” he continued smoothly, tapping silently on the glass mirror. “Gateways to history. But not just any old history.” A stunningly beautiful woman walked into the room with all the grace of a ballerina, coming to a stop in front of the king and dipping into an elegant curtsey. “Hers. Time windows deliberately arranged along the life of one particular woman. A spaceship from the fifty first century stalking a woman from the eighteenth. _Why_?”

“Who is she?” Rose asked curiously, clutching her fire extinguisher as she stared through the glass at the intimidatingly gorgeous woman, draped in the most beautiful, expensive fabrics and jewellery they'd ever seen.

Hartley suddenly felt embarrassingly plain in comparison, like a teddy bear next to a Barbie doll.

“Jeanne-Antoinette Poisson, known to her friends as Reinette,” the Doctor told them factually.

“That's Reinette?” Hartley asked with a gasp, staring at the gorgeous _adult_ woman in shock. “You mean _that's_ the little girl I spoke to through the fireplace not _fifteen_ _minutes_ ago?”

“The very same,” he confirmed cheerfully. “And she's one of the most accomplished women who ever lived.”

“So, has she got plans of being the Queen, then?” Rose asked as they watched her saunter up to the king, who looked more than a little pleased to see her, puffing up as she approached.

“No, he's already got a Queen,” the Doctor told her simply. “She's got plans of being his mistress.”

“Oh, I get it. _Camilla_.”

“I think this is the night they met. The night of the Yew Tree ball. In no time at flat, she'll get herself established as his official mistress, with her own rooms at the palace. Even her own title: _Madame de Pompadour_.”

The two beyond the mirror exchanged a handful of quiet words before the king and his servants left the room. Reinette floated over to the mirror, beginning to assess her appearance, smoothing her hands over her exquisite gown as if she weren't already completely and utterly perfect. “The Queen must have _loved_ her,” Rose commented slyly.

“Oh, she did,” the Doctor replied brightly. “They got on very well.”

“The king's wife and the king's girlfriend?” Mickey was incredulous.

“France. It's a different place.”

Hartley couldn't help but glance up at the Doctor, taking in the look of rapture splayed across his face as he stared through the window at Reinette. She felt an uncomfortable twist in her gut, but she put it down to tiredness and hunger. The Doctor could like whomever he liked, she just hoped Rose wouldn't get hurt in the process.

Reinette spun around suddenly, noticing the figure in the corner. “How long have you been standing there?” she demanded, voice muffled through the window. “Show yourself!”

It turned around, revealing itself to be the clockwork android from before, poorly disguised as a Frenchman. The Doctor reacted the fastest, swiping the fire extinguisher from Mickey's slack grip and darting through the window quicker than the others could process what was happening.

“Hello, Reinette,” he greeted her cheerfully as the others scrambled to follow him. “Hasn't time flown?”

“Fireplace man!” the beautiful woman shouted in pure shock just as the Doctor fired the device at the droid, dousing it in cold foam, causing it to seize up once again.

Hartley stopped beside Reinette, shifted slightly in front of her in a protective stance. Better her than _Madame de Pompadour_ , after all. Everyone went quiet, the only sound in the room the ominous creaking of the clockwork droid.

“What's it doing?” Mickey asked, voice at a laughably high pitch.

“Switching back on,” the Doctor answered ominously. “Melting the ice.”

“And then what?”

“Then it kills everyone in the room,” he replied grimly, before pepping back up in an instant, tilting back on his heels as he peered at the clockwork droid. “Focuses the mind, doesn't it? Who are you?” he asked it. “Identify yourself.” There was only silence, the android appearing to not have understood, or was simply refusing to respond. Hartley could see the answer hit the Doctor like a bucket of water. “Order it to answer me,” he instructed Reinette quickly, never taking his eyes off the droid.

“Why should it listen to me?” she demanded in confusion.

“I don't know. It did when you were a child,” he replied offhandedly. “Let's see if you've still got it.”

She still looked bewildered by the instruction, but did as she was told. Idly, Hartley thought suddenly that she'd make a brilliant addition to Team TARDIS, were she ever given the chance. “Answer his question,” she ordered the droid sternly. “Answer any and all questions put to you.”

“ _I am repair droid seven_ ,” it answered in a robotic voice.

“What happened to the ship, then?” the Doctor demanded. “There was a lot of damage.”

“ _Ion storm. Eighty two percent systems failure_.”

“That ship hasn't moved in over a year. What's taken you so long?”

“ _We did not have the parts_.”

“Always comes down to that, doesn't it? The parts,” Mickey mentioned with a sly grin that made Hartley's lips twitch.

“What's happened to the crew? Where are they?” the Doctor continued on, ignoring Mickey's interruption.

“ _We did not have the parts_.”

“There should have been over fifty people on your ship. Where did they go?”

“ _We did not have the parts_.”

It hit Hartley before it hit the Doctor, though she wasn't sure why. Maybe he just didn't want to see it. Disgust, horror and terror all swept through her, the force of it like a tidal wave, and she swallowed back a mouthful of bile.

“Fifty people don't just disappear!” the Doctor was quickly losing his temper. “Where. Did. They. Go?”

“Doctor,” Hartley shifted closer to him and gently rested a hand on his arm, taking note he was so cool that the temperature radiated through even his many layers. He looked down at her, confused by the interjection. “They didn't have the _parts_ ,” she spoke slowly, meeting his warm whiskey eyes and making sure he got the message.

He stared back at her, looking deeply into her cobalt eyes, figuring it out through her.

“Oh,” he finally breathed, blinking down at her for another beat before turning to stare at the droid in muted horror. “You didn't have the parts, so you used the crew,” he murmured with horrible realisation.

“The crew?” Mickey echoed confusedly, still not getting it.

Rose spoke up next, sounding as sick as Hartley felt. “We found a camera with an eye in it, and there was a heart wired into machinery,” she told the Doctor, blinking in shock as she realised what these things meant.

“It was just doing what it was programmed to,” he said, running a hand down his face as he considered what he was saying. “Repairing the ship any way it can, with whatever it could find. No one told it the crew weren't on the menu.” He paused, turning back to look at his three companions. “What did you say the flight deck smelt of?”

Rose looked ready to hurl. “Someone cooking.”

“Flesh plus heat. Barbecue,” he said grimly, watching as Mickey gagged and Hartley turned a soft green, before turning his attention back to the droid. “But what are you doing here? You've opened up time windows. That takes colossal energy. Why come here? You could have gone to your repair yard. Instead you come to eighteenth century France? Why?”

“ _One more part is required,_ ” it told them, robotic voice lacking all emotion.

The Doctor looked back at Reinette, brow furrowed as his mind raced. Obviously she was what they were talking about, but it still didn't make sense. “Then why haven't you taken it?”

“ _She is incomplete_.”

“What, so, that's the plan, then,” he looked just about ready to laugh. “Just keep opening up more and more time windows, scanning her brain, checking to see if she's _done_ yet?”

“Why her?” Rose's timid question surprised them, and Hartley turned away from the droid to look at her curiously. “You've got all of history to choose from. Why _specifically_ her?”

“ _We are the same_.”

“We are not the same,” the french aristocrat snapped, tone layered thick with disgust. “We are in _no_ sense the same.”

“ _We are the same_ ,” it repeated tonelessly.

“Get out of here,” she commanded in a shrill tone, its words getting under her skin. “Get out of here this instant!”

“Reinette, no,” the Doctor winced as the droid instantly teleported away with a flash of light. “It's back on the ship. Rose, take Mickey and Arthur. Get after it. Follow it. Don't approach it, just watch what it does.”

“Arthur?” Rose echoed confusedly.

“Good name for a horse.”

“No, you're not keeping the horse.”

“I let _you_ keep Mickey. Now go! _Go_!”

“And me?” Hartley rushed the words out quickly, grip tightening on the metal beam in her hands, prepared to use it in a flash if necessary.

Reinette was staring at her with wide eyes, watching the way she held the weapon, more than prepared to use it. She was so alien to her, so unlike any woman she'd ever seen before. She was an enigma, one from the fireplace man's world, exceeding comprehension and beyond imagination.

“ _You_ watch _them_. You know what to do if shots are fired,” the Doctor ordered Hartley hurriedly, gripping her shoulders and shoving her back onto the ship. Before she could say so much as a peep back he slammed the door shut on her and turned back to Reinette.

Hartley felt inexplicably shellshocked, like she'd been punched in the gut, winded and stunned. The Doctor wasn't suggesting anything that didn't make complete sense, he wasn't even suggesting something that she wouldn't do anyway, without hesitation.

He was saying, of course, that she was to take shots fired at the humans, letting them kill her instead. This was fine, as obviously she couldn't die, but for some reason it still hurt. She felt like the Doctor was saying her life meant less than Rose or Mickey's. She was aware this was ridiculous – she would be reanimated and they both knew it. She was being illogical, and she shoved the thought from her mind.

Squaring her shoulders and telling herself she was being stupid, she hurried after the others, lead pipe strung over her shoulders casually. She didn't know exactly where Rose and Mickey were on the ship, but she figured she'd follow the sound of the voices flooding the corridors.

“So, that Doctor, eh?” Mickey was saying, and she sped up, boots slapping against the metal floor quietly.

“What are you talking about?” Rose's voice snapped back irritatedly.

“Well – Madame de Pompadour...Sarah Jane Smith...Cleopatra...” he listed giddily, and she pushed herself faster, close to them now.

“Cleopatra. He mentioned her _once_.”

“Yeah, but he called her Cleo.” Rose let out a grunt of frustration while Mickey merely laughed. Hartley was only about a hall over from them, but she found herself slowing down when she heard her own name. “And what about Hart?” Mickey continued, tone still teasing, but Hartley felt anything but light at the mention.

“What about her?” Rose asked tightly.

“Surely you've seen the way he looks at her,” he goaded playfully.

“Course I have,” she growled back. “Like he wants to toss her out into open space and let her head explode.”

The words held an unexpected sting, and Hartley audibly gasped at the pain. She knew she wasn't the Doctor's favourite companion, or person in general. She was a death-defying impossibility that just generally made him uncomfortable, and that wasn't even mentioning the fact that he seemed to dislike her personality on a subatomic level. She knew this, and yet she still held onto hope that maybe he didn't dislike her _quite_ as much as he pretended to.

“Not _that_ look,” Mickey snorted, though Hartley certainly struggled to see the humour in the matter. “I'm talking about the one that says 'how can a creature as gorgeous as you _actually_ exist?'”

“He does _not_ look at her that way,” Rose disagreed sharply.

Mickey scoffed loudly. “You keep telling yourself that, Rose-”

“Mickey!” she shouted abruptly, and Hartley snapped out of her state of pure shock long enough to realise what was happening. The droids had found them, and they'd obviously attacked.

She now had two options. One, she could barge in and attempt to stage a rescue with nothing but a lead pipe and determination on her side, risking getting captured herself. Or two, she could run into pre-revolutionary France and find the Doctor, bringing him back to save them all.

She knew, given time, the Doctor would probably find his way back onto the ship and save them on his own, but to be honest, she couldn't take the risk that he'd be late. She wanted to be useful, to be a hero, to become somebody the Doctor didn't feel was nothing but annoying dead-weight worthy of a trip into space without a suit.

Decision made, Hartley spun around and raced back to the window, shoving it open mid-stride and barrelling into eighteenth century France for all she was worth.

If she hadn't been on a time-sensitive mission she would have stopped to appreciate the stunning French architecture, but as it was she had no time to notice the finer things, barrelling through the halls with all the speed of a terrified antelope. People stared at her in shock, not quite sure what to make of the oddly-dressed, half-naked, wild-eyed woman scurrying past them.

She wasn't sure where the Doctor was exactly, and she wrongly assumed she'd find him if she ran for long enough. After a solid few minutes of searching, she found nothing, several times narrowly avoiding being captured by the royal guards.

Finally she realised the castle of Versailles was far too big for her to search in her timeframe. A woman with dark curly hair and a pink dress was perched in a corner, staring at Hartley in bewilderment as she watched her rush up to meet her, a look of wary confusion on her pretty, dark features.

“Hello, hi,” Hartley greeted her in a rush, self-consciously smoothing her hands down the fabric of her skinny jeans, painfully aware of how awful she looked in comparison. “I'm looking for a party,” she said quickly, before the stunned lady could say anything. “A specific party, I mean. Uh, the king is meant to be there?” Surely there couldn't be more than one party happening the the castle at a time, but she had to be sure.

“Do you have an invitation?” the woman asked, eyeing her with thinly-veiled suspicion.

“Yeah, s'pose I do,” she blurted back impatiently, foot tapping anxiously against the marble floor. “Mind pointing me in the right direction? I'd hate to be late.”

The noblewoman sniffed delicately before pointing to the right with a perfectly manicured finger. “Follow that hall to the end, then take two lefts and a right. From there you should hear the music.”

“Thanks a bunch,” Hartley didn't waste time, spinning around and hurrying through the halls, keeping her ears attuned to every little sound, waiting to hear the music. The sound of a full orchestra met her ears, and she let out a relieved huff, speeding up as she hurried towards the sound.

She burst into the large ballroom, the fancily dressed people closest to the doors spinning around to stare at her in bewilderment, eyeing her and her grease-stained jeans like she was lower than the lowest on the totem pole of society. She ignored them with ease, whirling around every which way, desperately searching for the Doctor.

She spied him finally, surprised she hadn't earlier as he was the only one in the room not wearing something poofy and dramatic. He was in the middle of the dance floor, arms wrapped around Reinette as they danced to a waltz. She was staring up at him in wonderment while he kept his eye line above her head, looking very much like he longed to glance down at her, but refused to let himself.

Hartley wondered why that was.

She paused on her way to him, watching as he finally allowed himself a glance down, meeting Reinette's eyes with a soft look that she'd never seen him use before – at least, not with her. He'd been better since she came back, better than in the past at least, when he saw her as the suspicious threat he couldn't seem to get rid of, the tagalong he couldn't shake no matter how he tried.

She was struck with the sudden thought that she wanted him to look at _her_ like that, just once. She shook the idea away as she ploughed forwards, shouting to gain his attention. “Doc!” she yelled over the music, and the people next to her stopped dancing to stare at her blatantly, beginning to whisper amongst themselves, scandalised by her visible legs – she suddenly wished she'd put on something other than her ripped jeans that morning.

“Hart?” the Doctor pulled away from Reinette to stare at her dubiously, quite clearly annoyed by her interruption.

“ _You're_ the Heart?” Reinette asked suddenly, dropping her hands to her sides and glancing between her and the Doctor with narrowed, calculating eyes.

“Yeah?” Hartley's train of thought was momentarily derailed by the look of surprised understanding on the stunning aristocrat's face. “We met before, remember?” she said, pointing over her shoulder like that would in any way help jog her memory.

“Yes, but,” Reinette paused, staring at her knowingly. “It's just, I saw your name somewhere earlier...” she trailed off, glancing up at the Doctor with large eyes, who appeared suddenly uncomfortable as he hurried to divert their attention to something else.

“What is it?” he asked quickly, still annoyed by her interruption.

“Rose and Mickey,” she murmured back only just loud enough for him to hear over the music. “The droids have them hostage.”

“Then what're you doing here?” he snapped accusingly. “Why aren't you saving them?”

“Me?”

“Not like you can kick the bucket permanently,” he replied callously.

Something inside of her snapped, and she took a hasty step forwards as though about to shove him roughly, though she just held herself back. “Just because I _can't_ die, doesn't mean I _enjoy_ getting murdered over and over and over and _over_ again,” she hissed, reaching up a hand to stab him in the chest with her fingertip. He glanced down at the digit warily, as though it were a loaded gun and not a poorly manicured nail. “Stop throwing me to the wolves like my life is worth nothing to you,” she added through a snarl, “because for a guy with two hearts, you can be the most _heartless_ person I know, and I am _done_ with it.”

The Doctor looked taken aback by her strong words, and he swallowed in surprise. There was a glimmer of something in his eyes, something she couldn't quite put a name to. Was it remorse? Or maybe shame?

She recovered quickly, blinking as she came back to herself, realising she'd lost her temper in a way she couldn't ever recall doing previously. The Doctor was the only one capable of doing that, she'd found; making her feel crazy. “Are we saving Rose and Mickey or not?” she grumbled quietly, cheeks turning red as he stared at her with those wide eyes, the unnamed look within them only deepening.

“Right,” he nodded his head, pulling fully away from Reinette. He murmured something to her, most likely an excuse about leaving, and she reached for him, a saddened look on her flawless features.

He moved over to Hartley, swerving around the gathered dancers as he straightened his tie automatically. “Take that off,” she commanded, gesturing to his tie before stepping away and beginning to lead him through the crowd, back the way she'd come.

“What?” he asked bewilderedly, reaching up to touch the item with a confused frown. “Why?”

“Because while you were dancing with Madame De Pompadour, I was coming up with a plan.”

“And it involves my tie?” he asked skeptically.

“Yes,” she told him shortly, not bothering to glance back, still feeling awkward from her rather emotional outburst back in France. “So take it off; you're going to need it.”

They were quiet as they once again boarded the ship, slipping from the eighteenth century to the thirty-first like it was nothing – like stepping off a bus, or slipping through their front door.

“If we go in guns blazing, they're going to open fire on the both of them without hesitation,” she explained once they'd reached the bay of monitors displaying various views of the vessel, Mickey and Rose quite clearly held down on a set of tables, restrained and inches away from death by robot. “We need something to fight them with.”

The Doctor turned and rustled in a metal chest for a moment before finally pulling out a tin of liquid pulling it close enough to take a sniff before nodding his head. “Multigrain anti-oil,” he hummed, quite pleased by his find. “That'll do nicely. But how can we lower their defences enough to allow us to get close enough?”

Hartley just barely refrained from rolling her eyes, reaching for the loosened tie around his neck and lifting, bringing it up and over his head. “That's obviously what this is for, Doc,” she said like he should have known all along, slipping the material over his forehead before tightening it, securing it to his head. “One thing missing,” she realised, moving her hands down to his coat and prising it open.

He yelped, flinching away from her wandering hands as they crept inside his shirt.

“Oh relax,” this time she _did_ roll her eyes. “Your virtue will remain intact.”

He shot her a glare that lacked any real heat, so much so that it was more of an angry pout than anything else. She kept her hands from brushing his firm chest, instead rooting through his bigger-on-the-inside pockets to find what she knew was hidden within one of them. Finally her fingers clasped around a set of plastic sunglasses, and she pulled them from the depths of the pocket they were in, holding them up triumphantly, like a prize won from a skill machine.

“You want me to wear sunglasses?” he asked slowly, as though debating her sanity.

“I want you to do what you do best, Doctor,” she said back curtly, still hurt by his previous callousness and her subsequent realisation of how very little she actually meant to him. His brow furrowed, and he looked at her through narrowed, skeptical eyes. “I want you to _lie_.”

* * *

The Doctor played his part fluently, but was ultimately saved, as it so often happened, by luck. The droids teleported away before they had the chance to hurt any of them, all disappearing in flashes of digital colour.

“What's happening?” Rose demanded worriedly, staring around the room with wide, cautious eyes.

“One of them must have found the right time window,” the Time Lord explained in a hurry. “Now it's time to send in the troops. And this time they're bringing back her _head._ ”

Things were quiet for one long moment as the Doctor weighed his options, before suddenly bursting to life like a Christmas cracker, abrupt and jarring.

“There's a time window down the hall to the right, it _should_ lead to Reinette some years before her thirty-seventh birthday,” he told them factually, sparing them no glances as his fingers worked on the dash in front of them, scrambling to fix things, to save Reinette's life. “Someone needs to go and warn her.”

“I'll go,” Rose volunteered immediately, spinning around to leave.

“Actually,” the Doctor began over his shoulder, sonic in one hand as he worked. “I think Hart should do it.”

“I can do it,” the blonde was defensive, a sharp look on her face that surprised the Hartley greatly.

“I know you can,” he responded, both placating and distracted. “But we need someone with an inexplicable talent for comfort, and I think we all know that's Hartley.”

Hartley was stunned by his kind observation, unused to the Doctor complimenting her, however offhanded it may have been. Rose was fixing her with a dark look, the same one she'd thrown at Sarah Jane only the day before (had it really been so recent?). She wondered exactly what she'd done to warrant such a look.

“I don't think-” she began hesitantly, trying to fix whatever damage she'd unknowingly caused.

“No arguments, just go,” the Doctor snapped back concisely, sonic buzzing as he used it on a flashing monitor.

She exchanged a look with Rose, and was pleased to see the other girl seemed to have recovered from the brush off, smiling at her encouragingly before moving over to help Mickey with whatever it was he was doing.

“ _Now_ , Hart,” the Time Lord implored, and steeling herself with a decisive nod, she spun around and headed for the hall on the righthand side of the deck, shoes slapping against the metal flooring with moaned creaks.

There was a tapestry hanging where there should have been a window, and Hartley swallowed thickly as she pushed it back, stepping into pre-revolutionary France with her head held high. She hoped she was exuding confidence – confidence she didn't actually have. The Doctor trusted her to do this right, so by God was she going to nail it.

The corridor was empty, but she knew the woman wouldn't be far. Her footsteps were silent as she crept through the halls, peeking into each room as she moved. Two rooms later she popped her head through a doorway, locking eyes with Reinette, who jumped at her sudden appearance.

“You are the woman from all those years ago,” the Frenchwoman gasped in shock, fists tightening around the fabric of her elaborate cream gown. “The one with the name of an organ. The one from the Doctor's mind,” she breathed.

“Most people just call me Hartley,” she replied with a small cringe, knowing that whatever Reinette had seen of her in the Time Lord's mind couldn't have been good – he probably had whole rooms up there dedicated to how irritating he found her. “I'm here to warn you, Reinette,” she began, deciding to move on before she heard anything she'd rather she didn't. “We haven't got much time, but I need to tell you that they'll be coming for you in five years.”

“Five years?” Reinette repeated, horror in her eyes.

“It's going to be some time after your thirty-seventh birthday,” she continued sombrely.

“You are unable to give me a more exact date?”

“It doesn't work like that,” Hartley shook her head apologetically, smiling with a sincere sympathy.

“Then how _does_ it work?” she asked back sharply.

“It's...complicated,” she said with a wince, but Reinette only glared unhappily, so she knew she had to attempt to explain, even though time was running out. She also knew this was one of the most intelligent and accomplished women she would likely ever meet, and she had a feeling she'd understand whatever Hartley set in front of her. “In our world, we're on a ship that has windows spread through it at random – windows that lead to random points in _your_ life.”

Reinette nodded slowly, processing the confusing words. “So, there is a vessel in your world where the days of my life are pressed together like the chapters of a book, so that he may step from one to the other without increase of age while I, weary traveller, must always take the slower path,” she summarised with a heavy, understanding sigh.

“I can see exactly why the Doctor likes you so much,” Hartley told her lightly, smiling sadly across the room at the beautiful French aristocrat.

“And yet you don't see how he feels about you,” Reinette responded, gliding over the marble floors to approach the oddly dressed traveller, hands folded delicately across her middle.

“He doesn't like me,” she answered flatly. “It's not that hard to figure out.”

“I've seen inside his mind,” the French woman said smoothly, a glimmer of something in her shining eyes. “You mean more to him than you know.”

Hartley's heart leapt into her throat, and she didn't have any idea how she was supposed to respond to that. She wasn't even sure if she believed it to be true.

“So, in five years these creatures will return,” Reinette began seriously, head held high with genuine bravery that left Hartley feeling warmed, her cold sweat from a moment ago all but forgotten. “What can be done?”

“Stall them for as long as possible. They're going to listen to everything you say, so just _keep them talking_.”

“Until what?”

“Until the Doctor arrives.”

Hartley watched as Reinette lit up with unmistakeable hope. “He will be back, then?” she asked eagerly, taking a step closer. She dimmed when Hartley didn't answer. “Why couldn't he say this to me himself?” she questioned suspiciously, perfectly groomed brows pulling into a discontented frown.

“He will be there, Reinette, I promise you. In the moment you need him the most, he _will_ appear,” she assured her fervently. “He would never leave you in danger – none of us would,” she added, voice warm with her sincerity.

Reinette smiled, but the expression was grim. “I have seen this inherent kindness of yours as echoes in his mind,” she revealed gently, gazing across at Hartley like it was _her_ mind she'd looked into, and not the Doctor's. “He is awed by it.”

Hartley's heart skipped a beat at the strange, unorthodox compliment. “'Awed' is an awfully strong word,” she said quietly.

“It is the word _he_ used.” Hartley looked up in shock, blinking at the ever-so-slightly smug looking woman. “You are special to him.”

“Yeah, right,” she replied bitterly, reaching out to press a finger against one of the pure ivory keys on the piano she was perched against. A sweet note rang out in the still air between them, although the sound wasn't enough to bring Hartley out of the wave of sadness that suddenly threatened to drown her on the spot.

“Perhaps not in the most conventional way,” Reinette allowed gently. “But you are. Truly. And someday he will finally realise how to show it.”

Hartley appreciated the effort, but could do no more than bite her lip sadly, pressing one of the black keys, a darker sound reverberating around the marble-lined room, this one more satisfying than the first.

“These monsters, they are not the first you have faced, are they?” Reinette asked once the note had finally faded, watching the redhead with cool but intelligent eyes.

“Universe is full of monsters,” Hartley shrugged, knowing this to be the truth. “The three of us just happen to run into them more often than most.”

“One may tolerate a world of demons for the sake of an angel,” Reinette told her wisely, and Hartley smiled sadly, the words an exact echo of what she'd thought to herself in the past.

The Doctor and the universe's demons were something of a package deal. She wondered, suddenly, whether it was worth it. She'd thought it was – but could she have been wrong all along? Why should she stay where she was not wanted?

“ _Hart_!” Rose's voice echoed loudly from behind them, and Reinette spun around as though preparing for a fight.

“It's okay,” Hartley assured the startled woman gently. “It's just Rose.”

“Hart!”

Hartley rushed forwards, efficiently making her way back to the tapestry gateway and pulling the cloth to the side so she could peer back inside the ship.

“We found the window!” the blonde told her hastily, coming to an abrupt stop by the doorway. “The one where she's thirty-seven, it was on the deck all along!” Her look of breathless anticipation turned into a frown of worry when she caught sight of Reinette entering the ship behind Hartley, staring at the brave new world she'd stepped into with a look of curious bewilderment. “You can't be in here, the Doctor will go mad!” Rose hissed.

“It's alright, Rose,” Hartley assured her gently, turning to keep her eyes on the startled aristocrat, who peered around the stark, shadowed corridor with unbridled apprehension. It was – quite literally – an alien world. She had every reason to be terrified.

“So _this_ is his world,” Madame de Pompadour murmured with repulsed reverence, staring at the drab, depressing walls as though they would somehow provide insight into the Doctor's life. Hartley opened her mouth to tell her this wasn't the Doctor's world at all, but decided against it, choosing not to give Reinette any more confusing information than she could handle in a single conversation. “I've often dreamt what it might be like.”

“Is it what you expected?” Hartley asked, leaning against the cool metal wall and crossing her arms, watching Reinette's every move.

“I'm not sure,” she answered cryptically, frowning in deep thought. The sudden sound of terrified screams flooded the corridor, and Reinette flinched as she turned to the end of the hall where the sound seemed to be coming from. “What was that?” she gasped.

“The time window, the Doctor fixed an audio link,” Mickey said, jogging towards them, sounding out of breath and like he actually expected the out of place woman to understand any of it. “He wants to know what's taking so long.”

“We'll be right there, Mickey,” Rose replied tightly, still watching the French woman carefully.

“Those screams,” Reinette murmured, voice and eyes carrying the haunted gleam of someone who knew too much for their own good. “Is that my future?” As always, Reinette Poisson was far more intelligent than anyone really gave her credit for.

“Yeah,” Rose spoke up, peering back at the other blonde sympathetically. “I'm sorry.”

Reinette tilted her chin up with dignity, putting on a brave face that Hartley found she almost believed. “Then I must take the slower path,” she said calmly, as if she'd made peace with this fact.

“ _Are you there? Can you hear me? I need you now. You promised. The clock on the mantel is broken. It is time!”_

“That's my voice,” the present-Reinette gasped, glancing back down the corridor in shock.

“Guys, come on. We've got to go!” Mickey rushed them, glancing over his shoulder anxiously. “There's a problem.”

“Give us a moment, Mickey,” Hartley said quickly but gently, not taking her eyes from Reinette, feeling very much like she was her responsibility.

“But-” Mickey tried to argue.

“A moment, Mickey!” Rose interjected before he could say anything more, and he shot her a slightly wounded look before he turned tail and hurried back to the Doctor.

“Reinette,” Hartley began, stepping away from the wall to get closer to the worried looking woman, who stood gazing down the hallway where she obviously knew the Doctor was. So close but so very far – something Hartley knew a lot about. “Are you okay?”

“No, I'm very afraid,” Reinette admitted bravely, turning around decisively as she moved her attention to a stunned Hartley. “But you and I both know, don't we, Heart?” she added with a barely-there curl of her lips that one might call a smirk. “The Doctor is worth the monsters.”

She disappeared through the tapestry, the material fluttering with the movement. “Hart,” Rose said gently, reaching out to nudge her arm companionably. “We need to go. There isn't much time.”

“Coming,” she assured her quietly, finally turning away from the window and following Rose down the hall. She had to be there for the Reinette in any way she could, even if it just meant standing by as emotional support.

“You're not through yet?” Rose demanded, the two girls spilling into the room and hurrying over to where the Doctor was furiously tapping away at various keys and buttons covering the work panels of the room.

“They knew I was coming. They blocked it off,” he explained in a rush, growling in frustration when nothing seemed to work.

Hartley stared through the window, watching the frightened people as they desperately tried to escape the invading droids. “I don't get it. How come they got in there?” Rose questioned, looking through the portal with worry spread across her face.

“They teleported. You saw them. As long as the ship and the ballroom are linked, their short range teleports will do the trick.”

“Well, we'll go in the TARDIS!” she exclaimed, getting desperate.

“We can't use the TARDIS. We're part of events now,” he snapped back impatiently.

“Well, can't we just smash through?” Mickey asked, rightly confused.

“Hyperplex this side, plate glass the other. We'd need a truck.”

“We don't have a truck.”

“I know we don't have a truck!” he all but snarled back, and Hartley frowned, not liking the tension building in the room.

“Well, we've got to try something!” Rose shouted, gesturing wildly at the window.

“No. Smash the glass, smash the time window,” the Doctor said, unable to see a solution. “There'd be no way back.”

Everything was silent, no sound but Reinette's calm voice piercing the window and reaching their attentive ears. Nobody said anything, and the Doctor still looked completely clueless. An idea hit her, and she swallowed as she realised what this would mean.

“Doctor,” she caught his attention, he spun around to shoot her a piercing look, like he was asking for help with his eyes that he was too proud to say with his mouth. “We may not have a truck, but, well, we _do_ have a horse...”

“A horse?” he repeated dumbly. “What am I meant to do with – _oh_...” He was quiet for a beat, contemplating the move he was about to make very carefully. “Arthur!” he shouted, and as though trained, the horse trotted around the corner, coming to a stop in the doorway, cocking its head at them intelligently.

Rose was murmuring with Mickey, something about not giving up as the kid seemed to so desperately want to do. Neither were paying the other two travellers any attention.

“If I do this, I can't come back,” he said softly, clearly not wanting to gain Rose's attention, which confused Hartley more than anything. Why was he choosing her to speak with, and not Rose? What about his this didn't he want Rose to overhear? “I'll be stuck there, with no TARDIS, for over three hundred years.”

He was looking for reassurance, the kind she didn't know how to give him. She opened her mouth once, but unknown words got stuck in her throat, so she closed it again. More screams drifted from the window, and agony crossed the Time Lord's face, indecision warring within him. She hated to see him in pain, hated to see him so torn.

“Let me go,” she suggested in a flash that surprised herself.

The Doctor blinked at her wordlessly for a moment. “What?” he finally asked, bewildered.

“I age one year to every thousand – living through three centuries is nothing to me,” she lied. It was true, she wouldn't age – or die – but it would be a lonely, lonely existence. It would be over a hundred years until she would catch up to the nineteenth-century Jack whose timeline lined up with hers. Would she be able to handle it?

“You would do that for me?” the Doctor whispered, not seeming to know how to react.

“I'd do it for any one of you,” she said with the kind of passionate conviction that came from a deep-seated love. “You're my family.”

The look in his eyes was indescribable, like he was reading every thought she'd ever had, thinking over every conversation they'd ever engaged in, analysing every expression she'd ever made. He looked at her like he saw her soul laid bare before him, and he was running his fingers through her, discovering exactly what she was made of.

“Okay,” he finally agreed, bobbing his head once in acceptance.

Her heart fell into her stomach, but she tried to be brave as she nodded her head, reaching for the horse's reins. She could do this – she had to, for all their sakes. If she didn't, Rose and Mickey were trapped on this ship with no way of leaving. It just made sense that she were the one to go – besides, if she did there was always a chance of her being yanked back to the Doctor as she always was.

She had the best odds in this – so she sure as hell was going to step up to the plate and take one for the team. For all of their sakes.

“I guess I'll see you later, then, Doc,” she said, trying her best to sound flippant and unaffected. However her trembling voice have her away.

“I guess you will,” he replied quietly, staring down at her one extra second before abruptly gripping the horse's reins and leaping up into its saddle. “Allons-y, Hartley Daniels,” he grinned, digging his heels into the horse's sides and taking of in a canter.

“Doctor!” Hartley shouted after him, heart thundering in her chest with a mixture of shock and panic.

“Doctor?” Rose's distressed voice added to her cries, but he didn't spare either of them a glance. “ _Doctor_!” she shouted again in the same moment that Arthur leapt through the window, destroying the connection forever and trapping each of them on opposite sides of time and space.

There was a moment of dazed silence. Nobody knew how to react.

“What just happened?” Mickey eventually asked, staring at the slab of blank wall where the window used to be, a blank, stupefied look on his face. “Where did the time window go? How's he gonna back?”

Rose couldn't answer, and Hartley glanced over in time to spy a tear trickling down her cheek, the look on her face one of absolute devastation. Her heart bled for the girl, but she had one thing Rose didn't; hope.

“Rose,” Hartley began quietly, stepping closer to rest a hand on her friend's shoulder.

The blonde ripped away from her with all the force of a startled animal, whirling around to shoot her the most furious glare Hartley had ever received. “You knew this would happen!” she accused her venomously, having spotted her conversing with the Doctor only moments before his disappearance.

Hartley didn't know what to say, other than that she couldn't lie, not after everything they'd been through. “Yes,” she admitted reluctantly. Rose was shaking, so distraught over the events of the last hour. “But Rose, I can control what the Doctor does and doesn't do just about as much as I can control the weather,” she argued, made wary by the wrathful glint to Rose's eyes.

“Mickey, go wait in the TARDIS,” Rose said, her voice scarily calm.

“I don't think-” the kid began to argue.

“I'd love some tea, Mickey,” Hartley interjected, looking away from Rose to smile at the younger boy. “Why don't you go make some? And put out some jammy dodgers, while you're at it?”

Throwing his hands up in the air, Mickey muttered something about 'not being their bloody butler', but ultimately didn't argue, turning and stalking back towards the TARDIS sulkily. This left Hartley and Rose in an all-encompassing silence so loud that her ears rang.

“Why didn't you _stop_ him?!” Rose finally demanded wetly, and Hartley's stomach clenched at the sight of her glassy hazel eyes. “He's stuck there, because you told him to do it!” Hartley said nothing, letting her get it all out first. “You just _let_ him _go_ ,” she hissed emotionally.

“Nobody _lets_ the Doctor do anything, Rose,” she reminded her gently.

“He didn't even say goodbye to me,” Rose continued forcefully, pressing her lips into a thin line as she struggled to keep control of her emotions. “But he said goodbye to _you_ ,” she said it like an accusation, as though Hartley was suddenly guilty of something.

“Rose,” Hartley began patiently, “the Doctor barely tolerates Mickey on a good day, and one look into _your_ eyes would have changed his mind.” Rose's devastated, furious expression didn't drop. “Don't you get it? He only chose me to speak with because he didn't want to be talked out of it.”

“That's not all it was, and you know it, Hartley,” she argued sadly.

“What exactly is it you're trying to accuse me of?” Hartley asked, moving past understanding onto tired exasperation. “Stealing the Doctor from you?” Rose seemed taken aback by the response, floundering to find a fitting reply.

_I was here first_ , the childish, petty half of Hartley wanted to remind her, but she was better than that. She didn't even believe it to be a valid argument, anyhow.

“Nobody could steal the Doctor from you, okay?” she promised Rose quietly. “The guy's totally gone on you, yeah?”

Though Rose's eyes were still wet, she flushed a light pink of embarrassment. “It's not like that,” she denied it weakly.

“I know,” Hartley agreed without sincerity, and Rose blushed a slightly darker shade, reaching up to run her fingers under her eyes, wiping away her leaking mascara marks. “You've gotta have more confidence in yourself, Rosie,” she said softly, shuffling closer and reaching out to gently grasp onto her arm, squeezing comfortingly.

Rose sniffled. “You really grew a lot while you were stuck on Earth, huh?” she murmured in a scratchy voice.

Hartley grinned widely, finding the expression to only be half forced. “I _am_ technically thirty, you know,” she reminded her, and Rose gave a watery laugh that went on for a beat too long before quickly morphing into sad little sobs. Tutting, Hartley pressed against her, wrapping one arm around her back and the other hand coming up to press against the back of her head, stroking her hair soothingly while she cried.

“What if he never comes back?” Rose asked tearfully, voice muffled by Hartley's oversized, off-grey sweater.

“He will,” Hartley assured her weakly.

“But it's impossible!” she argued into her jumper. “He said it himself!”

“What's rule number one?”

Rose gave a pitiful little laugh. “The Doctor lies,” she answered thickly.

“And sometimes he doesn't even know he's doing it,” Hartley continued in reassuring agreement.

“Do you know something he doesn't?” Rose asked with another sniffle, pulling away from Hartley and embarrassedly mopping at her dripping makeup.

“No,” she answered easily. “But I have faith in him. He'll find a way to get back to you.”

Rose smiled, the expression slightly more cheerful than it had been a moment ago. “ _Us_ , Hartley,” she corrected her gently, “back to _us_.”

* * *

“Rose?” the Doctor's brilliant voice flooded the halls, and Rose looked up sharply from her lap, scrambling to her feet and very nearly tripping over herself in the process. “Hartley?” he continued in the same breath, and the brunette stood to her feet, much more calmly than Rose. “Mickey?” he added a little reluctantly, and the sound of it made Hartley smile.

The Time Lord finally appeared around the corner, barely having a chance to smile at them before Rose threw herself into his arms, squeezing him with everything she had. “Doctor!” she gasped happily as he hefted her up, grinning brightly into her yellow hair. “We were so worried.”

“Some of us less so than others,” Hartley commented cheekily, watching the beaming pair with a smile.

“How long did you wait?” he questioned, pulling away from Rose only to grin down at her even more brightly, probably relieved to be looking at her at all after the scare he'd just had.

“Five and a half hours,” she told him through her giddy smile.

“Great!” he enthused. “Always wait five and a half hours.”

He stepped over to Mickey, and there was an awkward beat before he held out a hand, gripping Mickey's and shaking it delightedly. “Woulda panicked, but Hartley insisted we stay calm,” the boy told him with a grin, shaking back before pulling away and stepping to the side.

Hartley wasn't sure if the Doctor would want to look at her, much less shake her hand, but he surprised everyone by swooping in for a hug, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and squeezing. She reacted immediately, winding her own arms around his waist and holding on tightly, revelling in the rare display of affection.

“I'm mad at you, y'know?” she muttered into his chest, words muffled by his jacket.

“Figured you would be,” he replied quietly, a hint of warmth in his voice as he squeezed once more, before letting go and stepping away.

“Where've you been?” Rose asked him around another laugh of relief.

“Explain later,” he assured her succinctly. “Into the TARDIS,” he instructed, waving them into the ship with quick motion. “I'll be with you in a sec.”

Mickey and Rose filed onto the TARDIS, the door clicking shut after them. Hartley watched the Doctor for an extra moment before he darted away, swinging himself back up a level and heading directly for the fireplace. The moment she was alone she slumped against the outside of the TARDIS, relief making her body flood with exhaustion.

She took a moment to compose herself, rubbing the heels of her palms into her eyes and breathing deeply into her diaphragm. Once she was sure she was okay, she opened the door to the ship and stepped inside.

“Hart?” Rose asked as she slipped into the control room, taking in the tired, drawn look on her face. “You alright?”

She forced a smile onto her lips, squeezing Rose's shoulder as she passed. “See, everything worked out,” she said as brightly as she could manage.

“Yeah,” Rose winced. “Sorry for losing it at you before,” she apologised softly, if not a little awkwardly. “It was wrong of me – I'm just glad it all worked out. You were right. As usual.”

“And don't you forget it,” Hartley piped with a cheeky grin, reaching up to ruffle her hair playfully before turning towards the door leading to the hallway. “I'll be back,” she called over her shoulder, and there was no response for which she was grateful, escaping into the halls of the ship and allowing the convincing smile to drop into a more neutral expression.

She walked through to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water, gulping it down as though it were the stronger drink she felt she really needed. Her dad had always told her to never drink when she was upset, however, and it was advice she mostly heeded.

She swiped a magazine from the counter, the issue of _Fashion for the Modern Alien_ that she'd been reading only just that morning. It felt like a lifetime ago now, and even the picture on the front cover looked unfamiliar.

She set the kettle to boil, deciding that while alcohol may have been a bad idea, tea most definitely wasn't. She sat at the table, reclining in her seat and cracking open the glossy pages, peering at the sets of moving pictures that spun around in loops, the technology still somewhat baffling, but at the same time fascinating, as she watched the purple-skinned model spin in circles, her bright orange gown fanning out around her like something from a technicolour fairytale.

She was entranced, but at the same time numb as she stared at the paper. She found she couldn't be bothered enough to change the page, content the stare at the moving image as she got lost in thought.

She didn't even notice someone had walked into the room until the chair beside her was noisily dragged out from the table. She look up in surprise, only for apprehension to flood her face when she realised it was the Doctor, watching warily as he sat himself in the empty seat, placing a mug of steaming liquid down in front of her.

She hadn't even been aware somebody else had been in the room, much less completed the loud task of making a cup of tea. She reached out cautiously, wrapping her palms around the warm ceramic, quietly sighing at the heat that radiated beneath her skin.

She looked up with a soft smile, but was met with something morose and sad. The strength of it surprised her, and she blinked at him silently, wondering what could have possibly happened in the last ten minutes to make him go from ecstatic-ball-of-energy to sullen-Time-Lord so suddenly.

“What's this?” she asked softly, gesturing to the tea rather than ask about his state of emotional wellbeing.

“Tea,” he responded matter-of-factly, and if she'd been brave enough, she would have shot him an exasperated roll of her eyes. “Or, more precisely, a peace offering.”

The words were more surprising than the action. She looked up at him in shock, forgetting her apprehension and meeting his sparkling whiskey gaze. “But you didn't do anything,” she said plainly, blinking her bright blue eyes at him in confusion. She was the one who'd lost her temper at _him_? Shouldn't she be the one apologising?

He smiled, but the expression was so sad that she found herself unable to mirror it. “I think I wanted you to know that _you_ didn't do anything, Hart,” he said quietly, tapping his fingers against the wooden tabletop in an uneven beat.

“I'm lost,” she admitted reluctantly, delicate brows pulled into a confused frown.

“I've never been...I've never been very nice to you,” he began slowly, like it was tough for him to admit. Hartley's eyebrows flew up to her hairline, and her pulse quickened, fingers tightening around the warm mug in her hands. “And you deserve to know why.”

Mouth dry, Hartley could only stare back at him silently.

“When you were spat out onto the TARDIS, it was exactly twenty hours and thirty-four minutes since the war had … since _I_ ended the war,” he told her, voice even and measured, filled with an intentional control to keep himself level. He stared down into his own mug of tea, and she stared at him, taking in his long lashes and messy hair, the hunched position of his shoulders and the sad frown pulling at his pink lips. “I wasn't ready for someone like you to come into my life, and your innocence, your _kindness..._ your perpetual sense of pure _wonderment_ with the universe _–_ it was too much for me to handle.”

He looked up, pinning her with the full force of his warm brown eyes, and she was frozen in place, staring back at him wordlessly.

“I never _disliked_ you, Hartley,” he told her honestly, tapping his pointer finger against the ceramic of his old purple mug. “I was envious of you.”

“ _Envious_ of me?” she parroted in disbelief.

“You've always seen the beauty in absolutely _everything_ , even me,” he admitted quietly, dropping his piercing gaze once more. “I didn't think I deserved it, so I resented you for it. And I'm sorry for that.”

Hartley was surprised she didn't drop unconscious from the shock of it all. “Why're you telling me this?” she eventually found the strength to ask, voice sounding as befuddled as her barrage of stunned thoughts.

“She told me I should,” he answered evenly, and she knew immediately that he was talking about Reinette. “Besides,” he added, meeting her stare once again, “I'm done resenting you. It's time to start being friends – _proper_ friends.” A tiny, tiny smile flickering to life on his lips. “The universe seems to think it's imperative we are, at any rate. Why else would we be cosmically-magnetised?”

Still dazed from the shock of it all, she took a deep sip of tea to ground herself. She was silently surprised by how good it tasted, made exactly how she liked it. When had he learned how she took her tea?

There were so many things she could say, so many questions she wanted to ask and things she wanted to bring up, but she knew now wasn't the time. There'd been enough growth between them for one day.

Instead she quirked up her lips into a tiny smirk and asked, “is the whole 'cosmically-magnetised' thing _real_ , or did you make it up because you didn't know what else to call it?”

The Doctor laughed, the sound barking and surprised, like he hadn't expected her to be able to draw it from him. He slumped in his chair in something like relief, and she grinned at him happily, practically bursting from the seams with delight.

A gentle silence passed, this one soft and soothing, leaving her feeling as warm as any conversation might have. “What happened to Reinette?” she finally asked, once her tea was all gone.

The Doctor didn't reply, and she looked up to see the drawn, pained expression on his face.

“Oh,” she murmured in realisation, bowing her head in a moment of unexpected sorrow. As far as Hartley knew, she'd barely lived for a day. It seemed so unfair, but in reality, she'd lived a whole life. Hartley wished that made her feel better about the whole thing.

“Things happened the way they were meant to,” the Doctor eventually said, though there was a note in his voice that made her wonder whether he actually believed what he was saying. “I couldn't exactly have just run away with Madame de Pompadour. What would have happened to history?”

She smiled, the expression rueful and sad. “I wish one of us believed that,” she murmured gloomily.

“Yeah,” he agreed sullenly, folding his hands together on the table.

They shared another companionable silence, before a quote came to Hartley, as they always did in times of trouble and hardship. “ _Memories warm_ _you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart,_ ” she said gently, more an absent afterthought than anything else.

“Tolkien?” he guessed lightly.

“Murakami,” she corrected with a hum. Things were quiet for another beat, until she knew she needed to break it. “Are you alright?” she asked gently.

“ 'Course I'm alright,” he said blithely, and though he meant the words to sound chirpy, all she could hear was the miserable sadness behind them.

“I wish one of us believed that,” she repeated softly, lips quirking up once more in a sort of bitter amusement.

The Doctor sighed, the sound all Hartley could hear. “Yeah,” he agreed once more, and with that the pair sank into a final comfortable but somber silence, finding solace in each other as they hadn't yet discovered, the quiet filled with hope of a friendship to come.


	20. Axton and Earhart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, so this one is a rather long one (which is saying something, considering most of my chapters are long) just a brief warning. I really like it, and I hope you do too. So buckle in for another original adventure with Hartley and the TARDIS crew. 
> 
> I imagine the character of Nathan to look something like Jensen Ackles, for those of you interested.

**AXTON AND EARHART**

“ _Passion is energy. Feel the power that comes from_

_focusing on what excites you.”_

Oprah Winfrey

* * *

“You want to meet _who_?”

The look on Rose's face was hopeful but also confident – she knew as well as the rest of them that the Doctor could never actually deny her anything. “I remember studying Amelia Earhart at school,” she said sweetly. “She was my hero for the whole of seventh grade.”

The Doctor sighed, like she was asking too much, before rolling his eyes and yanking on the correct lever, sending them into the vortex. “So, we're just gonna go back in time and meet Amelia Earhart?” Mickey questioned, disbelief spread across his features, like he could barely comprehend that this was something they could do with the mere push of a button.

“Get used to it, Mickey,” Rose grinned.

Mickey turned to Hartley like she would share the sentiment of gleeful excitement, but she merely smirked from where she was reclined on the jump seat, tossing a gummy bear into the air and catching it in her mouth, trying not to look too surprised when it actually worked.

“Don't go getting any ideas about stopping her from disappearing,” the Doctor barked abruptly, beginning to type something on the keyboard as he spoke. “Any attempts at derailing history will have you kicked off the TARDIS before you can say 'transatlantic'.” He paused, turning to level a serious stare at each of his companions, old and new alike. “Clear?”

“Crystal,” Rose and Hartley both chirped, unbothered by his mood, while Mickey sat looking vaguely perturbed.

“Now,” the Time Lord burst out, an eager grin spreading across his face, the abrupt change in mood just about giving the others whiplash. “We're landing a few days before she leaves for her trip,” he said easily. None of them had to ask _which_ trip. “Best to go then, don't want to alter anything by interrupting the early stages of the planning!”

“What–?” Mickey attempted to question, but the Doctor was already moving forwards.

“Gotta say, I like the choice,” he told Rose cheerfully. “I've always wanted to meet good old Miss Earhart, she sounds like she'd be a hoot.”

“Did you just un-ironically say 'hoot'?” Hartley teased, hopping off the seat and bouncing over to the console, standing beside the Doctor as he worked the controls.

“Shut up,” the Time Lord told her, though the words lacked their usual edge.

Their relationship was moving forwards, albeit rather slowly. No longer was there dry words and distrustful suspicion hovering between them. Their talk in the kitchen that day had fundamentally changed something in their friendship – and that's what it was now, a _friendship._

“Here we are, then!” he proclaimed as the ship gave a _bing_ and they landed with a gentle shake. “Miami, 1937,” he grinned, throwing the doors open and waving them out into the daylight.

Mickey hesitated in the doorway, but Hartley gently herded him forwards, pushing him into the sunlight. There were on a strip of tarmac revealed to be the airstrip of a small, nondescript airport.

“We're _really_ in the 1930s?” Mikey asked slowly, glancing down at the ground beneath his feet and tapping his shoes against the tarmac, as though he might find it to be made of nothing but styrofoam, the whole thing some kind of elaborate con.

“What, pre-revolutionary France on a spaceship is all well and good, but an airstrip in the 30s is just a little too much to believe?” the Doctor asked in a biting tone, and Micky took a break from closely examining the rocks below his feet to scowl at him in irritation.

“Ignore him,” Hartley told Mickey with an easy roll of her eyes. She wound her arm through Mickey's and began to drag him along. The airstrip in front of them seemed mostly abandoned, but turning around, she found they'd materialised outside of a massive aircraft hangar, its doors half shut, although she could hear the sounds of activity drifting through the crack between them.

“How do you know she's here?” Mickey continued curiously, eyes still narrowed, and Hartley got the feeling he was _trying_ to poke holes in the Doctor's actions. She pinched the human boy on the arm in silent reprimand, but it had little impact.

“Looked up accounts of where she'd be on this particular day,” the Time Lord shrugged with a casual sniff. “Besides, it's almost time for her trip – I doubt she's going to stray far from the preparations.”

“So, how does this work, exactly?” he asked, and the Doctor began to look annoyed by the endless stream of questions. Rose rolled her eyes in Hartley's direction, and the older woman responded with a hint of a smirk at the typical dynamic. “Who do we say we are? Surely they won't just _let_ us inside.”

Before the Doctor could answer, they all noticed a rather large man slipping out from the hangar and walking up to them, a deep frown on his face. “Gentlemen, ladies, I'm going to have to ask you to leave,” he said as he got close enough to be heard, his large arms crossed over an intimidatingly broad chest. He wore a standard vintage military uniform, the green fabric clinging to his impressive muscles. “This is military property.”

“No, no,” the Doctor said with an effortless smile, fishing out the psychic paper from one of his deep pockets and presenting it cheerfully. “We have permission to be here.”

The man looked skeptical, but as he took the paper and scanned it his eyes went wide in surprise. When he finally handed it back, he seemed chastised for his previous brusque manner. “My apologies, Doctor,” he said to him respectfully. “I didn't realise.”

“Easy mistake to make,” the Doctor sniffed. “Not in uniform; casual Friday, and all.” The man nodded like he knew exactly what this meant, though Hartley was pretty sure he had no idea. “This is my team: Doctor Smith,” he said, gesturing to Mickey, who suddenly didn't seem to know what to do with his hands and ended up positioning them on his hips awkwardly, like some kind of uncomfortable superhero. “And Nurses Tyler and Daniels,” he finished with a nod at the two women, who were significantly more relaxed under the attention, smiling at the man sweetly.

“You need four people to complete a medical preliminary?” he asked carefully, eyeing each of them with a skepticism that was, in all honestly, quite warranted.

“We like to be extra thorough,” Hartley spoke up with her most charming smile pasted on her lips, and the man actually looked properly dazed for a moment, making Hartley's smile grow. He was kind of cute, now that she thought about it. Maybe a few years younger than her, but taller, with a heart-stopping jawline and sparkling, forest green eyes.

“And you're _all_ British?” he continued warily, finally dragging his eyes away from Hartley and her sparkling, dimpled smile, looking back at the Doctor.

“That a problem?” Rose asked, voice sweet – although the steely glint to her eyes wasn't one to take lightly.

“Of course not, ma'am,” he told them quickly, growing uncomfortable under her stare. Maybe he wasn't quite as confident as he'd first appeared, Hartley realised with another curious once-over.

“Brilliant,” the Doctor grinned widely, seeming not to notice. “What's your name, soldier?”

“Major Nathan Hobbs, sir,” the military man replied obediently, spine straightening as his hands shot into place behind his back. Hartley took a moment to appreciate the way his eyes seemed to glow in the sunlight.

“Great name,” the Doctor continued to beam, giving the area a cursory glance before gesturing towards the still-closed doors to the hangar. “May we?” he asked politely.

“Right, yes, of course,” the Major said quickly, spinning on his heel with grace and marching towards the doors, pulling them open to reveal what lay beyond.

The hangar was _full_ of busy, rushing people, mostly mechanics and military personnel. All the activity hovered around a single plane in the centre of the large, spacious room. A row of desks sat in the corner, people sitting at them tapping away on glistening typewriters, the sound carrying in the acoustic-friendly room.

The Major had paused beside Hartley, hands clasped professionally in front of him as he stared at the action filling the room.

“You all certainly look very busy,” she said to him conversationally, blue eyes sweeping the room, keeping an eye out for anyone who looked like they might be Earhart herself.

“This sort of mission doesn't plan itself,” he told her seriously, and she glanced over in time to see him look away from her, making her smile grow.

“What's your job in all this, then?” she asked gently, turning away from the hustle and bustle to look at him properly, tugging at the sleeves of her hoodie.

“Just security, ma'am,” he said evenly.

“None of that,” she waved off his propriety. “Call me Hart.”

“Hart?” he asked, confused, and she grinned widely.

“It's my name.”

“Right, of course,” he nodded, and she wondered whether she were imagining the tint of pink to his sharp cheekbones.

“Well, we could always stand around here and watch Hartley and the Major flirt some more, _or_ we could go find Ms Earhart and get started,” the Doctor's voice was dry and unimpressed. The Major _definitely_ turned pink this time, and Hartley tutted the Doctor in annoyance. He didn't seem to care, motioning for the military man to lead them to Amelia Earhart with a flat expression that matched his voice.

“Right this way,” Nathan said with a professional sweep of his arm.

The others all fell into line after him, heading deeper into the hangar, towards a small part that looked to have been sectioned off. Rose was practically vibrating in her excitement, and Hartley nudged her in the ribs with a gentle laugh.

“ _Amelia Earhart_ , Hart,” Rose hissed at her, bordering on giddy.

The Doctor snorted from ahead of them. “Yes, the repetition is hilarious, Doctor,” Hartley said with all the patience of a seasoned parent, smirking and rolling her eyes playfully at Rose, who smothered a chuckle in response. “How many times do you think he'll make that joke while we're here?” she added to Rose in a conspirational undertone.

“Oh, at least three more,” Rose grinned back.

“Let the countdown begin,” she whispered, and Rose laughed again. Mickey looked over at them through a frown, wondering how they could be so at ease. They were in aircraft hangar in the 1930s, surrounded by gun-wielding, trigger happy Americans, being led around by an alien who he was pretty sure only _pretended_ to know what he was doing the majority of the time.

“Lighten up, Mickey,” Rose said to him, elbowing him softly in the ribs.

“I'm just wondering if this was such a great idea,” he murmured back, eyeing the guards watching them with a critical eye, hands placed casually over their weapons.

“We're only meeting Amelia Earhart,” Hartley reminded him. They'd done plenty more risky things in the past, and besides, could things really go _that_ wrong? She knew immediately that the answer was yes, and regretted thinking it at all.

“Ms Earhart?” the Major spoke from ahead of them, his voice perfectly cordial and appropriate. “The Doctors are here for your preliminary.”

He stepped aside, revealing the very woman they'd travelled through time and space to meet. She was short, shorter than even Hartley, with a face of pale skin and sharp angles. Her hair was cut short, the style choppy and convenient, and she greeted the four travellers with a smile that was marred slightly by confusion.

“I thought they were sending Dr Newton?” she said in surprise, her brown eyes flickering between them intelligently.

“He couldn't make it,” the Doctor said, stepping forwards, his long coat sweeping the ground as he took eager steps towards the pilot, hands already outstretched. “He sent us in his stead. I'm the Doctor,” he told her brightly, shaking her hand vigorously when she took it, a wide grin on his face that made Hartley giggle. “Very pleased to meet you, Ms Earhart.”

“Amelia, please,” she said kindly, smiling at him before looking over his shoulder at the trio behind him, staring at her rather blatantly. Mickey, in particular, was making no effort to keep his cool. “If you're the Doctor, then who're they?” Amelia asked him curiously, crossing her arms over her chest. “Your assistants?”

“Something like that,” he said flippantly, and Rose hurried forwards eagerly.

“I'm Rose,” she said, shaking her hand politely. “I'm a huge fan. I have _so_ many questions to ask you.”

Amelia looked taken aback by her enthusiasm, but still smiled all the same. “I look forward to trying to answer them,” she replied with genuine kindness, eyes flickering over to Mickey and Hartley, who stood off to the side, giving her space. “And you are?”

“That's Hartley and Mickey,” the Doctor introduced them before Hartley had a chance, tossing them a cursory look and a wave of his hand.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Amelia warmly.

“You know what I would like to do, before anything else, is take a good look at your plane,” the Doctor continued without pausing for a breath, already leaning around the barriers in an attempt to get a better look at the machine sitting in pride of place in the middle of the hangar.

“But, aren't you a medical doctor?” she asked with a confused frown. “Why would you need to see my plane?”

“I'm an aviation enthusiast,” he said blithely. “Something of an expert, actually,” he sniffed.

Amelia seemed to ponder this for a long few moments before finally nodding. “I'm always happy for an opportunity to show the Old Girl off,” she eventually said, turning and beginning to head in the direction of her plane. The Doctor looked about ready to explode from his eagerness, and Hartley shot Mickey an exasperated grin as they followed them back through the hangar. “This is the Electra,” the pilot continued proudly, holding out a hand, presenting the ship to them like an artist might display their work.

Hartley felt a body brush hers and looked over to see the Major – Nathan – standing just a tad closer than was socially acceptable. He seemed to realise this in the same instant, flushing pink again and taking a large step backwards, his spine perfectly straight, arms held respectfully behind his back. Hartley grinned warmly, turning back to the plane with her smile lingering.

“And you're going to circumnavigate the globe,” Rose was saying to Amelia brightly. “That's amazing. Do you really think you can do it?”

“I know I can,” said the woman confidently. “Because I've got _this._ ”

She crouched down by her plane, and after a beat the others all did the same, staring in an attempt to see what she was talking about. Amelia reached up, tapping on a large sort of box strapped to the underside of her plane. It was shinier than the rest of the mechanics down there, the metal sparkling and patterned, looking, quite literally, like something they might find in the future (and they would know).

“What is that?” asked the Doctor, pulling his glasses from his pocket, slipping them onto his nose and squinting at the out of place object.

“I don't pretend to know much about the technical side of things,” she began to explain, “but from what my partner tells me, this is the most revolutionary piece of technology in aviation _history._ ”

“What does it do?” asked Hartley warily. She'd been travelling with the Doctor long enough to know how to spot trouble like this from miles away.

“Converts oxygen into fuel,” said a new voice, and the group jumped at the interjection, spinning in their crouched positions to eye the newcomer, a tall man with slicked back, raven hair.

“Sorry, _what_?” the Doctor asked, incredulity in his voice. He stood abruptly to his feet, eyes narrowed suspiciously at the man, who merely smiled calmly. “Converts...” the Doctor trailed off, unable to even finish his sentence, the shock too strong. “That _isn't_ _possible._ ”

The man smirked, unperturbed. “I assure you, sir, as the leading expert in my field, it is _entirely_ possible,” he told them evenly. Hartley didn't like the look of him, didn't trust the self-serving glint to his beady eyes.

“That kind of technology doesn't appear for _millennia_ yet,” the Doctor corrected him in a snap.

The man's calm facade cracked, a spark of shock appearing in his eyes. Acting on instinct, Hartley intervened. “What he means is, we as a society don't have the means for a device such as this to be anything more than theoretical,” she covered smoothly. “And we won't have for thousands of years to come, by our best estimate,” she added, calm under the intense stare the man was giving them.

There was a tense pause as the two groups eyed one another, equal suspicion in their gazes. “Doctor, this is my partner and head engineer, Axton Elliot,” said Amelia, picking up on the strange tension but electing not to bring attention to it, stepping into the empty space between the two entities with a slightly forced smile. “Axton, this is the Doctor and his assistants.”

“And why does the doctor need to see the plane?” asked Axton in a tense, sneering sort of voice.

“I'm a fan of aviation,” said the Doctor, voice suddenly the opposite of friendly. “ _Axton_ ; that's a rather unusual name,” he continued without pausing for breath, eyes narrowed in his skepticism. “Where are you from?”

“New York,” said the newcomer without so much as a blink, but Hartley got the feeling that wasn't entirely true. “Doctor... What was it?” he asked.

“That's certainly the question, isn't it?” murmured the Doctor with almost laughable ease.

“Blimey,” murmured Mickey in Rose and Hartley's ears.

“I know,” agreed Rose with unconcerned exasperation. “Why don't they just pull out the rulers and be done with it?” she asked, and Mickey gave a loud snort. While Hartley certainly agreed with the sentiment, there was something about the guy that rubbed her the wrong way, something that told her the Doctor was right to be treating him so coldly.

“Where did you say you were from?” Axton drawled in question.

“Tiny little place, you wouldn't have heard of it,” the Doctor replied simply. “Tell me more about this device,” he said, crouching back down to the underside of the plane, eyeing it critically.

“Well, it takes the oxygen from the air and converts it to fuel.”

“Yes, you said that already,” snapped the Doctor impatiently. “ _How_?”

“I do so hate to interrupt,” said Amelia politely, hands wrung together in front of herself uncomfortably, “but I am on rather a tight schedule. Do you suppose we could do my physical examination before you two talk shop? I need it done in time for the approval to go through.”

The Doctor looked about ready to groan before Hartley saw a metaphorical lightbulb flicker to life above his head. “My assistants will take care of it,” he said heedlessly.

Amelia looked taken aback. “Are you sure-?”

“Yes, of course, that's why they're here,” he told her without pause.

“Okay,” she allowed, turning to leave. “Well, we have an area sectioned off over here.”

She turned to go, but Hartley took an extra moment to shuffle up to the Doctor's side, hissing at him in a panic. “You want us to perform a medical examination on Amelia Earhart?” she asked incredulously, keeping her voice low so nobody would overhear.

“Yes.”

She gaped at him. “But we're not _qualified_ ,” she finally managed to argue, gathering her wits enough to speak.

The Doctor looked impatient at her stalling. “ _She_ doesn't know that,” he reminded her, seeming to be struggling to keep his cool. “Now go,” he ordered, making an offensive shooing motion that made her frown, before she turned and headed off after Amelia, Rose and Mickey following close behind.

Nathan tagged along at the back of the group, dutifully performing his job – keeping an eye on Amelia.

“I haven't been to see a doctor in years,” the woman herself admitted as they made their way over towards the small, sectioned off area in the far corner. “I've never been a fan of examinations,” she added in a low tone.

“It will be completely non-invasive, I assure you,” Hartley told her gently, and the famous pilot gave a small smile of gratitude.

The small area they were herded into had a plethora of standard medical equipment, which was lucky, because the trio of travellers had no such equipment themselves. Amelia took a seat on the small, uncomfortable looking bed in the corner, patiently waiting for them to begin. The three friends eyed one another, panic in their eyes, before finally Hartley bit the bullet and stepped forwards.

She'd done a first aid course back in university – surely she could handle a simple examination.

“Rose, why don't you be my scribe?” she suggested, if only so it didn't look like the pair behind her were standing there uselessly.

Rose hurried to grab ahold of a clipboard, rifling through the supplies until she found a pen, then nodded to herself reassuringly, like a soldier ready to head into battle.

“Mickey, hand me the torch, please?” she asked in as much of a professional voice as she could manage. She didn't have much experience with the medical profession – the only times she'd ever even been to the doctor's office was when she caught the chicken pox in the third grade, and that time she broke her leg falling out of a tree. Her mother had been furious. Her dad had brought her ice cream in bed.

Mickey handed off the bulky torch with a hesitant expression, and she nodded at him, telling him with her eyes to relax. Steadying herself, Hartley held up the light to the woman's eyes, all the while having no idea what she was looking for.

She needed to distract Amelia before she figured out exactly how out of their depth they were, so she knew she needed to get her talking. Deciding it was a perfect opportunity to glean information about the shifty fellow the Doctor was occupying back at the plane, she began to talk, keeping her voice nonchalant and casual, giving no hint to her true curiosity.

“So, how long have you known Axton?” she asked conversationally, watching as the woman's pupils narrowed at the light. Well, at the very least, she knew she didn't have a concussion. That was something, she supposed. But then again, if she were to list the things she _didn't_ have, they'd be there quite a while.

“Oh, a few months now,” Amelia replied, watching as Hartley put down the light, pointing at the small pile of sticks she knew were used to check the throat. Mickey picked one up, handing it over gingerly. “He reached out to me through our mutual contacts in the private sector.”

“Reached out why?”

Amelia didn't seem to think anything of the question, taking it as casual conversation, which was a relief. “He heard about my plans to be the first woman to circumnavigate the globe,” she told them with just the slightest hint of well deserved pride. “He wanted to help fund me.”

“Why would he want to do that?” asked Mickey tactlessly, and for the first time since they got there, Amelia's expression became offended and sharp.

“What he means is, did he happen to say why?” Rose interjected with a smoothness and calm that came from years of experience in life with the Doctor. Amelia's expression relaxed, and Hartley breathed a silent sigh of relief.

“Well, he said he'd been following my achievements in the news, and that he had new technology which would guarantee my success. It's a mutually beneficial partnership, I assure you; I get to set a world record and pave the way for women's rights, and Axton gets light shined on his groundbreaking technology, no doubt earning him more than a pretty penny in the process.”

It made sense from Amelia's point of view, Hartley knew, but at the same time this technology was centuries out of place, so much so that, even to someone raised in the twenty-first century, it seemed borderline impossible. Converting oxygen into fuel – it was barely even theoretical. It might as well have been _magic_.

So where had this man gotten the device from? Because there were only two possibilities. One, it was from the future; or two, it was alien. Both options were as disconcerting as each other, so she wasn't sure which she was hoping to be true.

“What do you know about the device?” Hartley pressed delicately as she pressed down on the historical figure's tongue, taking a cursory glance down her throat – no idea what she was meant to be looking for – before putting aside the stick and switching to her arms, beginning to bend them in a combination of random movements. “Do you know how it works?”

“I don't pretend to understand the mechanical side of things,” Amelia gave a gentle laugh that radiated sweetness, one Hartley couldn't help but return. “It's marvellous though, isn't it?”

“Something like that,” Rose said in a tone that very much told them that she _didn't_ agree.

“It's going to revolutionise the country – the _world_ ,” Amelia continued eagerly. “My hope is that, through word of my trip, it will become commercially available. And not just in airplanes, but in automobiles, and machinery!”

“You seem passionate about this,” Hartley observed, dropping her arm and moving onto the next one, bending it idly, trying to look like she were concentrating, as though she knew what she was doing.

“We all should be,” she replied with conviction. “Mark my words, less than a hundred years in the future, the strain on our resources will be growing catastrophically. This technology could save the planet one day!”

Surprised by her accuracy, Hartley glanced over at Mickey and Rose, the former busy tapping at the dial on an oxygen tank while the latter met her eyes with a clear message: _she has a point._

Rose was right of course. Amelia did have a point, but that wasn't enough to stop Hartley thinking about the possible ramifications this might have on the time-stream and the future as they knew it. An idea came to her, and she stopped pointlessly bending Amelia's arm, focusing on her new hunch. “Are there any kind of records I can see?” Hartley asked hopefully. “I'd like to see the blueprints for the device, and also look over Axton's credentials, if possible.”

Amelia seemed surprised by the request, brow furrowing in confusion. “Is that really necessary?” she asked warily.

“We were sent by the senate itself,” Rose stepped in, chin tilted up to give the flimsy illusion of authority. “Not only to assure them that you were medically sound, but also to ensure every aspect of this mission is pulled off to the letter of the law.”

Amelia appeared taken aback by the words, but she didn't seem the type to kick up a fuss, merely accepting the statement at face value. “Major Hobbs?” she asked, turning her head to look over at the Major, who'd been hovering between the gap in the room dividers. “Would you please escort them to the filing room?”

“Rose and Mickey can stay and complete the exam,” Hartley said, stepping away from Amelia and moving towards Nathan, tugging absently at the too-long sleeves of her hoodie. She ignored the looks of utter panic that her two friends were sending her, turning to look at Nathan with a barely-there smirk of amusement. “Lead the way, Major,” she said, and the taller man hesitated only a moment before guiding her out of the area.

Rose and Mickey tried to protest from behind her, but Hartley was confident they could pull it off and simply followed the Major across the large, barren floor of the spacious air hangar.

“It's just through here,” the taller man said, gesturing to an innocuous looking door off to the side of the room. Pushing it open, Hartley stepped into a large room full to the brim with scuffed metal filing cabinets.

“Huh,” she murmured, hands on her hips as she wondered where she could possibly begin.

“The more recent personnel files are over here,” Nathan offered with a sweet smile, shuffling awkwardly around her and then between the tightly packed rectangles until he came to a stop beside a shorter cabinet, producing a key from his pocket and unlocking it with a soft click.

“Thanks,” Hartley said, smiling at him gratefully as she slipped around him, pulling open the drawer and beginning to finger through the files within.

“So, what are you looking for, exactly?” Nathan asked her from behind her, pleasantly curious.

Hartley was sure Nathan could be trusted. She just had a gut feeling that, whatever was going on, it had nothing to do with him. “The historical records of this Axton guy,” she told him in a distracted mumble, most of her focus on the files she was sifting through. “I wanna know who he really is.”

Nathan was quiet for a moment. “Why don't you just ask him?” he asked, sounding adorably confused. She glanced over her shoulder at him, taking in his innocent-eyed expression with a small smile.

“I've got a feeling that the sort of information I'm looking for isn't something he's going to willingly divulge,” she told him with the tiniest hint of an impish smirk that made his cheeks flush pink. “Do you know Axton well?” she asked quietly, returning her focus to the drawer full of personnel files before her.

“Not really,” he replied, the cabinet behind him creaking as he leant his weight against it. “I've only spoken to him twice, and one of those times it was only because he mistook me for someone else.”

Hartley's lips pulled upwards in amusement, and she felt a flash of fondness for the reserved military Major that she hadn't expected.

“What are you expecting to find?” he asked after a few minutes of companionable quiet.

“I'm not sure,” she admitted without pause. “But I'll know it when I see it.”

They lapsed back into silence, and it remained that way until finally Hartley found the file belonging to one Axton Elliot. She shut the drawer with a low clang, spinning around and leaning against it as she cracked the manilla folder open, peering eagerly down at the information within.

It was lighter than the other files, almost ridiculously so. There were only a few lone scraps of paper within, most of them just medical preliminaries and basic information. There was nothing about his past. As far as the file was concerned, Axton Elliot hadn't existed until two years previous.

Shutting the folder with a small snap, Hartley looked over at Nathan, who was toying idly with one of the badges clipped to his uniform. He looked up at the sound, dropping his hands like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't.

“Found what you need?” he asked curiously.

“It's more like what I _didn't_ find that was the real kicker.” He only seemed more confused, so she merely smiled and led him back towards the door. “I've gotta get this back to the Doctor,” she said, discretely hiding the file within the front pocket of her hoodie as she stepped back out into the main hangar.

Nathan turned to lock the door after them, but Hartley didn't wait for him to do so as she scanned the room for the Doctor. She found him in the far corner, standing next to what looked like a water cooler, two army men beside him, both grinning at something he'd said.

She strode in his direction, smiling politely at the passing workers and trying to look the least suspicious that she possibly could.

The Doctor was rambling about the time he met President Roosevelt. The two humans were listening with rapt attention, and she almost hated to interrupt.

“Doc,” she said, quiet but insistent.

He paused his story to look at her, and one of his eyebrows cocked as he took in the awkward way she held herself and the pressing look in her electric blue eyes. “Sorry boys, do you mind if I have a word with Nurse Daniels alone?” he asked the men, and they didn't hesitate to nod politely at Hartley before turning away and wandering back over towards the plane in the centre of the hangar. The moment they were gone, Hartley lifted her eyebrows at the Time Lord in question. “Water cooler,” he explained with a cheerful grin, “the best hub of information on Earth.”

She couldn't argue with that one. “Well, while you were chatting up a pair of cute soldiers, I was digging around in the file room,” she told him in a quiet voice, checking over her shoulder to make sure they were alone. Nathan was a few metres away, engaged in a conversation with a taller soldier who had a cigarette dangling from his lips.

“Looking for information on this Axton fellow?” the Doctor asked, just as quiet. Hartley nodded. “Nice work. What'd you find?”

“It's more about what I _didn't_ find,” she replied, producing the file from where she'd hidden it, handing it over to him as casually as she could manage. The Doctor plucked it from her hands, cracking it open and scanning the information within in record time.

“There's nothing predating two years,” he murmured, his brow furrowed in concern.

“More than a bit suspicious, wouldn't you say?”

“Definitely,” he agreed, and she tucked her hands into her pockets, giving the room another cursory glance. It wasn't very busy now, getting close to lunch as people began to wander off in search of food.

“Did you learn anything from Axton himself?” she asked as she swept the room cautiously.

“Not much,” he said, eyes still scanning the pages in his hands, staring at them like they might sprout mouths and tell him everything he wanted to know. “He was pretty vague. He seemed to sense I was pushing for information, kept his mouth shut for the most part.”

“What about the device?” she pressed. “Did he explain any more about how it works?”

“He gave me a brief overview, yeah,” the Doctor nodded.

“And?”

“And it's impossible,” he said blatantly. “Technology like that isn't available for thousands of years to come.”

“Then how does he have it?” she asked in a whisper.

The Doctor's brow furrowed as he thought. “I have a few working theories.”

“Care to share?”

He didn't reply, merely pursing his lips and eyeing the room cautiously, like he expected something or someone nefarious to be listening in.

“Is he alien?” she prompted him when he gave no answer.

“As near as I can tell, he's completely human,” he replied, voice lowered just to be safe.

“Then how does he have this device? Is he from the future?” she asked, eyes wide with the possibilities.

“Maybe,” he allowed, still frowning. “But it doesn't make any sense. How does a human get their hands on time travel? And why come back _here_ , using what he knows for _this_ reason?”

“He must be breaking some kind of law, right?” Hartley asked, unable to imagine that what Axton was doing was condoned. “Some kind of time-traveller's code?”

“Yes, but also no,” the Doctor huffed. “Not everyone with access to time travel is as conscientious as I am.”

“I dunno if I'd use the word _conscientious,_ ” she teased, and he shot her an unimpressed, narrow-eyed look before sniffing indignantly and continuing on.

“We need to learn more about him,” he said, eyes sweeping the hangar again, searching for the man in question. Axton was stood on the far end of the hall, half bent over a desk littered with papers and pencils. The light of an idea glittered in the Doctor's gaze as he turned back to Hartley. “You'll go talk with him,” he told her decisively.

Hartley cocked a dubious eyebrow at him. “Will I, now?” she asked slowly, not taking too kindly to being ordered around like a dog.

He rolled his eyes at her indignation. “You're objectively adequate looking for a human woman––”

“Oh gee, thanks.”

“––go wink at him or play with your hair, or whatever it is that common human flirtation involves,” he said primly.

Hartley's jaw just about dropped to the floor. “You want me to _flirt_ the answers out of him?” she asked in shock. The Doctor just stared back evenly, unperturbed. “I'm not going to stoop to _seduction_ to get what we need,” she hissed, glancing over her shoulder to make sure nobody could overhear, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment.

Nathan stood a few paces away by the water cooler, he was holding a file in his hand and nodding at something another soldier was saying. He must have sensed her looking and glanced up, meeting her eyes. Her cheeks flushed a darker red, and his lips quirked up in a shy smile. The Doctor said her name, and her attention snapped back to him like a rubber band.

“Why can't you ask Rose?” Hartley hoped it didn't sound like she were whining, even thought she definitely was. “I'm sure she's better at it than me.”

“Rose is busy,” he replied without pause, and Hartley tried not to pout. “Besides, I saw Axton giving you a look when we met him.”

“A _look_?” she echoed dubiously. “What _kind_ of look?”

“The kind that wasn't so much focused on your face as it was your...other assets,” he said, looking mightily uncomfortable as he tugged at his collar and averted his eyes. Hartley's cheeks continued to flame, and she crossed her arms over her chest self-consciously.

“Are we really talking about resorting to _prostituting me out_ right now?” she hissed.

The Doctor rolled his eyes. “Would you stop being dramatic and just go talk to the man?” he asked her flatly, growing tired with their usual back-and-forth.

“What if he's dangerous?”

“Well then, I guess it's a good thing you can't die,” he said blithely.

Hartley narrowed her eyes at his oblivious callousness. “Nice,” she said snidely. “Thanks.”

The Doctor sighed, running a hand down the length of his face. “I didn't mean it in a bad way, Hart,” he told her, although she wasn't convinced. “I just meant–”

“I know,” she interrupted, rolling her eyes. He wasn't saying it to be cruel, he was stating a fact. That was how he worked, in facts and figures. He wasn't very good with thinking about the ramifications his words might have on others. She was used to it by now. “What do you want me to find out?” she asked, resigned to her fate.

The Doctor was relieved by her agreement. “Anything you can. Where or _when_ he's from, what he did before this, the reason for his interest in Amelia, his plans for the future...”

The last one had Hartley thinking. “Doc, if this device does what he says, does that mean there's a chance that Amelia might...” she trailed off, not quite knowing how to put it.

“Complete her trip around the globe and make it back in one piece?” he finished for her. Hartley nodded, and the look on the Doctor's face was grim. “I'd say there's a pretty good chance, yeah,” he said, frowning at the thought. Hartley wanted to say more, wanted to ask if that really was such a bad thing after all, but the Doctor was talking again before she could find the words. “Go talk to Axton, see what you can get out of him. I'm going to go check in with Rose and Mickey.”

Hartley sighed but still nodded obediently. She turned, heading for the cooler first, knowing that she could use some water before things got crazy – as they inevitably would.

“Hart,” Nathan greeted her with a small smile and immediately tucked the file in his hands away under his arm. “How are things?” he asked shyly as the soldier he'd been talking to snorted derisively and wandered away.

“Since I last saw you, five minutes ago?” she teased playfully, getting a small cup from the stack and slowly filling it with water. Nathan blushed again. “I hear Amelia's physical is going well,” she said, technically a lie, considering nobody had told her any such thing. “I was just about to go talk with Axton, find out a bit more about this project of his.”

“You and your companions seem to have really taken an interest in the technology,” he said conversationally, getting himself a cup and filling it with nimble fingers.

“We're avid fans of...aviation,” she told him, the reply stilted with awkwardness. She smiled though, and that seemed to put him at ease. There was a moment of quiet as Hartley took another sip of water, watching the Major closely, her eyes flickering down his form.

“Do you think she can do it?” Nathan asked suddenly, and she pulled her eyes back to his face in surprise. “Amelia,” he elaborated. “Do you think she can really circumnavigate the globe?”

“Well, it's been done before,” Hartley reminded him. Amelia might have been the most famous, but she certainly wasn't the _first._

“Not by a woman,” said Nathan without thought, and quick as a whip Hartley was frowning at him, a dangerous glint to her eyes.

“Why should her being a woman make any difference?” she asked sharply.

Nathan suddenly seemed incredibly uncomfortable. “Sorry, I meant no offence,” he said hurriedly, looking very much like he wished he could go back in time and punch himself in the face before he could say anything at all.

Hartley wanted to argue, but she knew there were better uses of her time than getting into an argument over a woman's rights and capabilities with a male airforce Major in 1937. “It's okay,” she told him, exhaling heavily and letting the frustration leave her body along with the air. “I'm going to go talk to Axton,” she added, smiling gently so he knew he hadn't done anything wrong.

Nathan nodded, smiling back and watching as she finished her water, throwing the disposable cup into the supplied bin and making a beeline for the far corner of the hangar where Axton stood, still poring over the thick piles of documents covering his desktop.

She was suddenly struck with the knowledge that she had absolutely no idea how to go about this. She'd never tried to use her 'feminine wiles' on anyone. She wasn't even sure she knew _how._ Did she even _have_ feminine wiles? What did men like women to do? What did they find attractive?

She suddenly wished with desperate intensity that Jack were there with them. He could charm the nuclear codes out of the President of the United States and still get away with it. Some people were just gifted, she supposed.

“Whoever you are, you're hovering,” Axton spoke abruptly, and Hartley flinched at the sudden words, not having realised she'd just been standing there, saying nothing.

“Forgive me,” Hartley said quickly, going with her instincts and thinking on her feet. “I just – I'm fascinating by all of this science…stuff,” she muttered dully, and Axton cocked a dubious eyebrow, unconvinced as he turned back to his work. Clearly he wasn't interested in furthering any sort of conversation. She couldn't blame him, she wasn't exactly coming off as sultry. “So, why're you here? Why do you want Amelia to succeed?” she asked him, drifting closer and pushing out her chest in a way that was as awkward as it was provocative. “Surely there are more lucrative endeavours someone of your...calibre could be spending their time on.”

Axton gave a smirk. It was tinged with just a hint of derisive laughter, like he found something about her questioning amusing. “A very wise woman once said: ' _Passion is energy. Feel the power that comes from focusing on what excites you_ '.”

Hartley's eyes went wide, recognising the quote and knowing its author immediately. It was a quote from a day far, far in the future. Their suspicions had just been confirmed. This man was far from where he belonged.

Axton didn't seem to notice her shock, looking down at his plans with that stupid, cocky smirk in place on his face. “This is a cause I'm passionate about,” he continued, unaware Hartley's pulse was beating so loud she was genuinely afraid somebody might overhear. “I can't help it any more than you can help your blue eyes,” he told her, turning back to look at her. She quickly schooled her features into an expression of the utmost innocence. “Where are you from, again?” he asked her, turning his beady eyes back onto his carefully written documents.

“Oh, you know,” she murmured, gesturing with her hands vaguely. “London.”

“And you're a nurse?” he pressed with laser-like focus.

“Yes.”

“Where did you study?”

“Cambridge.”

“For how long?”

“Two and a half years.”

“Do you have any family?”

Hartley didn't answer this time, eyes narrowed warily. The way he was staring at her, something about it made her feel uncomfortable. “Why the inquisition?” she asked, throat tight from nerves, struggling to keep them from showing on her face.

Axton laughed, the sound of it almost unhinged, like something in his head just wasn't quite right. Chills broke out across Hartley's skin, and not the good kind.

“How does it work, exactly? This machine of yours?” she asked, leaking as much innocence into her voice as she could muster. She tried to saunter closer, straightening her spine so her chest jutted our provocatively. She felt like an utter tool, but was in far too deep to pull out now. “From what I know of mechanical engineering,” she continued, only to receive a sharp, suspicious look from Axton, and hurriedly backtracked, “which I confess, isn't much – but from what I _do_ know, converting oxygen into fuel shouldn't be possible.”

Axton's eyes narrowed, and Hartley swallowed back a nervous gulp. “Why so curious?” he asked dryly. “It's hardly something a _woman_ should be concerning herself with.”

Gritting her teeth, she had to fight back the urge to put him and his backwards stance on gender roles in his place. Shaking her head, she reminded herself of the era they were in. It wouldn't do to pick a fight with a suspicious potential villain from the distant future. The Doctor would be less than impressed if she punched this guy in the mouth for being a sexist jerk. _Priorities_ , he would tut.

Hartley glanced across the hangar at where Mickey and Rose were chatting with Amelia. She was laughing at something Rose had said, the expression bright and happy across her face.

Part of Hartley wondered whether it was _really_ such a bad thing if Amelia completed her trip, if she survived and landed safely back home. Would the ripples it caused in time really be that detrimental to present-day Earth? What harm could it really do?

Without thought her gaze drifted over to the Doctor, and he was already looking at her, a stern gleam to his eyes as though he knew exactly what she was thinking. Hartley gave herself a mental slap. She couldn't think that way – letting go of the principals, the _rules_ , they lived by, it was opening themselves up to utter mayhem, or a lack of culpability.

Clearing her throat, she turned her attention back to Axton. He was examining the documents on the table before him – large sheets of blueprints and files full of data – and Hartley took in his body language.

Shoulders hunched, fingers tensed, brow furrowed and mouth twisted down in a frown – he was anxious.

She knew what the Doctor would do, knew what he wanted _her_ to do, since he'd given her the task. She had to push his buttons, find out the truth.

“Where are you from, Axton?” she asked in a silky sort of voice. He looked up at her, eyes like little chips of ice. “Or should I say, _when_ are you from?” she pressed, eyes wide and innocent despite her telling question.

Axton's expression shuttered, eyes filling with a defensive sort of anger. “Who are you people?” he demanded thinly, taking a threatening step forwards. “Did _they_ send you?” he hissed, edging ever closer.

Hartley blinked in confusion. “Who're _they_?” she asked quickly. “Is someone after you?”

“What are you, then? Freelancers? Time Agents?” he snarled as though the thought disgusted him. Hartley's eyebrows hiked upwards. She wasn't sure what to say, what to admit to or to deny. Helpless, she looked over at the Doctor, who stood across the room beside Rose and Mickey. He seemed to sense her eyes on his face, and turned to look just in time for Axton to blow a gasket. “I won't have you coming in and messing up my plans! Do you hear me?! I _won't_ _have it_!”

Uncomfortable, heart racing and just a little bit scared, Hartley took a step back at the unadulterated fury spread across Axton's face. She wasn't sure what to say, but in the end she didn't have to say anything.

The Doctor came to her rescue, seeming to materialise by her side, a stern frown on his face. “Is there a problem here?” he asked, calm and even, but Hartley could sense the storm brewing underneath.

“Your little _sidekick_ is accusing me of some kind of wrongdoing – unfoundedly, I might add,” Axton sneered venomously.

“Sidekick?” Hartley echoed dubiously, taking offence.

“Not really the takeaway, Hart,” muttered Rose, who'd marched over with the Doctor and Mickey to avert the coming crisis.

“I'm the _head_ of this project,” said Axton, stamping his foot like a child. “I won't put up with a group of nurses coming in here and accusing me of anything!” he cried, voice amplified and carrying through the hangar. Heads swivelled to look in their direction. “I could have you all arrested!” he exclaimed importantly. “In fact, I will!”

The Doctor gave a little scoff. “You can't arrest us,” he said brazenly. “We were sent by the state,” he added, still a lie, however convincing it may have been.

“Watch me,” sneered Axton, a wild, victorious glint to his eyes as he made a sharp motion with his hand. “Detain them all. Separately,” he ordered aloud, and Hartley let out a small yelp of surprise as her arms were none-too-gently grabbed and yanked behind her, cuffs slapped on her wrists.

“Hey!” cried Rose, struggling against the guard holding her hostage.

“Let me go!” Mickey tried to order the guard cuffing him, but both of their cries went unacknowledged.

“Whatever you're doing, I'm not going to let it happen,” the Doctor hissed as a particularly burly guard began to drag him away.

“Brave words from someone who sent a little girl in to do his dirty work,” Axton sniped back, jerking his chin at Hartley. She frowned at him severely, taking genuine offence. He gave a theatrical glance down at the vintage watch on his wrist. “Oh, and it looks like the start date of the flight has been pulled up by two days,” he said with faux innocence. “Amelia Earhart will be flying out on her global expedition _tonight._ ”

“I'll stop you, Axton!” the Doctor promised, voice raised as he was dragged further and further away. “Whatever this plan of yours is, I'm going to make sure it never happens!”

“Toodle-oo,” called Axton like some kind of cheerful psychopath, wiggling his fingers and turning, unconcerned, back to his work.

“Doctor?!” called Rose as she and Hartley were led in one direction, Mickey and the Doctor in the other.

He didn't reply, shooting her a look laced with meaning that went over Hartley's head. The hands gripping Hartley were calloused and uncomfortable, but she tried not to struggle as they led her roughly across the hangar, towards what looked like some kind of administration office.

“You don't have to do this,” Hartley said as they were shoved into the room. “We're here to help. Honestly, we are!” But she went ignored, shoved indelicately into the filing room after Rose, the door slammed and locked after them. “This isn't necessary!” she called through the glass window, but the man outside, dressed head-to-toe in military fatigues, just settled into his place at the door, hands held properly behind his back.

Hartley huffed, turning to look at Rose, who was grimacing in distaste, attempting to roll her shoulders into a more comfortable position. “What now?” her friend asked quietly, frustration written clear as day across her pretty face. “We just wait for the Doctor to rescue us?”

“You got a bobby-pin in your hair?” Hartley asked instead, turning to face Rose, her expression serious.

Rose blinked at her in confusion. “What do you need a bobby-pin for?” she asked, an understandable question.

“I can pick locks,” she replied, and Rose's eyebrows shot upwards in surprise.

“ _You_ can pick locks?” she echoed dubiously. Hartley nodded her head up and down. “Where on Earth did you learn to pick locks?” she asked slowly.

“The 1870's,” she replied conversationally as Rose reluctantly bend at the waist so Hartley could blindly search her hair for the pin. “I'm not just a pretty face, y'know?” she teased.

Rose huffed with laughter. “Never thought it for a moment,” she replied, tone warm with amusement.

Hartley's fingers finally caught of the smooth metal of the bobby-pin, trying to gently remove it. Rose gave a small hiss of pain when Hartley tugged at her hair, and she apologised, gripping it tightly and stepping back, letting Rose stand back to her feet.

“So, how'd I not know you could do this?” Rose asked curiously. She watched as Hartley blindly began to pick the lock of her handcuffs, using only her sense of touch and muscle memory to do so.

“Well, the Doctor's usually around with his sonic, so I haven't yet had many opportunities to show it off,” she explained, her brow furrowed in concentration.

“But why'd you learn at all?” Rose pressed, unable to stem her curiosity. “Spend a lot of the nineteenth century in handcuffs, did you?” she added playfully.

Hartley had to smile. “Jack insisted on teaching me. Said we never knew when it might come in handy – or when knowing how might save a life. And would you look at that? He wasn't wrong.”

She grinned at the memory of sitting in their living room for hours and hours, listening to the crackle of the fire as she tirelessly worked on locking and unlocking a small padlock with the small lock-picking set Jack had somehow swindled out of the local black market.

She was grateful now that Jack had been so stubborn.

The lock of her handcuffs clicked. Hartley grinned as bright as the midday sun, holding up the unlocked handcuffs for Rose to see, the glint to her eyes impish and triumphant. “Well done,” Rose rolled her eyes, but Hartley could tell she was impressed. “Now do me.”

It took considerably less time for Hartley to unlock Rose's, given that this time she wasn't doing it behind her own back. The lock clicked open, and Rose was just rubbing feeling back into her sore wrists when the door unlatched, creaking open.

Both women turned to look, looking rather like deer in the headlights with how shocked and wide their eyes were.

“No, no,” came a newly familiar voice. “He said it should just be me questioning them; I'm sure I'll be out quickly. Make sure we're not disturbed.”

It was Nathan, the Major who blushed every time Hartley made eye contact with him. His back was to them, and he was nodding at something the guard on the other side of the door was saying. Then he closed it, whispering before even looking at them.

“I've got a key, but we'll have to be quick––”

He finally spun around, and his jaw went slack when he saw them standing there, holding their open cuffs in hand, wide-eyed and sheepish.

“Oh,” he murmured, forest green eyes darting between them in shock, like he couldn't believe they'd gotten free on their own. “Uh, I guess you don't need my help after all,” he said, American accent crisp and even.

“You were going to break us out?” Hartley asked, tilting her head curiously.

Nathan's chiselled cheeks went pink once again, and her smile grew. “Well, I, uh, I didn't think you really...deserved to be here,” he admitted quietly. “And, well, sometimes bad things happen to the women under Axton's control.” Hartley's eyes slid over to Rose, and as one the pair silently agreed not to think on it more. “I didn't want anything like that to happen to you,” Nathan finished, sheepish and shy.

It was a strange sort of paradox; for a man to be so large and physically imposing, yet so soft and shy underneath. Hartley thought it was downright adorable. He towered over her, and yet still managed to make it seem like he was the one who needed protecting.

“Thank you, Nathan,” she said, voice full of sincerity. He smiled back bashfully.

“You know, if you still wanna help, we _do_ need a way of getting out of here under the radar,” Rose spoke up from behind them, breaking whatever sort of spell had befallen the pair. “Any ideas, Major Hobbs?” she asked playfully, and when Hartley looked at her face she sighed at the mischief sparkling in her friend's hazel eyes.

Nathan thought for a moment, then his eyes lit up in something of a eureka moment. “Actually, I do have an idea,” he murmured, holding up a finger and taking a few large strides deeper into the filing room being used as their temporary holding cell. “This room is primarily filing and accounts, but because we've been here for so long, we try and make use of the space by storing other things down the back here, too.”

“Other things such as what?” Hartley asked, wandering after him as he moved towards the very back, where a handful of boxes were stacked up against the wall.

“Things such as...” he trailed off for a beat, presumably for dramatic effect as he dug in the top box until finally he pulled something free and held it up for them to see, “uniforms.”

He grinned proudly, presenting the proper women's military ensemble. It was a boxy pencil skirt and a buttoned blazer in the usual dark, army khaki. “Nathan,” said Hartley softly, reaching out and taking the blazer from him, holding it up against her chest with a bright, eager grin, “you're a downright genius, you are.”

Nathan blushed at the praise.

“But hang on,” said Rose from the corner where she stood. “Women aren't allowed to be in the army yet,” she told them around a frown, “I learnt about it at school.”

“Yet?” asked Nathan, a puzzled look on his handsome face.

Rose grimaced at her mistake. “What I mean is, won't people know we're fakes?”

But Nathan was already shaking his head. “Ms. Earhart employs more women in her project than anything yet heard of,” he told her earnestly. “In fact, almost all of her mechanics are women. It isn't uncommon to see groups of them wandering around the hangar. Nobody will look twice.”

Hartley knew the plan had holes, but it was probably the best they were going to get on such short notice. Rose seemed to agree. “All right,” she said with a nod, “hand them over.”

Nathan fished out two uniforms, both on the smaller side for the shorter women. The moment he'd handed them off, Nathan spun around and resolutely stared at the far wall, allowing them as much privacy as he could to change.

“Why're you helping us, Nathan?” Hartley asked as she shed her jeans and yanked on the pencil skirt, silently thanking the gods that she'd shaved her legs the day before.

“I just, I mean...” Nathan trailed off, not seeming to know how to put it into words, or perhaps uncomfortable speaking to a woman who was only half dressed. He sighed, but Hartley didn't push the matter, waiting patiently for him to answer. “You said you were here to help,” he began again, slow and considering.

“We are,” said Rose from where she was buttoning her blazer.

“There's something...not quite right about Mr. Elliot,” he admitted cautiously, as though Axton had eyes everywhere. Hartley was confused a moment before remembering how Amelia had introduced Axton when they'd met – Axton Elliot.

She pulled the blazer on over her tank top, nimble fingers buttoning it up. “What do you mean, not quite right?” she asked quietly.

Nathan shifted where he stood. “I just get the sense that there's more to him than he's saying. There's something about him that tells me he might not be here for the...well, for the right reasons,” he murmured carefully. “And if not, then why _is_ he here?”

“That's exactly what we're trying to figure out,” Hartley assured him. She glanced over at Rose, seeing her dressed in her borrowed uniform. “You can turn around now, Nathan,” she told him, and with only a moment of hesitation, he turned to look at them. “What do you think?” she asked playfully, giving a little twirl.

“I think you look just like the rest of the female mechanics that Ms Earhart employs,” he told them formally, before grimacing. “Except for the hair.” He turned, digging in one of the idle boxes for a moment before pulling out two small, feminine military caps, holding them out for the girls to take. “These should help you blend in,” he said, and Hartley and Rose carefully pinned their hair beneath the little hats.

“So, now we look like we blend in,” began Hartley once they had Nathan's nod of approval, “but there's still the issue of the guard stationed outside the door.”

Nathan frowned, a little line appearing beneath his brows. “Let me take care of that,” he said solemnly. “Stay back here,” he told them, seeming to pull himself up to his full, impressive height before striding towards the door.

The pair watched the Major curiously as he cracked open the door and stuck his head out through the gap. He said something to the guard, but it was too muffled for them to hear. Whatever it was, it worked, and the guard stepped inside the room.

There was a beat, and then he spotted Hartley and Rose, brow furrowing in sheer bewilderment when he saw them dressed as military mechanics. His mouth opened, hand reaching for his gun, but the butt of Nathan's weapon clipped him in the back of the head before he could utter a word, and the unnamed guard collapsed in a heap on the concrete floor.

Hartley let out a small squeak of surprise, quickly scurrying over to the man and pressing her fingertips to his throat. He was fine, pulse steady and firm. She glanced up at Nathan, who looked sheepish under the weight of her electric blue stare.

“Nicely done,” said Rose appreciatively.

Nathan didn't seem to enjoy the praise. When Hartley looked up at him there was a remorseful twist at his lips. She said nothing, leaning across the unconscious guard to pluck one of the sets of handcuffs from where they'd been dumped on the table. With a quick snap of her wrist, the guard was cuffed to the radiator, and the key was on the opposite end of the storage room.

“Okay, that should hold him,” she said, standing to her feet. She glanced warily at the door. “Any tips on how to pull this off?” she asked Nathan quietly.

He grimaced. “Just act like you're supposed to be here, I s'pose,” he murmured, seeming embarrassed that he couldn't offer any more substantial advice.

Hartley turned to look at Rose. “I mean, it works for the Doctor,” she whispered reasonably, and Rose had to agree.

“Ready?” she asked Hartley, and the redhead could do nothing more than nod her head once before they were heading for the door.

Nobody seemed to look their way when they stepped out into the main area of the hangar. Everybody was in something of a state of rush, and Hartley was reminded of what Axton had told them before they'd been taken away.

He'd moved the start date of the expedition up to tonight. They barely had _hours_ to stop whatever this grand masterplan of his was – and as for what was in danger? They weren't absolutely sure, but it had something to do with Amelia Earhart and her journey. And that wasn't something they were willing to put at risk, no matter the cost.

“Where're they keeping Mickey and the Doctor?” Rose asked Nathan from the corner of her mouth. The three of them walked at a neutral pace around the room – not too fast, not too slow, but at just the right speed to keep from drawing attention to themselves.

“At the opposite end of the complex,” said Nathan quietly, dipping his head respectfully at a pair of soldiers who strode past. “We should be able to get in, but I don't have any spare uniforms on hand for them.”

Potentially problematic, Hartley would admit. But she didn't get long to think about it, a loud voice suddenly calling out, “Hobbs!”

The trio froze before turning to look at the owner of the voice. A stocky man in military fatigues was bounding over to them, a wide grin on his face. Nathan looked like he very much regretted every choice he'd ever made in his life that had led him to this exact moment.

“Hobbs, I thought you were off shift,” said the newcomer, a sharp smile on his face.

“I'm covering for Rhodes,” said Nathan, his body tensed, like a spring threatening to unfurl.

“He's not sick again, is he?” asked the nameless man with a scoff.

“You know what he's like.”

The man's eyes flickered over to the girls Nathan was standing with, and Hartley didn't miss the way his narrowed eyes wandered down Rose's body, more than just a little appreciative. “And who might you be?” he asked in a slimy sort of voice.

“These are those new mechanics, the ones Ms Earhart sent for,” Nathan lied. “Daniels and Tyler,” he said, pointing to Hartley then Rose. For a moment she wondered why he'd used their real names, but she supposed word didn't travel quite as quickly in this decade as it did in her own. “Ladies, this is Major William Strokes.”

Strokes' eyes lit up. “Does Ms. Tyler have a first name?” he asked, holding out a hand for Rose to take.

Hartley could plainly see how much her friend didn't want to take his hand, but she was too smart to risk their plan by refusing. By now they knew better than to make waves in their pool of deception. With great reluctance, she took the hand, forcing a wooden smile onto her face. “Jackie,” she lied.

“Jackie Tyler,” Strokes repeated, his mouth caressing the name, and it was all Rose could do to keep from grimacing. “Beautiful name for a beautiful lady,” he grinned.

“My apologies, Major Strokes, but what with the constraints of our new timetable, I'm afraid we're needed somewhere else,” Hartley interjected, shifting ever so slightly in front of Rose, a perfectly polite smile on her lips.

Strokes looked like he wanted to argue, but he refrained, nodding his head sharply once, then sending Rose another wide, oily grin. “I'll come find you after my shift,” he promised her, his eyes once more trailing down her curvy body.

“Great,” Rose murmured, shooting him back an unconvincing smile that he didn't seem to see through. Much to all of their relief, he turned and walked away, casting only a final leer over his shoulder.

“I'm sorry about him,” Nathan whispered as they picked up and began moving once more, heading with slightly more haste in the direction of the Doctor and Mickey's holding cell.

“Friend of yours?” Hartley asked, and Nathan gave a grimace.

“He's harmless,” he told her quietly, “...mostly.”

As they got closer to the other side of the massive aircraft hangar, the girls spied a door leading to a room not unlike the one they'd been locked into. A single guard stood in front of it, a sandwich in his hand and a rifle hanging from his back.

“Wait here,” said Nathan, and they came to a stop by a pile of wooden crates. “Look busy,” he added, and the girls hurried to engage in a dull conversation about the weather as they began to slowly open one of the crates. It was full of paperwork, and they held piles out in front of themselves and sifted through them like they meant something.

“Nathan's a bit nice, isn't he?” Rose murmured once Nathan had moved out of earshot, eyes on her stack of papers and a smirk in her voice.

“Stop it,” Hartley ordered her shortly, nodding her head as though Rose had just asked her a terribly important question.

“He seems to have taken a bit of a shine to you,” she continued unflinchingly.

“Is now really the time?” Hartley asked, trying to force herself to sound frustrated, rather than shy and embarrassed.

“Just saying,” murmured Rose, “the two of you look nice together.”

“He's also from the 1930's.”

“Nobody's perfect,” she giggled, and Hartley broke away from where she'd been pretending to seriously consider the words in her hands so she could slap Rose on the shoulder with her pile of papers.

Feeling eyes on her back, Hartley turned in the direction of Nathan to find him subtly trying to wave them over. The other guard was nowhere to be seen, and Hartley assumed he'd tricked him into some other area of the hangar. She nudged Rose, and as one they abandoned their files and accompanying boxes to walk briskly to his side.

“You two go inside,” he whispered once they reached him. “I'll keep guard.”

The pair murmured their thanks, then pushed their way into the room. The Doctor's voice was the first thing to hit them as they soundlessly opened the door. “You just _had_ to go shouting about the sonic.”

“Excuse me for trying to problem solve,” Mickey argued back primly.

“They never would have taken it if you'd just kept your mouth shut.”

“We're only in this mess because of you.”

“Oh yes, please forgive me for just living my life. I can't help it if some maniac from the future has it out for me. Contrary to popular belief, I don't have control over the linear – or non-linear – flow of time.”

“Oh, there you go again, sprouting scientific nonsense.”

“Nonsense? I can't help that you wouldn't know what a braincell was if one hit you over the face.”

Hartley felt about ready to tug her hair out in sheer frustration. She glanced over at Rose, who looked similarly as exasperated. “Boys,” Hartley said, sharp and commanding, and as one their friends spun around to look at them in surprise.

“Oh, hello,” the Doctor finally murmured, eyebrows nearly hitting his hairline. “What're you two doing in here? Did they let you go?”

“Hart can pick locks,” Rose explained. The boys only looked more stunned.

“And we had a little outside help,” Hartley added.

“Major Hobbs has a thing for redheads,” Rose couldn't help herself, a playful grin flickering at her peachy lips.

“Shut up,” Hartley rolled her eyes. She turned back to their male companions, determined to get the attention off of herself. “What happened to the sonic?” she asked as she approached, pulling out the bobby-pin and beginning to go about picking the lock of their cuffs.

“One of the guards confiscated it,” said the Doctor, still a little bitter. His cuffs popped open, and he began to rub his sore wrists. “What're you wearing that for?” he asked, finally noticing the borrowed uniforms the girls were sporting.

“We're in disguise,” Rose replied just as Hartley managed to unlock Mickey's cuffs, too. He stretched his arms high above his head, enjoying his reclaimed mobility.

“But we can still see your faces,” the Doctor said critically.

“It was just to get us from our cell to yours without raising any suspicion,” Hartley reminded him.

“And it worked?”

Hartley cocked an eyebrow at him. “You could sound a little less surprised,” she said dryly.

The Doctor blinked. “Right,” he muttered, glancing over at Rose, who peered back with him with a smug grin on her lips, tongue just slightly peeking out from between her pearly white teeth.

“You can pick locks, huh?” asked Mickey, moving over to Hartley's side.

“Yup,” she confirmed with a nod.

“Where'd you learn to do that?”

“1871.”

Now Mickey was the one blinking in surprise. “All this time travel business still messes with my head,” he admitted.

“We're in 1937 right now,” she reminded him with a tiny grin of amusement.

Mickey smiled back, shaking his head at the craziness of it all. “Don't remind me,” he laughed, and Hartley mirrored the sound.

“So, Doc,” began Hartley, turning to their other friends, who were standing a few feet away. “What's the plan?”

“The plan?” he echoed. They all stared back expectantly. “Well, I think our only hope now is getting to Amelia. She's the only one who can put a stop to whatever Axton's planning.”

“How?” asked Mickey, confused.

“Think about what we know,” began the Doctor steadily, keeping his voice hushed. “Axton's come from some point in the future, with _exactly_ the right type of technology that could save Amelia Earhart's life and see her safely return home after her trip.”

“So?” asked Mickey, not getting it yet.

But Hartley was beginning to understand. “So _why_?”

The Doctor was nodding. “Why would he come back, thousands of years into the past, breaking who knows _how_ many laws to do so, just to save one life?”

“Well, I mean, he's crazy,” whispered Rose. “You heard him shouting at Hartley earlier. He's completely mental.”

“But did you see how he arranged his pens?” the Doctor pressed. The others all stared at him, uncomprehending. The Doctor sighed like they were all being terribly tiresome. “In his front pocket, they were perfectly aligned. And his hair, parted exactly down the middle. Everything he does is exact, right down to the last inch.”

“So the guy's a neat freak,” muttered Mickey. “So what?”

“So,” began the Doctor, shooting Mickey his most unimpressed stare, “I think it's not too a large leap to assume it goes beyond simple tidiness.”

“You think he's obsessive compulsive,” Hartley said, all the pieces of the Doctor's theory beginning to click into place.

He nodded, glad somebody was on the same brainwave as him. “And what's a common side effect of OCD?” he pressed eagerly.

“Obsessive fixation,” she said, and everyone turned to look at her. She could see the questions in Rose and Mickey's eyes. “I took a psychology class at uni,” she told them shortly. “People with OCD can create obsessive fixations on things. Not just numbers or patterns, but people as well.”

“And you think Axton has this fixation thing for Amelia?” asked Rose. The Doctor nodded.

“But they lived thousands of years apart,” said Mickey around a puzzled frown. “How could he form an attachment like that to someone he never even met?”

“Haven't you ever formed an attachment to someone you only saw on TV, or read about in books?” the Doctor asked him plainly.

“No,” said Mickey without stopping to think.

“Are you kidding?” scoffed Rose. “You watched the _Baby One More Time_ music video at least a thousand times between 1999 and 2002. You used to come over to my house to watch MTV just so you could catch a glimpse of her in that school uniform.”

Mickey glared at Rose like she'd just sold his first born to Rumpelstiltskin right in front of him. Rose only laughed at the look of betrayal. “You definitely have a type, don't you Mickey?” hummed Hartley playfully, and this time it was Rose who flushed, cheeks turning a soft pink.

“If we could get back to the point?” said the Doctor, looking somewhat irritated by the direction the conversation had taken. Mickey frowned, Rose looked scolded, and Hartley rolled her eyes.

“What's our next move?” she asked, quiet and to the point.

“I think all we _can_ do is disassemble the engine Axton brought back with him,” the Doctor replied, a frown on his face.

“But couldn't he just make a new one?” Rose asked quickly.

“Nope,” he said plainly, “the technology is too specific, too advanced. All the necessary components are stuck in the distant future.”

“So we break the engine, we stop Axton's plan?” Hartley summarised, but she wasn't able to keep the hesitance from leaking into her voice.

“What?” asked the Doctor, a frown on his face. “What is it?”

“I'm just wondering whether … whether letting him succeed would be such a bad thing?” she said, quiet and surprisingly meek. She expected to be met with the Doctor's irritation, but instead she received something much, much worse: his pity.

“It's a fixed point in time, Hart,” he said in the kind of voice one used to tell a child that Father Christmas wasn't real. She wanted to be annoyed by it, but she only felt sadness for Amelia, the woman trying to make history for the sake of women everywhere.

“So there's no chance of saving her?” she asked, even though she already knew. She felt like she owed it to Amelia to at least try.

“We can't,” the Doctor told her seriously. “This has to happen.” Hartley looked down at the ground, glad her eyes didn't water despite the sorrow in her heart. “It's her time, Hart,” he added softly, voice gentle and just a little sad. “We all have our time.”

“Except for me,” she muttered, unable to help but feel just a little bitter about it all. It wasn't fair that Amelia had to die – not when Hartley never could. Neither deserved the fate they'd been dealt, but that was life, wasn't it? Just a whole lot of fate you didn't deserve.

For a moment the Doctor looked rather like she'd slapped him, but he recovered quickly. There was a tightness to his eyes now, the kind of look that made Hartley wonder if there was something he knew that she didn't.

“Hart, can you handle making some kind of distraction?” he asked instead, and she nodded back with slumped shoulders. She couldn't fight the issue, not now, not with everything that was at stake. “Mickey, you go with her. Give Rose and I ten minutes before you do it, and whatever it is, it has to be big enough to draw the attention of everyone in this hangar.”

“How're we meant to do that?” Mickey squawked like the task he'd given them was impossible.

“S'okay, Mickey,” said Hartley, “I've got a few ideas.” She turned to the Doctor, who was now rummaging in his bottomless pockets, a hard look to his eyes as he searched, like a man on a mission. “Ten minutes?”

“Ten minutes,” he agreed solemnly.

Hartley nodded, turning to Rose and giving a small smile before gripping Mickey's arm and dragging him away. They made it to the door, and Hartley opened it just slightly, peeking out the crack and eyeing the hangar beyond.

Nathan was stood outside the door, keeping guard just like he'd said he would. “Nathan,” Hartley whispered, and the Major spun around, blinking at her in surprise. Once he was facing her, Hartley spotted something familiar in his large, calloused hands. “Where'd you get that?” she asked quietly.

“One of the other guys had it,” he replied softly, awkwardly extending his arm to hand it over. “I told them I'd take care of it – so I could give it back.”

Hartley couldn't help but smile, her earlier bitterness not entirely erased, but certainly easier to ignore. She took it from him, slipping back inside the room and padding over to where Rose and the Doctor were talking in low tones. The Doctor looked up as she approached.

“Look what I've got,” she said, holding up his favourite tool and waving it in the air.

“My sonic screwdriver!” the Doctor exclaimed, just a little too loud for comfort. Rose shushed him quickly. “Where'd you find it?” he asked in a much more sensible tone.

“Nathan managed to get ahold of it,” she told him.

The Doctor looked up from his sonic to raise his eyebrows at her dubiously. “ _Nathan_ now, is it?” he asked, just a tiny bit judgemental.

“Oh, shut up,” she huffed, turning on her heel and heading back for the door. Mickey was still stood there, shifting his weight anxiously from foot to foot. She slipped out, reaching up to adjust the formal military cap that still sat atop her head, a weak disguise but a disguise all the same. “Nathan, can you take us outside?” she asked him quietly.

“Yes ma'am,” he replied respectfully, but a confused frown knitted at his brow. “But, uh, why?”

“I need to commandeer a vehicle,” she said simply.

Nathan was beginning to understand how this worked, and thankfully didn't ask any questions. He did, however, strip off his military jacket, exposing his strong arms and acres of smooth, tan skin. He handed it over to Mickey, who took it with confusion on his face.

“Put it on,” said Nathan quietly. “It should help you blend in.”

Mickey did as he was told, pulling the jacket around his body and grimacing when he realised it was several sizes too big. He was practically swimming in fabric.

“It's lunch, so the hangar's a lot quieter than usual,” Nathan told them quietly. “Just avoid eye contact and act natural, and we should make it outside without any problems.”

And he was right. The hangar was practically empty, only small groups of soldiers or mechanics dotted across the wide, empty space.

Nathan said nothing as they walked as casually as possible across the open hangar. Nobody seemed to pay them any mind, just as Nathan had said. As they passed Amelia's plane, Hartley saw Axton bent over his device with a look of intense concentration. She quickly looked away, trying to look as unassuming as humanly possible.

Thankfully Axton was so caught up in his tinkering that he didn't cast them so much as a cursory glance.

Outside it was warm, the sun high in the sky, beating down on them with unforgiving intensity.

“What kind of vehicle do you need?” Nathan asked her quietly, adjusting the brim of his hat so it blocked the sun's glare from his eyes.

Hartley examined the vehicles on offer. There were cars typical to the 1930s, the ones you saw in movies and TV, but there were also bigger Jeep-type vehicles that she supposed were unique to the American military.

“One of these big ones will do,” she said, already making her way over to a tall military vehicle. It was dark green in colour, with massive tyres that came up to her hips, and a dirty windscreen at the front.

“May I ask where you're going?” Nathan asked hesitantly.

“I'm not _going_ anywhere,” she replied, turning to him with her most charming smile. “Can you keep watch? I'll be okay to do this next part on my own.”

The Major looked hesitant, but he didn't argue, turning and striding a few paces away, giving her space to talk to Mickey without being overheard.

“What's the plan, exactly?” Mickey asked her in a hiss, head swivelling side to side like he expected them to get caught at any second. “What do we need a _car_ for?”

“Isn't it obvious, Mickey?” she replied, cracking her knuckles in an attempt to psych herself up. “We're going to blow it up.”

Mickey stared at her, mouth agape as he struggled to process her foolhardy words. “Blow it up?” he finally echoed, voice a few octaves too high. “Why?”

“Because nothing says 'distraction' like an explosion,” she answered simply.

“Do you even know _how_ to blow up a car?” he asked in the pitch of someone at their wits' end.

“I'm a writer, Mickey,” she deadpanned, “of course I know how to blow up a car.”

Mickey didn't seem to understand why those two skills coincided, and he stared at her in sheer confusion, struggling to keep up with what was happening before him.

Hartley moved around the back of the vehicle, searching for the access panel to the fuel tank. She found it quickly and prised it open with her fingertips. It opened with a pop, and she began to unscrew the cap.

“This is a bad idea,” Mickey muttered nervously from behind her.

“It's our _only_ idea,” she replied, grimacing as the stench of petrol slammed into her once the cap was open. She stepped back, peeling off the military jacket she'd been using as a disguise.

“And now you're getting naked?” Mickey squeaked.

“Mickey, get it together,” she ordered him, not unkind but certainly stern. There was no time for him to have a freak out – they had a job to do. She twisted the jacket into a long sort of rope, then began to stuff the end into the tank. Once that was done she paused, realising the flaw in her plan. “You got a lighter?” she asked Mickey quickly.

“Do I look like I smoke?” he countered.

“Fair enough,” she muttered, peeking up over the top of the vehicle she was about to destroy to see Nathan standing still as a statue, hands tucked behind his back as he stared out across the tarmac, on watch like a good little soldier boy. “Wait here,” she told Mickey, who didn't have it in him to argue.

She hurried across to Nathan, calling out his name as she approached. The Major turned at the sound of her voice, raising his eyebrows as he saw her jogging towards him.

“Do you smoke, by any chance?” she asked him quickly.

Although surprised by the unexpected question, he answered without hesitation. “Yes ma'am.”

“Can I borrow your lighter, by any chance?”

He had yet to put together what was happening, and Hartley felt a flash of guilt as he willingly passed over his small, automatic lighter. He was so blindly trusting, willing to do whatever they asked. Why? She could only assume he had a gut feeling they were in the right – or maybe the gut feeling was that Axton was bad. Either way, she felt like she was taking advantage of his kindness.

She resolved to apologise once this was all over.

“Thank you, Nathan,” she said, the words bursting with sincerity. He gave a wide, bashful sort of smile in return.

She hurried back towards Mickey, who had begun to perspire under the stress. “Oh God,” he muttered as he saw her clutching the lighter.

“When I light it, run like hell,” she warned him.

“Are you sure this is the right thing? Would letting Amelia live really be such a bad thing?” he asked anxiously.

Hartley paused, but in the end she could only shrug. “The Doctor says we can't let that happen.”

“And what, he's just automatically in charge?”

She just barely held back a sigh. “Mickey, there's no time to argue. This is our only shot at stopping Axton's plan. We won't get another chance like this.”

Mickey seemed to have more to say, but he was smart enough to know she had a point. They were in too deep. No use pulling out now – the Doctor and Rose were counting on them to get this done.

After taking a deep, steadying breath, Hartley flicked her finger and a flame appeared, dancing on the mouth of the lighter. She glanced at Mickey, whose face had gone a sickly grey in the face of what they were about to do.

“Ready?” she asked bracingly. Mickey didn't answer, but she hadn't really expected him to.

She held the flame under the material of the bunched up jacket and it caught fire quickly. Hartley knew they only had seconds.

“Time to run,” she said simply, shoving the lighter forcefully into the depths of her pocket then gripping Mickey's arm and dragging him hurriedly in the opposite direction. “Nathan!” she shouted as they got closer to the Major. “Run!”

“What?” he asked, bewildered by the order. But when he saw them sprinting away, his instincts told him that he'd better run too, and began to rush after them. They were about a hundred feet away when the car finally went boom.

The force of the explosion was still enough to send them to the ground, a wall of heat and power smashing into their backs. Hartley grunted as she met the tarmac below, feeling her wrist crack under the impact. Her ears rang, the sound painfully loud, and she took a few moments to breathe in and out, trying to bring her heart rate back to normal.

Arms gripped her, helping her to her feet. Cradling her hurt wrist to her chest, Hartley looked up to see Nathan staring down at her in genuine concern.

“Are you okay?” he was asking her frantically, only his voice was muffled by the shrill ringing in her ears.

She shook her head in an attempt to clear it, but it only made her feel dizzy. “M'okay,” she told Nathan in something of a slur.

“You're hurt,” he said, concern in his eyes. He reached for her wrist, which was already beginning to swell at an alarming rate. “Does it hurt?”

“Yeah,” she told him, bringing the wrist into her chest again, out of his reach. “Don't worry. It'll heal,” she added quickly, then suppressed a smile, because he had no idea how accurate the words really were.

“I'm okay too, just in case anyone was wondering,” muttered Mickey petulantly from beside them, brushing dirt from his clothes, a disgruntled look on his face.

“Sorry, Mickey,” said Hartley, stepping away from Nathan and running her eyes over her friend's hunched form. “You're not hurt?”

“Just a bit of grazing,” he said, showing her his palms, which were red and just slightly bleeding, but ultimately not that bad. “At least it seemed to work,” he added, and Hartley turned in surprise to find dozens of people crowding around the blazing car. Soldiers were throwing buckets of water onto the fire, but it was having little effect.

“Your plan was to set fire to a vehicle?” asked Nathan, a frown knitting at his handsome face. “Why?”

Hartley felt a flash of guilt – she knew her actions didn't exactly scream 'trustworthy'. “We needed a distraction,” she told him quietly, looking back at the gathered crowd. Her spirits lifted when she spied Axton in amongst the people trying desperately to put out the fire.

It worked – the device was unattended!

“Come on,” she muttered to Mickey, and as one they began to rush in the direction of the hangar. Nathan was awfully confused, but he stuck by them, following them inside the massive, empty warehouse and over to Amelia Earhart's plane.

The Doctor and Rose were already there, working quickly to prise Axton's futuristic device from the engine of the plane.

“Hurry, we don't have long,” Hartley hissed as she approached. She held her wrist tight against her body, trying not to jostle it too much.

“That was one hell of an explosion,” said Rose absently as she held the device steady so the Doctor could sonic the bolts holding it to the engine.

“You know me,” Hartley replied, “I don't like to do things halfway.”

The Doctor ripped the device from the rest of the metal that made up the engine. He slipped from the bonnet of the plane, shutting it with a bang, and moved towards the centre of the massive, cavernous hangar. “Rose, see that container there? Grab it,” he ordered her quickly.

Rose did exactly as she was told, gripping the large, metal container and painstakingly dragging it across the floor after him. It stank of petrol, and in a flash Hartley knew the Doctor's plan.

He tossed the device onto the concrete, then took the container of petrol from Rose, hefting it into his arms and upending its contents onto the offending little machine. Once it was covered, he tossed aside the container like it were nothing and it hit the floor with a loud, sharp bang.

“I need matches, or a lighter – anything,” the Doctor said quickly.

Hartley hesitated only a brief moment before producing Nathan's lighter from her pocket, holding it up for the Doctor to see. He held out his hands, and she tossed it in the air. The Doctor caught it in nimble fingers, flicking it on and holding it above the petrol-covered device.

But he didn't immediately do anything. He just stood there, staring at the open flame with a haunted glint to his warm brown eyes. Hartley wondered whether he were second guessing his resolve to let Amelia Earhart perish.

“We're just going to burn it?” asked Mickey, confusion in his voice. “It's as easy as that?”

“It really isn't.”

They gasped as one, turning to find Axton standing before them, a single pistol held in a sure, steady hand. Its barrel was aimed at the Doctor, who still held the lighter above the hulking parts of Axton's machine.

“That's my life's work, there,” said Axton, voice like ice. “Decades of dedication, of research and planning. I'm not going to let you destroy it!”

“We can't let you do this, Axton,” said the Doctor. He didn't move, not even to turn off the flame. He just stood, lighter held threateningly over the doused device and staring back, even and steady. “Amelia Earhart dies in her attempt to circumnavigate the globe. You can't change that.”

“Yes, I _can_ ,” snarled Axton, a crazed, unhinged sort of look to his beady eyes. “Don't you see? She doesn't have to die! She can survive this! She can go on to _live_!”

“No,” the Doctor spoke slow and gentle, sympathy shining in his eyes. “She can't. This is a fixed point in history. Changing it could have deadly consequences.”

“So what? Let them come!” Axton countered wildly, taking a step closer, his gun falling from its aim just a little. Nathan saw the opportunity and took it, whipping free his own gun, cocking it and holding it to Axton's chest.

“Axton, put down the gun,” Nathan said calmly.

Axton quickly changed aim. Instead of pointing at the Doctor, he was pointing at Nathan instead. “Drop that lighter and the soldier boy dies,” he warned them, and Hartley knew in her heart of hearts that it wasn't an empty threat. He would do what he thought was necessary to save Amelia's life. He didn't care who else got hurt in the process.

“Listen to me Axton,” said the Doctor, slow and patient. “This isn't the way.” Axton didn't so much as blink to acknowledge his words. “You're a long way from home,” he tried again. “Is this worth it? If you kill someone today, all you're doing is exchanging one life for another. Amelia wouldn't want that.”

“You don't know _what_ she'd want,” Axton argued sharply.

“And you do?” Hartley replied, appearing just as calm as the others, although her heart raced in her chest. She could hear it beating in her ears, joining the lingering ring from her explosion.

“I know she'd want to live,” Axton snarled.

Hartley took a tiny step forwards, and the gun in Axton's hand began to shake. “It's her time, Axton,” she said gently. “We all have our time.”

“But I can stop it!” he insisted. “I can keep it from happening!”

“You can't,” she whispered, taking another step closer.

“Hart!” hissed Rose frantically from behind her, but Hartley didn't listen.

“You can't stop this. But that's okay, not everything's meant to be stopped,” she said quietly. “Give me the gun, Axton.”

Tears had gathered in Axton's eyes, and the gun in his hand was now trembling so badly that she worried it might go off by accident.

“Hartley, back away,” Nathan begged her, gun still held in a vice-like grip. “He's dangerous.”

“It's okay,” Hartley breathed, ignoring them all. “Axton, what are you going to do? Kill us? You know that would only disappoint Amelia.”

Axton was about to give in, Hartley could tell, but Nathan wasn't as good at reading the room like she was. “Put the gun down, Axton! Now!” he shouted firmly, and the look in Axton's dead eyes hardened into something ferocious.

“Go to hell,” he snarled, re-aiming his gun at Nathan instead.

Hartley saw what was about to happen from a mile away. “No!” she shouted, and without a moment of extra thought she leapt in front of Nathan just as Axton puled his trigger.

There was a loud bang, a searing pain, and then everything went terrifyingly dark.

* * *

Hartley shot upwards with a loud gasp of pain as her respiratory system kickstarted. Her eyes stung like a bitch, and she coughed violently, trying to clear the dust from her airways.

“Hart!” Rose was beside her, helping her up into a sitting position. “Are you okay?”

Hartley didn't answer. Instead her hands went to her chest, the same place the bullet had hit. It was healed now, only a large, bloody stain left to prove she'd ever been shot at all. She hadn't coughed up the bullet upon waking, so she could only assume it had gone through and through.

“Hart,” said Rose again, hand pressed to her back, rubbing in soothing circles. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Hartley finally said in a rasp, her vocal cords aching from disuse. They were in the TARDIS, its comforting hum filling her head and its warmth wrapping around her like a blanket on a cold day. “What happened?”

“You jumped in front of a bullet for Major Hobbs,” the Doctor's voice said, and Hartley looked around Rose to find him sitting on the jump seat, hands folded in his lap. “Once you were down he fired back, hit Axton in the shoulder and sent him to the hospital. Axton will be okay, it was just a flesh wound. But we let people see your...” he trailed off, struggling to say the word 'corpse'. “Body,” he said instead. “So in the eyes of the law, Axton's a murderer. He'll be in prison for a long time to come.”

Hartley processed his words slowly, her ming sluggish and struggling to catch up. “And the device?”

“Destroyed,” the Doctor shrugged. “Amelia is scheduled to leave in two days time, exactly as planned. All is back to how it was always meant to be.”

Hartley nodded slowly so she didn't make herself dizzy. “Where's Mickey?” Hartley asked them quietly.

“He fainted after seeing you get shot,” said the Doctor flippantly. “He's in the infirmary, sleeping it off.”

“Yeah,” she snorted softly, “sounds like him.”

Rose held out a hand, gently helping the immortal to her feet. Hartley gripped both Rose and the console, keeping herself balanced as she got used to being a member of the living once more. “Are you okay?” Rose asked her quietly.

“Yeah,” Hartley lied, and Rose looked away with a frown.

“Rose, why don't you go check on Mickey?” suggested the Doctor. Rose would have had to have been blind and deaf not to sense the hidden meaning: the Doctor needed a moment alone with Hartley.

“Kay,” she said, squeezing Hartley gently on the arm before turning to leave. Hartley attempted a smile after her, but it ended up as more of a grimace, so she stopped. Rose disappeared around the corner, heading deeper into the TARDIS after Mickey.

Hartley and the Doctor were left in silence that wasn't quite uncomfortable, but certainly not easy, either. Hartley didn't know what to say, she wasn't even sure she had anything she _needed_ to say. But it was clear the Doctor did, clear that words were bubbling on his tongue, desperate to get free. She hoped whatever he had to say wasn't going to be enough to break her already fragile emotions.

“Are you okay?” the Doctor finally began.

“Rose already asked me that,” she murmured.

“But your answer was a lie,” he said, simple and true. “This time I don't want it to be.”

She said nothing, looking down at her clothes – the uniform Nathan had given her to wear as a disguise. It was covered with blood now, all of it her own.

“It can't be easy, dying like that,” the Doctor tried again. “I imagine it leaves a sort of scar.”

Hartley smiled wryly, no amusement in the dark expression. “It's just … black,” she admitted. “There's no time, no space. There's not even me. There's just _nothing_.”

The Doctor processed her words in silence, watching her closely, concern in his eyes.

“Why am I like this?” she asked, a question that had been pushing at her lips for some time now, desperate to be spoken. She'd asked him before, but he'd denied knowing. She hadn't believed it then, and she believed it even less now. “You know. I know you do. Why can't you just tell me?”

The Doctor shrugged unconvincingly. “Must have just been a latent ability in your DNA, brought on by the Dalek weaponry––”

“Now _you're_ the one lying,” Hartley said, low and unimpressed. “For once, will you please just tell me the truth?” she begged him, and his expression twisted with something like guilt.

He was quiet a few moments, chewing carefully on his words before speaking them. Hartley didn't know why it was so hard for him to tell her whatever it was, but as the silence stretched on she felt herself getting more and more anxious, scared of what might follow.

“Bad Wolf,” the Doctor finally said, and she looked up at him in confusion.

The words were familiar, she'd heard them frequently while she'd been travelling with Rose and the previous Doctor. She remembered most clearly that fateful day on the Game Station, the day this had all started – because it had been run by Bad Wolf Corporations.

“I recognise that,” Hartley murmured, refocusing on the Doctor, who was staring back at her grimly. “What's that mean?” she pressed.

“It's what it was called; the thing that did this to you.”

But Hartley still didn't understand. “Doc,” she said, his name a plea.

The Doctor took a deep, steadying breath. “While you were downstairs with Captain Jack, I sent Rose away,” he told her, shoulders slumped as he turned his eyes to the console, like he were too ashamed to meet her gaze. “I didn't want to see her get hurt, so I sent her back home in the TARDIS.”

Hartley listened attentively, holding her breath against the anxiety, wondering how this story could possibly end, and what this all had to do with her and Jack's unrequested immortality.

“But she was stubborn – so stubborn,” he sighed, a little sad and a little wistful. “She wanted to come back, wanted it more than anything. Only she din't know how to fly it. So she did the only thing she could do, and she opened the console, exposing the heart of the TARDIS. She took in the entire power of the Time Vortex.”

Hartley swallowed, the image of Rose in her head bright and burning. “What happened?”

“You were dead, and she had the power to make you not dead. She brought you back, you and Jack, but she was too powerful, too _human..._ She brought you back forever.”

Hartley brought a hand up to her chest, pressing her hand over her heart. “So Rose did this to me,” she whispered, struggling to make sense of it.

“Not purposefully,” he replied. “She wasn't herself – she was the Bad Wolf, the Time Vortex with the soul of a human. She did it because she loves you.”

Hartley was horrified to find her eyes wet, and she sniffled delicately, turning away from the Doctor in an attempt to hide her tears.

“Hart?” asked the Doctor carefully, and she sniffled again. “You okay?”

Was she? She didn't blame Rose, she knew it wasn't her fault – at least not consciously. She was okay with it, really. It was just hard, the weight of this ability she hadn't wanted, hadn't asked for.

“It's rather funny,” she said quietly, turning back around to look at the Doctor.

He was surprised by the sudden words, cocking an eyebrow at her in confusion. “Funny?”

“A half hour ago, I had a broken wrist,” she told him, holding up the offending hand for him to see. Her wrist, which before getting shot had been swollen and purple, was now back to normal size, no hint of bruising in sight. “All healed now,” she added with just a hint of bitterness.

The Doctor seemed to sense the issue at her core, and he gave her a sympathetic look that she didn't appreciate. “You're still human, Hartley,” he reassured her.

“Am I?” she asked critically, rounding on him with a glare that was aimed more at herself than in any way at him. “Because as far as I'm concerned, humanity is _defined_ by death. We only get so long in this world, we get one shot at it, and then that's it. It's over, finished. Everything about that is so _beautiful_ and _human._ What am I now, without that?”

The Doctor's face was twisted with more dismay than she'd ever seen him express. He seemed to be lost for words.

“I'm not human. I'm not alien. I'm nothing,” she muttered. Suddenly she wasn't even upset anymore, she was nothing but tired.

“No, Hartley,” said the Doctor, firm and commanding. She turned to look at him in surprise. “You're not nothing. You've _never_ been nothing.”

She attempted another smile, but again, couldn't quite manage it. “Thanks,” she said, but it was small and unconvinced.

“I'm not saying that just to make you feel better, or because I think it's what you want to hear,” he told her strongly, the words ringing with conviction. “I'm saying it because I know, more than anything, that it's true.”

Hartley didn't say anything, looking down and spinning her little signet ring around her finger, just for something to do with her hands.

“I know things are confusing right now, and you might not be completely human anymore... But Hartley, you're still _you,_ ” he insisted passionately. “At a fundamental level, you haven't changed.”

“How do you know?” she asked quietly.

“Because I know you,” he said surely, like it were the most simple, well-known fact in the universe. “And I know you're still the same person you were before that day on the Game Station.”

Hartley smiled, and this time it held a sincerity that it hadn't before. “It's been four years,” she reminded him mildly. “People change.”

“Nobody knows that like I do,” he agreed, and she had to admit he had a point there.

She might have changed and evolved over the years as any other human would, but the Doctor was on another level completely. For him, changing meant a new face, a new body, an entirely new _personality._ She couldn't imagine how difficult it must be. At what point did he look in the mirror, no longer able to recognise the face he saw looking back at him?

“Besides, you're not the only one like you around, y'know,” the Doctor continued blithely. “There's one other person out there, living their life, exactly the same as you.”

Hartley wasn't sure whether to smile of cry at the reminder. “Jack,” she whispered, eyes suddenly distant as she remembered her closest and dearest friend. The Doctor was right, she wasn't alone in her existential-grey-area. But that didn't do her much good if she couldn't see Jack and talk to him about it herself. “He's too far out of reach,” she sighed.

“But just knowing he's there … it helps, doesn't it?” Hartley nodded slowly. “Maybe you should write him a letter,” the Doctor suggested.

Hartley snorted. “And post it to where? I haven't a clue where he is!”

“You don't have to send it,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning his hip against the side of the console.

“You mean write it like a diary entry?” she asked, frowning in confusion. “What good will that do?”

“I'm no expert, but I think it could be therapeutic for you,” he told her quietly. “Talking with Rose and I––”

“––and Mickey!”

“––is good,” he continued as though she hadn't interrupted, and despite herself she smiled, “but I think even as close as we all are, we're no substitute for Jack.”

And as much as she hated it, the Doctor was right. She might not be able to properly send the letter, or get one in reply, but writing down the words as if talking to Jack might be good for her. She needed to vent to somebody she knew would really, truly understand – even if they only existed in her memories.

“Thank you,” she smiled at the Doctor, who was distractedly fiddling with the zigzag plotter.

“What for?” he sounded befuddled.

“Trying to help.”

He blinked, taken aback by her gratitude. “Any time,” he told her like it were an instinct. “You should go eat,” he added quickly, “you'll need the calories after reanimating like that.”

“All right,” she agreed. “But then, do you think you could do me a favour?”

“A favour?” the Doctor echoed. “What kind of favour?”

* * *

Dressed in some ripped jeans and an obnoxiously fluorescent teeshirt that helped her fit into the era, Hartley took a seat at the old-folks' home across from a tall man with patchy white hair and forest green eyes.

He was playing checkers with himself, moving the pieces around haphazardly, an untouched glass of lemonade beside him.

He looked up when she sat down, tilting his head at her curiously. “Care for a game, sir?” she asked him kindly.

“Do I know you?” he asked in more of a wheeze than a voice.

“Of course you do,” she replied easily. “We're meeting right now.”

The man narrowed his milky eyes at her thoughtfully. Hartley held out a hand.

“You can call me Jessica,” she told him, giving him her middle name to go by. She didn't want to startle the poor man into a heart attack. The man lifted a trembling hand, placing it in hers and shaking weakly. “What's your name?” she asked politely.

“Nathan,” he told her with a nod. “Nathan Hobbs.”

“Lovely to meet you, sir,” she said with a smile that had him narrowing his eyes once again.

“Are you sure we don't know one another?” he asked again. She knew he recognised her, knew she felt familiar to him. It would be silly to think anyone could forget the kind of adventure they'd had together.

“Do I look like someone you know?” she asked instead.

“You do, yes,” he replied, reaching up to rub at his jaw, which was dusted with pale grey stubble. “But the woman you remind me of … she died … a very long time ago.”

“I'm sorry.”

Nathan's eyes were suddenly so far away, watching memories from a lifetime ago. Hartley was watching the same ones, but for her they were from only a matter of hours ago.

“She saved my life, you know?” Nathan told her distantly, cracked lips curling up in a tiny smile only to be immediately followed by a frown. “Exchanged it for her own.”

“I'm sure that, wherever she is now, she doesn't regret it,” Hartley told him, the words more true and sincere than he'd ever be able to know.

Nathan's brow furrowed, not quite in suspicion, but certainly something close to it. “How do you know?” he asked carefully.

Hartley didn't know how to reply. “I can tell,” she said for lack of anything better to say. “You seem like the kind of man worth saving.”

Nathan gave a huffing laugh that turned into a violent coughing fit. Hartley handing him his glass of water, patting him gently on the back. “Sorry,” he apologised, taking a big gulp of the water.

“Don't apologise, Nathan,” she said.

“I'm getting old,” he chuckled breathlessly, using a hanky to wipe the water away from his lips.

“So do we all, one day,” she replied. Nathan smiled, tired and just a little sad, and Hartley smiled back in kind. “So,” she said bracingly, trying not to make it sound like a goodbye, “how about that game of checkers?”


	21. Planet of the Birds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, so because I skip over certain episodes there are times I need to gloss over what happened in them. This chapter takes place after the S2 Cybermen two parter, so Mickey is now gone, choosing to remain in Pete's world. It is, however, addressed down below. I just thought I'd let you know in case you were going into this one confused.
> 
> Much much shorter than the previous few, but nice and sweet. Also sowing seeds for plot points that will become hugely important down the track. Something's changing in Hartley, she's starting to be able to do things she wasn't before... 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

“ _We ran as if to meet the moon.”_

Robert Frost

* * *

Hartley loved the swimming pool in the TARDIS. It was massive, olympic sized and always heated to the perfect temperature. She liked to float on top of the water, closing her eyes and letting her mind go blank as she enjoyed being warm and weightless. She supposed some people might call it meditating, and it probably would have been an accurate description.

She came to gently, blinking up at the coral ceiling and sighing contently as she stood up in the pool, stretching her arms over her head and wading over to the ladder, climbing out and wrapping herself in a big, fluffy yellow towel.

That was where Rose found her, drying off by the side of the water, her thick, wet hair dripping down her back in a steady stream.

“Hey Rose,” Hartley greeted her softly, knowing how raw the younger girl was over the events of the last few days.

Pete's world had been hard on all of them. The Cybermen, for starters, had been more than a little terrifying. Hartley was sad to see Mickey go, he was a sweet kid, and he deserved more than he'd gotten. They'd exchanged rushed goodbyes that had felt somehow lacking. She wanted to have longer, time to make sure he'd be okay, but instead they'd had mere minutes to get into the TARDIS and be on their way before the opportunity of escape was gone forever.

“How are you?” she asked Rose gently, scrubbing at her dripping hair in an attempt to keep herself dry. Rose looked rather tired, bags under her eyes heavy and dark, her skin paler than usual.

“I've been thinking,” Rose began, rather than answer the question. She rubbed her hands together, her skin covered by the material of her simple, long-sleeved blouse. “Maybe...maybe I shouldn't tell my mum who I saw.”

It was obvious who she was referring to – Pete Tyler.

“Why's that?” Hartley already understood, but she also knew it would be healthy for Rose to speak her thoughts aloud.

“She's barely got her head around aliens and time travel,” Rose attempted a laugh that was just a tad too stale to be believable. “I'm not sure I wanna bring parallel universes into the equation; her head might explode.”

“It's your decision,” Hartley told her supportively. “If you don't think she could handle it, then you're probably right. You know her best.”

Rose nodded, letting Hartley's words reassure her.

“Have we got plans?” she asked, and the younger girl shook her head.

“I think the Doctor wanted to give me time or something,” she admitted, lifting her shoulders in a shrug.

“But do you _need_ time?”

Rose pondered this for a moment. “No,” she finally answered, lips pressed into a firm line. “I think I need a distraction.”

Hartley beamed in agreement. “Go tell the Doc to quit tinkering with the TARDIS and take us somewhere fun,” she instructed lightly. “I'll get changed and meet you in the control room.”

Rose wandered off, and Hartley made her way to her room, pulling on some simple overalls and a T-shirt, shoving her feet into a pair of comfortable sneakers and tossing her hair up into a ponytail, heading out after her morose blonde friend.

The Doctor was bouncing around the centre console, chatting away about and something called Replicators, whatever they were. He tossed her a lazy beam as she wandered into the control room, slamming his hand down on the console and giving a theatrical twirl.

“Somewhere fun, I believe the demand was,” the Doctor announced cheerfully as the ship landed with a rattling wheeze.

“It wasn't a _demand_ ,” Rose argued, turning to face Hartley long enough to roll her eyes in exasperation.

But the Doctor wasn't listening, busy tugging on his long brown coat and making sure his shoelaces were tied. “If you don't have fun here, I'll eat my hat!” he proclaimed as he bounced his way to the doors, Hartley and Rose wandering down the ramp after him, watching as he paused, glancing back at them dramatically before pulling the door open and waving them out into the light of day. “Welcome to the planet _Beleam Ve-Ru_!” he said brightly. Both girls winced against the onslaught of sunshine filtering through the rainforest canopy above them.

“ _Beleam Ve-Ru_?” Hartley echoed curiously.

“Translates to _Planet of the Birds_ ,” he told her cheerfully.

“Why didn't the TARDIS translate it for us, then?” asked Rose skeptically.

“Doesn't translate names if they're linguistically applicable,” he sniffed in reply.

Rose frowned, then turned to look at Hartley expectantly. “Basically means it doesn't translate proper nouns. Hartley, for instance, means 'from the stag's meadow', but that's the meaning behind the name, not the name itself,” she attempted to explain, and the confusion in Rose's eyes cleared.

“Hartley's a much better tour guide than you,” she turned to say to the Doctor teasingly, her tongue poking out between her teeth.

The Doctor held a hand over his chest. “Hit me where it hurts, why don't you?” he said solemnly, but there was a playful spark to his eyes that told the girls how he really felt.

“I believe we were promised fun,” Hartley said pointedly, leaning back against the smooth, blue wood panelling of the TARDIS, one eyebrow cocked in vague challenge. “All I see is a boatload of trees in every direction.”

“Who says trees aren't fun?” the Doctor asked defensively. Both Hartley and Rose stared back at him blankly, making him roll his eyes. “ _Beleam Ve-Ru_ is home to the United Ru-Ru tribes. They really do throw the best celebrations. I thought it would be _fun_.” He paused, cocking his head as though listening for something, then clicking his fingers and abruptly beginning to walk away, leaving his companions with nothing to do but scurry along after him.

“What are they celebrating?” asked Hartley curiously as they walked, the girls taking care to be mindful of the gnarled roots twisting up across the entirety of the forest floor. The air smelt of cinnamon, she found, a strange scent to pick up in the middle of a rainforest, but pleasant all the same.

“This lot will use any opportunity to throw a party,” the Doctor told them, calling the words back over his shoulder as he walked with purpose through the tress. Hartley wondered why he couldn't have parked closer, but she'd long since given up voicing those sort of questions aloud. “Seriously, anything from a wedding to a child losing a tooth – any event happens and it's instantly party-central.”

As they got closer to wherever it was they were going, Hartley began to hear music. It was tribal of some kind; the loud, steady beating of drums and an earthy, growling sound that reminded her of a didgeridoo.

She couldn't see anyone, couldn't find the source of the unfamiliar music even as it grew louder and louder. Rose seemed to be just as confused, both met with nothing but the endless sea of trees, no life in sight. They both turned to the Doctor in the same instant, taking in his smirking face as he slowly tilted his head back until he was staring up at the canopy above them.

Copying the action, both girls looked up too, then gasped at what they saw.

High, _high_ above them was a city, a connection of tree houses weaved together throughout the canopy. It reminded her blatantly of _Return of the Jedi_ , and she opened her mouth to say as much, only for the Doctor to interrupt her.

“They're not Ewoks,” he said preemptively, amusement ringing clear in his voice, and Hartley felt her cheeks flush at his words. Did he really know her that well, or was she simply getting predictable? “Shall we?” the Doctor asked, sweeping a hand towards an opening in the centre of a tree trunk that Hartley only just noticed.

“They won't mind us joining them?” Rose asked as they stepped inside the trunk. Hartley's jaw fell open as she stared at the interior, taken aback by its regality. Carved from the wood itself was a stunning, winding staircase. It twisted up the inside the whole of the trunk, making its way high above their heads.

“The more the merrier, with the Ru-Ru's,” said the Doctor brightly, already three steps up the staircase, hand braced on the thick, shiny railing for support. “This particular tribe is lead by Elder Jozlu. Great friend of mine, Jozlu, loves a good game of bowls.”

“Are they human?” asked Rose curiously.

“Chiefly, yeah,” he nodded as they continued to climb higher and higher within the tree. Hartley glanced gingerly over the railing as they walked, feeling her skin prickle with awareness at exactly how high up they'd gotten. She'd never been afraid of heights, always enjoying the rush and the view that came with them. “They're descended from the Beleams, however – the native species of the planet. They bred with humans centuries ago, thus creating the Ru-Ru race.”

Talk after that became difficult, their concentration being used on breathing and pushing themselves up the steep staircase. Another five silent minutes and they'd finally reached the top; a small landing with wooden walls covered in art. It wasn't painted on, but rather engraved into the surface of the tree in perfect, intricate carvings.

The Doctor clapped his hands, rubbing them together eagerly. “Ready for the night of your lives, ladies?” he asked with a hint of mischief lurking in his gaze, the expression both concerning and exciting them.

“Bring it on,” Hartley said, and he grinned maniacally before pushing open the door, making the muffled beating of the drums suddenly increase by a hundred. It was so loud, both girls very nearly stumbled back, catching one another and peering out into the hectic swarm of movement happening in the treetops.

The Doctor was right when he said it was a party. People – they certainly looked human, apart from the elaborate costumes and masks they seemed to be wearing – were everywhere, dancing wildly to the rhythmic music, throwing themselves about haphazardly. Hartley was almost wary to enter into the fray, scared she would get sucked into the sea of people, never to escape again. But the Doctor had no time for reservations, and he gently but firmly pushed both Hartley and Rose into the throng of dancing aliens.

It was disorientating, and it took Hartley a minute to get her bearings, figuring out which way was up and clumsily trying to navigate her way through the jumping, cheering, dancing people.

Before she could begin to grow concerned, a hand grasped hers, and she looked up to see Rose gripped her tightly, her other hand held in the Doctor's. Like a human daisy-chain, Hartley allowed them to lead her through the crowd, glad that someone knew what they were doing.

Coming out on the other side of the mass of dancing Ru-Ru's was a relief, and she breathed deeply, enjoying the crisp, clean air for a moment before taking in the new scene she was met with.

Now that they were past the dance floor, she saw the real civilisation. Pathways stretched out in seemingly every direction, and she gasped at its majesty. The sunlight above them bathed the world in a soft glow, and she saw people in bright colours smattered across the pathways, cups of something in their hands, the smiles on their faces bright and sincere.

“Jozlu!” cried the Doctor over the music, which was less intense now that they were separated some from the main mass. “Knew I'd find you near the grog!”

“When I let loose, I _let loose,_ Doctor,” said the man in a deep, pleasant voice. He, and everyone else around them, was dressed much like she imagined a Native American Indian might be. Jozlu wore a large headpiece covered in feathers, and nothing but a skirt of some kind that seemed to be made out of bark and leaves. “Always a pleasure to see you, my friend,” he continued, pulling the Doctor in for a hug, which the Time Lord happily returned. “And who might your stunning companions be?” he asked charmingly, pulling back and looking over Rose and Hartley with intelligent brown eyes.

“That's Rose,” the Doctor told him, gesturing to the blonde with a proud beam, “and Hartley,” he said, tapping Hartley on the head in acknowledgement. The redhead grinned, lifting her hand and waving at the kind-looking man politely.

“You chose a good night to visit!” he told them enthusiastically, taking a deep sip of whatever was in his carved wooden cup. “It's our annual Eclipse Celebration – the biggest celebration of our entire year. And that's saying something,” he added with a playful wink.

“Eclipse?” parroted Hartley, stepping back so she could get a good look at the sky. She could see more of it up here than she could when she was on the forest floor, but the canopy still hid much of it from sight.

“It's when the planet travels directly between the sun and the moon,” explained Jozlu patiently. The Doctor and Rose laughed without reservation at the slightly affronted look on Hartley's face.

“I know what an eclipse is,” she muttered, rolling her eyes at the giggling pair. “What're we drinking?” she asked in the same breath, stepping around the Doctor to get a good look at the table set out behind him.

There were stacks of the same wooden cups that Jozlu held, but there were no kegs or jugs, instead just three taps attached to the railing, the metal looking brand new, or at least well taken care of as it glinted in the sunlight streaming down through the leaves above them.

“This one is Kan-Ru, this is Ju-Ru, and this one we call Sun-Ru,” Jozlu explained, pointing at each tap individually. “This one we make specially for this celebration,” he said, tapping the one he'd called Sun-Ru.

“What's so special about it?” Hartley asked curiously. Jozlu grinned, the expression wide and mischievous.

He swiped up one of the handmade cups, holding it out to her with an exaggerated flourish. “Why don't you try it and find out?” he dared her playfully.

Pausing, she glanced over at the Doctor, just to make sure whatever was in it wasn't going to poison her in any way. The Doctor nodded, even going so far as to nudge Rose towards the taps too. “Go on, then,” he prompted them. “We're here to have fun, after all.”

It had been years since Hartley had had a night out with friends. The thought of doing so now excited her. It wasn't quite what she'd imagined – on a foreign planet, in a different galaxy, in the very distant future, surrounded by aliens, drinking a concoction she knew nothing about...

But still, Rose and the Doctor were there. What else did she need, other than them, music and a little alcohol?

She pulled at the tap, letting the liquid spill into her wooden cup, then stepped aside so Rose could do the same, lifting it to her nose and gingerly sniffing it. It certainly didn't smell like alcohol, instead it just smelt like lavender and pine, a natural combination that made her wonder what all the fuss was about.

“Together?” asked Rose from beside her, and she looked over to see her eyeing the contents of her cup just as warily.

“Together,” Hartley agreed, and they gingerly tapped their cups together before simultaneously tossing back a mouthful each. It tasted just how it smelt – like some kind of all-natural juice, but incredibly nice – addictive, almost. Before she knew it, Hartley had downed her entire cup, and when she pulled back, she saw that Jozlu was laughing uproariously.

She frowned, wondering what was so funny, but then the effects hit her like a wave. Blinking in surprise when the world tilted sideways, Hartley gasped, reaching out to grasp Rose, who looked just as surprised.

“But I didn't taste any alcohol,” she said to the Doctor, her voice strange to her own ears.

“Yes, completely alien planet, but all the food and drink still taste exactly the same,” he said sarcastically, and she snorted at his blithe comment. “You're not drunk,” he added hurriedly, and she tilted her head at him in confusion. “It's what the Ru-Ru's call an Inhibitor,” he explained, eyes flickering between her and a smiling Rose. “Pretty much keeps logic from ruling your actions.”

Hartley felt like she should have frowned at that, but couldn't care enough to go through with it. “It will help you let loose!” cried Jozlu in jubilation, throwing his hands up into the air clumsily.

“Of course, that's in moderation,” said the Doctor, scratching his chin. “Have enough of it, like this guy right here,” he told them lowly, clapping Jozlu on the shoulder, “and you might as well have an IV of alcohol running straight into your veins.”

“Too much Sun-Ru is bad,” Rose nodded seriously. “Gotcha.”

“You're not having any?” asked Hartley, noticing the distinct lack of a drink in his hand.

“It can wreak havoc with my telepathic abilities,” he told her with a shrug of his shoulders, hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Best I stay away from it.”

“Suit yourself,” hummed Rose, already pouring herself another cup. Hartley knew it had been a long time since Rose had gone out with friends, too. She no doubt felt the same urge to have fun as Hartley did. Copying her, Hartley poured herself another cup, downed it in record time, then blinked when Rose's arm wound through hers. “I suddenly feel like dancing!” her younger friend exclaimed, and Hartley gave a trilling laugh, clumsily setting down her cup before letting Rose drag her towards the bursting dance floor.

The music was strange, not exactly the kind of thing they heard in the clubs back home, but it was good enough to dance to, and the girls took the advice to 'let loose' seriously.

Whatever this 'Inhibitor' thing was, it was way better than alcohol. She didn't feel gross or bloated, and it hadn't left a horrible taste in her mouth. She still felt completely and utterly in control of herself, she just felt... _carefree._ It was strange, but she most definitely liked it.

“Wow, look at you go!” called Rose encouragingly, her voice faint over the loud music.

“I forgot how much I love to dance!” she shouted back with a laugh, moving herself naturally to the beat. Rose grinned, moving closer to her friend to keep dancing. She let go of her worries and surrendered herself to the music, enjoying the thrum of the tribal beat and feeding off the energy radiating off of the crowd surrounding her.

A few minutes passed and she felt someone tap her on the arm. Turning, she blinked down at the little boy in surprise. He was lad in the same feathered, tribal clothes as the others. He only came up to her chest and was wearing a shy, hopeful expression on his face.

“Would you dance with me?” he asked meekly, his chubby, tan cheeks turning a dusty red.

She smiled, holding out a hand for him to take. He beamed back, and she took both his hands in hers, beginning to twist him around, enjoying his trilling laughter as she pulled all the old-school Earth dance moves she could think of.

“We call this one the swim,” she told him over the loud drums. He copied her, giggling as he danced the strange dances, finding them amusing.

The time melted together in drinks and laughter and dancing, and Hartley began to lose herself in the enjoyment, allowing time to skew. She was only two more cups of Sun-Ru into her night when she began to feel strange. It wasn't so much a drunk feeling, but instead it was _emotional_. She felt overwhelmed, like her emotions were suddenly increased tenfold, like every feeling she could possibly have had hit her all at once.

She was in the middle of the dance floor with an exuberant Rose, throwing themselves around to the beat of the music. It didn't all hit instantly, but instead was like a rising panic, an overwhelming surge of emotion that wasn't her own.

It began to scare her, and she called out to Rose that she needed some air. The younger girl was distracted, dancing with a small pair of excitable children, and merely waved absently in response. Turning, Hartley began the difficult task of climbing her way through the throng of dancing aliens until finally, when her skin had begun to tingle and her eyes began to burn from uncontrollable emotion, she burst through the edge of the crowd, sucking air into her lungs with shuddering gasps.

Pressing a hand to her head, she tried to get a grip on herself. Was this a panic attack? Was she having a panic attack? It didn't feel like panic, it felt like a combination of every emotion a human could experience. Joy, sadness, pain, confusion, anger, happiness, amusement, love, fury – it was all twisting together in her head, a messy pile of feeling that she was struggling to sort through. The strangest part was that it wasn't coming from herself – but if it wasn't, then where _was_ it coming from?

“Hartley?!” a voice shouted in her ear, and she blinked, struggling to refocus her vision until finally the familiar visage of the Doctor swam into focus before her eyes. She blinked at him, her sight blurry and indistinct. “Hartley!” he said again, but she shut her eyes, the emotions spinning around in her head beginning to make her dizzy.

She felt his long fingers curl around her wrist, then he was pulling her. Helpless to do anything but follow, she let him gently drag her away from the party. Her feet moved on autopilot, and the music began to grow distant the further they travelled from the gathering.

Slowly the swirling, writhing mass of foreign emotions swamping her body began to recede. The distance from the party was helping. Slowly the dizzy feeling began to fade, and no longer were her own feelings lost. She gradually drifted back to herself, and by the time the Doctor came to a gentle stop, she could hear herself think once more.

“Alright?” the Doctor asked from beside her, and she slowly cracked open her eyes, only to be met with a breathtaking sight.

They were stopped on a small bridge connecting two tree houses together, and as she looked out over the forest, she saw thousands of little white flowers drifting from the canopy, fluttering down to the ground far below, like snowflakes in winter.

“What happened?” she asked him once she was finally confident she could talk without throwing up.

The Doctor was quiet for a few moments, staring out at the rainfall of white blossoms, gathering his thoughts. “I left something out, when I told you what I knew about the Bad Wolf,” he finally told her, and she shifted warily, almost scared to hear what might follow. “You were born with an extra synaptic engram,” he began steadily, and she twisted her hands together, tugging at her fingers anxiously. “In most cases, this leads to nothing more than a simple low level telepathic field … most people go through their lives without ever knowing it's there … but when the Bad Wolf made you immortal...”

Hartley said nothing, finding herself too scared to look at the Time Lord, instead focusing her eyes on the blossoms surrounding them, although she couldn't really _see_ them. She was seeing something else, a little snapshot of her past – surrounded by dead bodies, Daleks screeching at her to die, Jack shouting her name, the burning sting of a Dalek's laser...then _death._ Cold, endless, lonely death.

“It triggered something,” the Doctor continued, seemingly oblivious to her inner turmoil. “It's less of a low level field and now more of an... _ability,_ that you have.”

“Ability?” she parroted hollowly. “You mean telepathy? Like you?”

She didn't want to have an ability. She didn't want to be anything other than purely human.

“From what I've seen, I'd say it's manifested itself differently in you,” the Doctor told her with a surprising amount of patience. “I'd call what you have a form of _empathy_.”

“Empathy,” she echoed again, helpless to do anything else.

“It'll be okay, Hart,” he promised her in a gentle voice, and she finally looked away from the falling blossoms to blink at him, refocusing on the present. “It isn't dangerous to you,” he assured her.

She couldn't help but frown. “Just now it certainly _felt_ dangerous,” she disagreed weakly, not having the energy to properly argue.

“That was my fault,” he admitted apologetically. “I didn't stop to think about how the Sun-Ru might have affected you. I didn't think it was this far progressed yet, and I'm sorry.”

Her electric blue eyes flickered between his chocolate ones, gauging his sincerity. It wasn't his fault, this she knew. However, the weight of this knowledge made her unbalanced. Who was she now? Was she even still considered human after everything? She couldn't die, and apparently she was an _empath_? What did that make her, other than a freak?

“Ordinarily, I love parties,” he told her after a moment, and she settled into place beside him, resting her own elbows on the railing and glancing up at the sky. The sun had set at some point, without her noticing. Stars littered the sky above her, and through the gap in the trees she had a perfect view of the moon. The edge of its great sphere was slowly turning a brilliant burnt orange.

Yes, her world had just been tilted on its very axis, but she'd always prided herself on her ability to compartmentalise. One panic attack was enough for a single day. All that fear and uncertainty, she could deal with later.

“But I don't want to miss out on a view like this,” the Doctor continued, sensing that she desperately needed a distraction, eyes focused on the sight before them. She smiled, just a small quirk of her lips. She may not have shared the deep connection that Rose and the Doctor so clearly did, but she and the Doctor had forged their own bond. An unspoken, gentle kind of connection. One that, more often than not, transcended words.

Or maybe that was just the Cosmic-Magnetism talking.

“This place is fun,” she told him in a soft voice, the Sun-Ru she'd had all but decimating her inhibitions. She felt free, like there was nothing she couldn't do, or say, now that the overwhelming rush of foreign emotion was gone. “Everyone's so nice here. It's like I have a thousand new friends...” she trailed off, thoughts drifting to a darker place without her permission.

“But?” the Doctor prompted her, sensing there was more.

“But the one friend I really want to be here, isn't.”

With everything new she'd just learned, her thoughts couldn't help but drift to Jack.

They were silent, the distant music of the tribe floating through the trees, like a calming background buzz. “You miss him,” he said, and it wasn't a question.

“It only gets harder with every passing day,” she admitted. Somewhere in the back of her head, she knew she shouldn't have been saying as much. The last thing she wanted was for the Doctor to know how vulnerable she felt, but the Sun-Ru was wreaking havoc with her filter, and the words were pouring from her mouth like a waterfall, and she was powerless to stop it. “Because with him, I was his first choice. I wasn't some tagalong. I wasn't the odd one out, or the third wheel. With Jack, I knew I _belonged._ ”

Grimacing at herself, she let them fade back into silence, staring up at the alien moon as it slowly turned a beautiful, rusty red.

“You're not just some tagalong, Hartley,” it was the Doctor who broke the quiet, surprising her. When she looked over at him, she found him staring resolutely up at the eclipse, the expression in his eyes carefully hidden. “The universe drew us together for a reason,” he said, a conviction in his voice that shocked her. “It knew I needed you. And it was right.”

Turning to stare at the alien, she could do no more than gape at him, stunned beyond words. Had _he_ been drinking the Sun-Ru too?

She forced herself to look back up at the moon, which was now almost completely red, a truly beautiful, humbling sight to behold. “You say that, but your actions tell a different story,” she murmured, almost more to herself than to him.

“What do you mean?” he asked confusedly, but she only lifted her shoulders in a weak shrug.

They faded back into silence, both staring up at the eclipse, watching as it finally reached its totality, the sight beyond stunning. Back from the hub of the party there were a series of loud, exuberant cheers, the music growing even louder. Hartley smiled up at the eclipse, listening to the sounds of pure happiness and sinking into the cushiony feeling that was wrapped around her head.

She was brought back to the moment when the Doctor cleared his throat from beside her, and she blinked, turning to look at him curiously, only to freeze when she saw what he was holding up.

A long chain dangled from his fingertips, the shiny silver glinting in the firelight the torches were giving off. At the end of the long chain sat a single, unimportant looking key, but Hartley knew it was really anything _but_ unimportant. She gasped, eyes going round in shock. Her gaze darted up to meet the Doctor's, and she watched as he slowly nodded, and then cupped her hands together beneath the chain. He let it drop carefully until it rested perfectly in her palms.

The key was warm to the touch, and once it was gathered in her hands she held it up, happiness surging strongly within her chest, this time entirely her own.

“This is _long_ overdue, Hart,” he said quietly, the words inexplicably tender. “And for that, I'm sorry.”

Her eyes burned traitorously, but she ignored it, quickly moving to thread the chain around her neck, moving her hair out of the way, then gripping the key where it hung securely over her heart.

“Thank you,” she whispered softly, the deed more than enough to make her feel valued. To make her feel loved.

Then she moved and without even really thinking about it, threw her arms around the Doctor's neck, pulling herself around him in a tight, grateful embrace.

He let out a small sound of surprise, but she ignored it, clinging to her alien friend with everything she had, smiling into the material of his coat as he hesitantly returned the hug, strong arms winding gingerly around her middle. Heart in her throat, Hartley held on for a few moments longer than what was necessarily appropriate, but she didn't care.

“Thank you,” she whispered into the junction of his shoulder and throat.

“You said that already,” he replied just as quietly, warm breath fanning out over her exposed neck.

“And I meant it.”

He gave a small, huffing laugh before finally pulling back. Hartley allowed him to go, stepping away from the Time Lord, smiling up at him happily. As one, they turned to look up at the eclipse, marvelling at its fleeting brilliance.

“ _We ran as if to meet the moon_ ,” she murmured without thought, staring up at the sight with a serene smile, feeling finally at place within the universe.

“Robert Frost?” the Doctor asked.

“Fitting, no?”

“Yeah,” he agreed from beside her, and though she felt the weight of his stare on her face, she didn't look away from the sight. “Yeah, it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed. This is pretty much the last you'll see of any lingering tension or distrust between Hartley and the Doctor – that phase of their relationship is over. Moving on from here it's going to be a build of mutual love and respect, with maybe just a little bit of drama weaved in ;)


	22. The Impossible Planet/The Satan Pit

**THE IMPOSSIBLE PLANET/THE SATAN PIT**

“ _For how should man die better than facing fearful odds?_

_For the ashes of his father and the temples of his Gods.”_

Thomas Babington Macaulay

“ _Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art, like the universe itself._

_It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival.”_

C.S. Lewis

* * *

Hartley was sitting in the jump seat, as she so often did, leafing through one of the old novels she'd found in the TARDIS library, when the Doctor raced into the room like Tigger on drugs, bounding up to the console, Rose close on his feet.

“Pull your head outta that book and let's get cracking, Hartley!” the Doctor instructed her jovially, enthusiastically slamming his hand down on the correct buttons and pumping the lever, sending them into the vortex. “No time to waste!”

“Where're we going?” Hartley asked with a yawn, having not slept well the night before. She'd had a nightmare about Jack, woken up and hadn't been able to relax. She remained riddled with guilt over the whole situation, pain stabbing at her when she imagined him stuck back on Earth, completely and utterly alone.

“Thought we'd set the controls to random!” the Doctor told her cheerfully, oblivious to the pain lingering in her gut. “See where the Old Girl takes us,” he added in the same breath, reaching forwards to stroke a hand down the console lovingly.

Hartley was tired, and would much rather have stayed in the TARDIS, reading or trying to sleep. But what good would hiding away do? She needed things to get back to normal – or as normal as she could possibly get – and the best way she could think of to do that was to get into some trouble with her friends.

With a beautiful groan the TARDIS landed, and both the Doctor and Rose raced for the doors, stumbling out into the face of their next adventure. She vaguely heard their voices as she set down her paperback, stretching widely and yawning once more before standing and heading for the doors. The other two were laughing hysterically when she stepped out, letting the door shut behind her.

Their giggling came to and end as Hartley joined them, the pair wiping tears of mirth from their eyes as they regained control of themselves.

“I think we've landed inside a cupboard!” the Doctor commented as he observed their surroundings critically. There wasn't much room inside, it was cramped and Hartley was practically pressed head to toe against Rose. “Come on,” he said over his shoulder, reaching for the handle to the large yellow door by the side. “Let's explore!”

“ _Open door 15_ ,” a robotic voice floated over the intercom as he cracked it open, waving his two companions out into a hallway.

“It's some sort of base,” he said, peering at everything closely, pleasant curiosity in his tone. “Moon base, sea base, space base. They build these things out of kits.”

“Glad we're indoors,” Rose said as a dull rumbling could be heard from all around them. The sound wasn't comforting in the slightest, and Hartley felt a chill ripple up the length of her spine. “Sounds like a storm out there.”

There was another sharp rumble from around them, and Hartley tripped, nearly missing a step and falling on her face. Rose caught her at the last second, and Hartley sent her a small, grateful smile.

“Oh, it's a sanctuary base,” the Doctor said with thinly disguised delight as they stepped through another door, met with an eatery type area, tables and chairs stacked along the edges of the otherwise empty room. “Deep space exploration. We've gone way out. And listen to that, underneath,” he added, and all three fell silent, tuning their focus to the deep humming noise emanating from below them, the source causing the floor to rattle ever so slightly. “Someone's drilling.”

Hartley moved away from the other two, wandering over to the large slab of wall, covered in strange symbols written in smeared charcoal.

“Welcome to hell,” Rose read off the wall to her right, the same one Hartley was focused on, reaching out to trail her fingers down over the untranslated lettering.

“Oh, it's not that bad,” the Doctor murmured back distracted, paying no attention.

Rose laughed lightly, nudging him and directing his attention to the writing on the wall. “No, over there,” she said, moving away from him and closer towards Hartley, who stepped away from the symbols with a frown.

The Doctor glanced over, eyes flickering across the charcoal symbols until he noticed something troubling. “Hold on, what does that say?” he asked, leaping up the small ridge and bouncing over to the wall, pressing his fingertips to the writing much like Hartley had done a moment ago. “That's weird, it won't translate,” he murmured quietly, the befuddled expression on his face was telling. Hartley's gut was right, something was terribly, terribly wrong.

“But I thought the TARDIS translated _everything,_ writing as well,” Rose was confused, unable to understand. “We should see English.”

“Exactly. If that's not working, then it means this writing is old. Very old. _Impossibly_ old,” the Doctor muttered, lost in thought as he stared. Hartley wondered how writing _that old_ could get on the wall of a sanctuary base. “We should find out who's in charge,” he leapt to his feet, moving over to the door on the right and beginning to spin the wheel attached to its front. “We've gone beyond the reach of the TARDIS' knowledge. Not a good move. And if someone's lucky enough-”

The Doctor was abruptly cut off as the door swung open, revealing a handful of aliens standing on the other side, tentacled heads tilting slowly in their direction. Rose grimaced at the shocking sight, while Hartley stepped back warily. She didn't like to walk into situations with prejudice, but the way the creatures were blinking at her, their beady, red-rimmed eyes drilling into her soul, had alarm bells chiming in her head.

“Oh! Right. Hello,” the Doctor greeted them warily. “Sorry. I was just saying, er...” he trailed off awkwardly. “Nice base.”

“ _We must feed,_ ” the aliens all said as one, their voices droning darkly.

Rose's eyes flew wide open in at their unified words. “You've got to what?” the Doctor asked, blinking in confusion. Hartley's pulse sped up even as she stepped further in front of Rose, a silent move of protection. She wasn't sure whether she could survive being digested by a bunch of evil aliens, but she'd rather have to find out than watch Rose get cut into tiny little pieces.

“ _We must feed_ ,” they said again, blunt and emotionless.

“Yeah. I think they mean us,” Rose hissed, practically tripping backwards in an effort to get away from the steadily approaching aliens. The Doctor moved with her, the two of them pulling Hartley back with them, forcing them against the wall behind them with matching grunts.

“Guys, tactically speaking, this was a bad move,” she told her friends in a murmur.

“Yeah, not exactly drowning in options, Hartley,” the Doctor responded, hands held up against the oncoming creatures.

“ _We must feed. We must feed. We must feed. We must feed._ ”

The Doctor pulled the sonic from his pocket, pointing it at the aliens threateningly while Rose grabbed the first thing she found, a yellow chair that she brandished in front of her like a weapon. At a loss, all Hartley could do was raise her fists, resigning herself to having to punch her way out of yet another mess the Doctor had gotten them into.

They shuffled closer, and Rose thrust her chair at them with a small yelp. Hartley doubted one chair would make much of a difference if these guys really wanted to eat them, but she let her continue, because ignorance was bliss, after all.

Doors from all around them slid open, revealing more and more of the creepy aliens, pouring into the room like animals at a zoo being let out for feeding time.

“ _We must feed. We must feed. We must feed_.”

The alien at the front of the group tapped something it was holding, and with a blink Hartley realised all of them were holding identical globes in their hands. She wondered if it was a weapon of some kind, but it certainly didn't look threatening. It tapped it twice, then looked back up at the nervous group, utterly expressionless.

“ _You, if you are hungry_ ,” it finally finished, and they all froze.

“Sorry?” the Time Lord asked, blinking at the one in front in pure bewilderment.

“ _We apologise. Electromagnetics have interfered with speech systems_ ,” the same one said, speaking directly to the Doctor, its beady little eyes unsettling but no longer menacing. “ _Would you like some refreshment_?”

None of them knew what to say, the trio shocked by the complete 180 the situation had taken. Slowly and warily, Hartley dropped her fists, having a feeling she wouldn't need to punch her way out of this one. She looked over at the Doctor, whose mouth was flapping much like that of a fish, not quite knowing what to say.

The door across the room opened with a loud creak and suddenly a small handful of _human_ people were toppling into the room. They paused, catching sight of the trio of travellers, only to stare at them in complete and utter disbelief, like the very sight of them was impossible. “Hello!” the Doctor greeted them lightly, wiggling his fingers in their direction like one might greet a friend.

“What the hell?” the man in front said, jaw dropped open in shock. “How did-?” He couldn't even seem to get the full sentence out, so stunned by their appearance.

The humans began to wade through the gathered crowd of scary-looking aliens, who all moved aside, like the Red Sea parting for Moses.

“Captain, you're not going to believe this,” the man said into the comm on his wrist, a look of outrageous disbelief on his face. “We've got _people_. Out of nowhere. I mean, _real_ people. I mean three _living_ people, just standing here right in front of me.”

“ _Don't be stupid, that's impossible_ ,” a disembodied voice said through the speaker.

“I suggest telling them that,” the visible man responded shortly, staring at them like they were as impossible as the planet they were stood on.

“But you're a sort of space base,” Rose argued logically, a confused frown on her lips. “You must have visitors now and then. It can't be that impossible.”

“You're telling me you don't know where you are?” he asked incredulously.

“No idea!” the Doctor crowed with a massive grin. “More fun that way,” he added, glancing down at Rose, exchanging a giddy glance. Hartley didn't smile, her mind on the situation. Where were they, and why was it so surprising that they'd appeared? Sure, they weren't exactly expected, but they'd suddenly appeared on plenty of bases in their time, and they usually didn't receive such looks of frightened disbelief.

“ _Stand b_ _y, everyone. Buckle down. We have incoming. And it's a big one. Quake point five on its way_ ,” a woman's voice flooded through the room, coming from speakers above them. Hartley's eyebrows raised to her hairline.

“Quake?” she repeated, glancing around the room, wondering if they were safe.

The man before them waved them forwards, back through the open door at the back of the room. “Through here, now,” he urged, placing his hand on the small of Hartley's back. She cringed at the unfamiliar touch, but he didn't seem to notice. “Quickly, come on! _Move_!”

The man ushered them on through the halls and through countless doors, leading them to what looked to be the sort of main hub. He cracked open the thick door, pushing Hartley through and climbing down after the rest of them. The room was full of people tapping away at different control panels, hurriedly preparing for the oncoming quake – whatever it was.

“Oh, my God. You _meant_ it!” one of the younger ones exclaimed in shock as he stared at them through wide eyes, like they were mythical creatures come to life before their very eyes, and not just a bunch of confused, nomadic explorers simply looking for a good time.

“People! Look at that, _real_ people!” another worker exclaimed in stunned disbelief.

“That's us. Hooray!” the Doctor cheered quietly, still not quite sure what to make of it all.

“Yeah, definitely real,” Rose confirmed with a nod, smiling at everybody sweetly. “My name's Rose. Rose Tyler. That's Hartley Daniels, and this is the Doctor,” she introduced them each, pointing them out so people wouldn't get confused. Hartley lifted her hand in a polite wave that went unreturned.

“Come on, the oxygen must be offline. We're hallucinating. They can't be!” one of the other people said, tentatively stepping forwards to nudge the Doctor in the chest, eyes widening when they came in contact with solid flesh. “No, they're real!” he gasped, still not quite believing it.

“Come on, we're in the middle of an alert!” the man, quite clearly the leader, shouted over the noise. “Danny, strap up. The quake's coming in! Impact in thirty seconds! Sorry you three, whoever you are. Just hold on tight,” he instructed them. Hartley turned away, curling her arms around the railings of the stairs and gripping tightly. She might not have known exactly what was about to happen, but she got the feeling it was going to be violent.

“Hold on to what?” Rose questioned perplexedly, looking around helplessly.

“Anything. I don't care. Just hold on,” the leader snapped back sternly, strapping himself into his seat and gripping onto the console in front of him in preparation.

The pair hesitated for another beat. “Seriously, you two,” Hartley said quickly, and they glanced back to look at her in surprise, taking in the way she gripped onto the railing like her life depended on it.

“Alright then,” the Doctor allowed with little complaint, sitting down on the steps below Hartley and grasping onto the railing there, looking exasperated by it all. “What's this planet called, anyway?” he asked, loud enough for the captain to hear.

“Now, don't be stupid,” one of the scientists responded instead, her voice full of condescension. “It hasn't got a name. How could it have a _name_?” The Doctor, Hartley and Rose stared at her uncomprehendingly. “You really don't know, do you?” she breathed, eyes wide.

“And _impact_!”

They were thrown to the left by the force of the quake, and Hartley gripped onto the railing for all she was worth, feeling her body thrown around like ice in a cocktail shaker. It stopped as abruptly as it had started, and Hartley breathed a sigh of relief, slackening her hold on the railing.

“Oh, well, that wasn't so bad,” the Doctor grinned buoyantly.

Hartley snapped out her arm, balling the bottom of his jacket and yanking him back towards her with everything she had just as another violent tremor shook the base. The Doctor fell back into her, but she caught him with a grunt, wrapping one arm around his middle and holding him so he didn't hurt himself. Him hitting his head and regenerating again was the absolute last thing they needed, besides, she was growing fond of this Doctor, she didn't want to have to break in a whole new one.

He was heavy, but all her training with Jack back in London had paid off, and she was able to hold him down, keeping him propped against her, making sure he was safe.

The console off to the left burst into flames just as the quake finally came to a stop, and someone was already there with an extinguisher, making sure it didn't spread. Hartley glanced up, studying the roof and absentmindedly wondering whether it was reinforced enough to be safe, when the Doctor cleared his throat.

Hartley realised that she hadn't let go of him, and realised all at once that the length of his body was pressed intimately against hers. With an awkward, self-conscious cough, she let him go.

The Doctor climbed to his feet, adjusting his clothes before glancing down at her in slight surprise. “My knight in shining armour,” he commented slyly, one eyebrow raised in a way that shouldn't have been so tempting. He held out a hand, and she most definitely didn't notice how smooth and cool his skin was as he so kindly helped her to her feet.

“Didn't want you tripping like the klutz you are, hitting your head and regenerating in front of all these people,” she shrugged off the weird event, crossing her arms over her chest before glancing at Rose who was paying them no attention, brushing dirt from her pink top.

The Captain checked everyone was alright, righting himself on his chair before speaking into his comm in a clear, confident voice.

“We're fine, thanks, fine,” the Doctor said in his most sarcastic tone, and Hartley couldn't help but roll her eyes at his usual dramatics. “Yeah, don't worry about us.”

“The surface caved in,” the Captain said, ignoring him with an ease that impressed her, tapping away at his keyboard and bringing up a schematic of the base, staring at it with a frown. “I deflected it onto storage five through eight. We've lost them completely. Toby, go and check the rocket link.”

“That's not my department,” the one who must have been Toby complained in a petulant kind of voice that certainly didn't endear him to Hartley.

“Just do as I say, yeah?”

With an irritated huff, Toby left the room, slipping past her without so much as a second glance.

“Oxygen holding. Internal gravity fifty six point six. We should be okay.”

“Never mind the earthquake,” Rose spoke up, gaining the crew's attention, “that's – that's one _hell_ of a storm. What is that, a hurricane?”

One of the crew members snorted like she'd told a witty joke. “You'd need an atmosphere for a hurricane. There's no air out there. It's a complete vacuum.”

“Then what's shaking the roof?”

“You're not joking. You really don't know,” she sounded mystified, staring at the trio with wide eyes before she stood up straight and cleared her throat, as though abruptly remembering her manners. “Well introductions. FYI, as they said in the olden days,” she told them in a weak voice, and Hartley tried not to grin at the words, thinking how their 'old days' were her 'present days'. “I'm Ida Scott, science officer. Zachary Cross Flane, acting Captain, sir. You've met Mister Jefferson, he's Head of Security. Danny Bartock, Ethics committee.”

“Not as boring as it sounds,” Danny chirped, and Hartley couldn't help but smile in amusement.

“And that man who just left, that was Toby Zed, Archaeology, and this is Scooti Manista, Trainee maintenance,” she finished the introductions before gesturing to the metal room. “And this? This is home.” With a smooth movement she grasped a lever to the left, pulling it down towards her with a grimace.

“Brace yourselves,” the Captain, Zach, said in careful warning. “The sight of it sends some people mad.”

The shutters overhead pulled back slowly, revealing inch by inch an impossible sight. Hartley gasped, her eyes going wide and her hands coming up to press over her gaping mouth as she stared up into the heart of the black hole above them, hungry and dark, consuming everything it could touch; except, for some reason, them.

“That's a black hole,” Rose stated the obvious, and Hartley nodded wordlessly, watching as it hung above them, like a dark star, beautiful in the most terrifying way.

“But that's _impossible_!” the Doctor all but hissed at them. Hartley just continued to stare up at the sight, blown away by the dark majesty of it all.

“I did warn you,” Zach said, not bothering to glance up at the sight he'd no doubt looked upon a thousand times before. Hartley wondered if he was one of the ones he'd been talking about, to be driven mad by the spectacle. She wouldn't blame him if he was.

“We're standing under a black hole,” the Doctor said, struggling to understand.

“In orbit,” Zach corrected him distractedly.

“But we _can't_ be!”

“You can see for yourself. We're in orbit.”

“But we _can't_ be.”

“This lump of rock is suspended in perpetual geostationary orbit around that black hole without falling in,” Ida said with a somewhat smug disposition, eyeing them carefully for a reaction. “Discuss.”

“That's _bad,_ yeah?” Hartley wasn't an expert, but it certainly sounded unpleasant.

“Bad doesn't cover it,” the Doctor responded tightly, staring up at the black hole through worried, narrowed eyes. “A black hole's a dead star. It collapses in on itself, in and in and _in_ until the matter's so dense and tight it starts to pull everything else in too. Nothing in the universe can escape it. Light, gravity, _time_. Everything just gets pulled inside and crushed.”

Though sometimes the Doctor was terrible at explaining things in layman's terms, occasionally he surprised everyone by speaking in words the person of average intelligence could understand. And sometimes he explained _too_ well, so well to the point of terrifying the people around him. This was one of those times.

“So, they can't be in orbit,” Rose understood now, too. “We should be pulled right in.”

“We should be _dead_ ,” he confirmed solemnly.

“And yet here we are, beyond the laws of physics,” Ida told him with a cheeky smile. Hartley decided that she liked her quite a lot. “Welcome on board.”

“Happy to be here,” Hartley told her with a genuine grin, and the science officer shot her a befuddled glance, unused to the traveller's unwavering optimism.

“But if there's no atmosphere out there, what's that?” Rose asked, pointing to the black hole above them, where they could clearly see chunks of _something_ being sucked into the event horizon.

“Stars breaking up. Gas clouds. We have whole solar systems being ripped apart above our heads, before falling into that thing,” the woman told her tightly, glancing upwards with a deep grimace etched into her pretty features.

“So, a bit worse than a storm, then,” Rose summarised.

“Just a bit.”

Another tremor shook the floor, and Hartley snapped her hand out to the console in the middle of the room, trying her hardest not to be the only one to fall over. Once the tremor was over, Zach turned his attention to the keys in front of him, typing in a command with steady fingers. A hologram appeared over the central console, floating gracefully, glowing in the darker room. The Doctor stepped closer, intrigue pasted clearly across his face.

“That's the black hole, officially designated K-three-seven-Gen-five,” the Captain explained, gesturing to the 3D image with a pen.

“In the scriptures of the Falltino, this planet is called Kroptor, the bitter pill,” Ida told them, and Hartley peered back up at the clear ceiling, staring through the thick glass to the black hole, wonder in her eyes. It was terrifying, yes, but it was also something few people, if any, would ever get to see again. She felt privileged to be looking at it, appreciating it for the beautiful – and frightening – event that it was. “And the black hole is supposed to be a mighty demon. It was tricked into devouring the planet, only to spit it out, because it was poison.”

That dampened her sense of wonder slightly, and she gave a grimace that went unnoticed.

“The bitter pill. I like that,” Rose chimed, not seeming to take the vague warning seriously.

“We are so far out. Lost in the drifts of the universe. How did you even get here?!” the Doctor asked curiously.

“We flew in,” the Captain revealed. “You see, this planet's generating a gravity field. We don't know how. We've no idea. But it's kept in constant balance against the black hole. And the field extends out there as a funnel. A distinct gravity funnel, reaching out into clear space. That was our way in.”

“You flew down that thing?” Rose asked with wide eyes, peering at the image of a funnel being clearly displayed on the hologram. “Like a rollercoaster,” she added with a tiny grin.

“By rights, the ship should have been torn apart,” he said. “We lost the Captain, which is what put me in charge.”

“You're doing a good job,” Ida interjected encouragingly.

“Yeah, well, needs must,” he replied flippantly, beginning to tap away at the screen in front of him.

“But if that gravity funnel closes, there's no way out,” Danny said, bringing the mood down instantly.

“We had fun speculating about that.”

“Oh, yeah. That's the word. Fun,” he said sarcastically, and Hartley couldn't help but smile.

“But that field would take phenomenal amounts of power. I mean not just big, but off the scale!” the Doctor exclaimed, stepping closer to the controls of the hologram. “Can I?” he asked as an afterthought, hands already raised to begin work.

“Sure. Help yourself,” Ida replied with a shrug, and the Doctor eagerly began to type away at the keyboard, brown eyes flickering back and forwards over the information displayed.

Nothing was said for a moment, the Doctor working away and the soft voices of Rose and Danny floating over to them from the other side of the room. “You're quiet,” the Time Lord said suddenly, and Hartley glanced away from the hologram, blinking up at him curiously. “Are you okay?” he continued casually, never moving his eyes from his task. The question took her by surprise, but she answered without restraint.

“I'm always okay,” she responded in reflex, proud that it was only a tiny little bit of a lie.

“That's a lie if I ever heard one,” he called her out on it bluntly, and her nose scrunched in consternation. She thought that was a little hypocritical, but didn't bother pointing it out. “Impossible planet under a black hole – you're not impervious to death here,” he said, surprising her yet again.

“What?” she gaped at him. “You mean the black hole somehow cancels out my immortality?” she asked, wondering how that were possible. She wished, not for the first time, that there were a manual for immortals like her. Maybe she should write one, in case she ever came across another.

“What? No,” he rolled his eyes, then focused them back on his work, fingers moving at a dizzying pace. “What I mean is, if you get swallowed by that thing, you won't die. You'll just...exist – forever. In a constant state of being crushed, on the verge between life and death, never able to escape.”

Hartley winced, feeling a chill prickle across her skin. “That sounds significantly worse,” she said grimly.

“Does it scare you?” the Doctor asked her absently, and even though he was extremely busy, their lives possibly on the line, she got the feeling he didn't want to stop talking. Maybe he was enjoying the distraction she was offering. Maybe it was helping; her voice lending him some sense of comfort.

She considered the question carefully. “You don't die as many times as I have without becoming a little bit scared of the darkness,” she finally answered him, frighteningly honest.

The Doctor was silent, processing her words in his own way before he finally said, “I'm sorry.”

“For what?” she asked, confused by the apology.

“Just that you're like this,” he told her, looking for all the world focused on his task, but she saw the way his eyes flickered over to her ever now and again, a deepness to them that she could barely comprehend. He was as baffling as the planet they stood on; the inner workings of his mind just as much of a mystery.

“Not your fault,” she reminded him with a shrug, keeping her thoughts to herself.

The Doctor grimaced as though he strongly disagreed, but then he was whirling around, the pensive look gone from his face in an instant. “There we go!” he exclaimed brightly, his enthusiastic volume making Hartley flinch back, such a sharp contrast to his previous, private murmurs. “Do you see? To generate that gravity field, and the funnel, you'd need a power source with an inverted self extrapolating reflex of _six_ to the power of _six_ every _six_ seconds.”

“That's a lot of sixes,” Rose commented lightly.

“And it's impossible.”

“It took us two years to work that out,” Zach said, a thinly-veiled accusation.

The Doctor lifted his shoulders in a simple shrug. “I'm _very_ good,” he said, eyes glinting smugly.

“But that's why we're here,” Ida spoke up, attention in the room turning to her. “This power source is ten miles below through solid rock. Point Zero. We're drilling down to try and find it.”

“It's giving off readings of over ninety stats on the Blazon scale,” Zach added, and though Hartley had absolutely no idea what any of that meant, she kept the look of intelligent interest on her face. She'd found things went better if she at least pretended to understand what was going on.

“It could revolutionise modern science.”

“We could use it to fuel the Empire.”

“Or start a war,” the Doctor said darkly, and there was a drawn out, uncomfortable silence, in which everybody pondered the weight of his words.

“It's buried beneath us, in the darkness, waiting,” Toby spoke up, and Hartley jumped, not having realised he'd stepped back into the room. He was staring at them, a darkness to his eyes that chilled her to the bone.

“What's your job, chief dramatist?” Rose interjected, and Hartley cracked a smile despite the dark energy, glancing over at the Doctor who was smirking amusedly, reaching up to rub at his eye out of habit.

“Well, whatever it is down there, it's not a natural phenomena,” Toby continued after shooting her a sort of scolding look that went largely ignored. “And this, er, planet once supported life eons ago, before the human race had even learned to walk.”

“I saw that lettering written on the wall,” the Doctor said thoughtfully. “Did you do that?”

“I copied it from fragments we found unearthed by the drilling, but I can't translate it.”

“No, neither can I,” he replied with frown. “And that's saying something.”

“There was some form of civilisation. They buried something. Now it's reaching out, calling us in,” he said, sounding every bit like the excited archeologist he was.

“And you came.”

“Well, how could we not?” Ida asked, like the reason was obvious.

“So, when it comes right down to it, why did you come here? Why did you do that? Why?” the Doctor asked, an eager, bright spark in his eyes that made Hartley laugh, leaning against the desk beside her and watching on with a small, fond smile on her lips. “I'll tell you why. Because it was _there_. Brilliant!” he grinned in pure, unadulterated delight. “Excuse me, er, Zach, wasn't it?”

“That's me,” the Captain confirmed.

“Just stand there, because I'm going to _hug_ you,” the Time Lord announced, but if Zach was surprised or in any way freaked out, he didn't show it, remaining utterly stoic. “Is that all right?”

“I suppose so,” the man shrugged calmly.

“Here we go,” he said bracingly, slowly but surely moving towards the stationary man. “Come on, then.”

He drew the Captain into a massive bear hug, squeezing tightly and slapping him companionably on the back in a way that apparently every male did, no matter the species.

“Oh, human beings. You are amazing! _Ha_!” the Doctor was giddy as he pulled back. Hartley wouldn't have been surprised if he broke out into song. “Thank you.” She had to smile, watching the Doctor experience his childlike wonder for all things human. It was something that was different between this Doctor and the last.

The previous one had loved humanity, sure, but he'd also been rather derisive towards it. He'd been so wrapped up in the problems of the moment he hadn't stopped to appreciate its beauty. She supposed that's why he picked up Rose, to experience it through her like he was so incapable of doing on his own.

This Doctor, however, was awash with appreciation for the human race. He praised them every chance he had. He was still all fire and thunder, but at the same time he had a softness about him, a weakness for the humanity he so adored and protected. She liked them both in different ways, but she had to admit, _she_ had a weakness for _this_ Doctor, and it probably had everything to do with his newfound kindness for her.

“Not at all,” Zach was saying nonchalantly, and she blinked away from her internal analysis, focusing back on the moment she was in.

“But apart from that, you're completely mad,” the Doctor continued blatantly, calming down in an instant. “You should pack your bags, get back in that ship and fly for your lives,” he said bluntly, shoving his hands deep into his pockets and surveying the gathered group with serious eyes. His mood swings sometimes threatened to give Hartley whiplash, and the others looked to feel the same.

“You can talk,” Ida scoffed. “And how the hell did you _get_ here?”

“Oh, I've got this, er, this ship,” he said, tugging habitually at it ear. “It's hard to explain. It just sort of appears.”

“Materialises, is a better word,” Hartley interjected, and the Doctor pointed at her in silent agreement.

“We can show you, we parked down the corridor from...oh, what's it called?” Rose murmured. “Habitation area!”

“Three,” the Doctor corrected.

“Do you mean storage six?” the Captain asked, a look of remorse trickling over his features, and with a stab to the chest Hartley realised what had happened.

“It was a bit of a cupboard, yeah. Storage six,” the Time Lord nodded obliviously, only to glance at Hartley, taking in the look of dread that sat across her face, clear as day. Something clicked in his head at the uncharacteristic expression, and that same look of horror appeared in his honey brown eyes. “But you said...you said – you said storage five to eight!”

In a move that made Hartley flinch, the Doctor exploded into movement, rushing towards the doors, Rose close on his heels, confusion spread across her pretty face. They disappeared into the next room, but Hartley decided not to go with them, secretly too afraid of the Doctor's oncoming wrath. If the TARDIS really was lost, who knew how he'd react? She didn't feel like she needed to be there for the coming explosion.

Collapsing into a chair behind her, Hartley dropped her face into her hands in resigned misery.

She wasn't one to let the bad things get to her, but suddenly they'd gone from traipsing around on a brand new adventure to being stuck on an impossible planet, suspended under a ravenous black hole that would mean eternal, unending suffering for someone with her particular talents.

Suffice to say, things had abruptly become rather bleak.

“I'm sorry,” Ida said to the remaining traveller, glancing at the doorway the others had disappeared through with a sympathetic frown.

“Don't be sorry,” Hartley told her, but her voice was faint and lacked its usual sincerity. “It'll all be all right in the end. We've been in situations worse than this before,” she said, the words as much for her own benefit as they were for Ida's. But there was this voice in the back of her mind, one questioning whether or not that was strictly true.

Ida shot her an odd look, mouth in a half-twisted-upwards smile that she got the feeling was just to humour her. “I'm not sure that can be true,” she said dryly.

“We've survived a lot,” Hartley responded, forcing her shoulders into a vague shrug. “We'll survive this too.”

“You would be your group's designated optimist, then?” Ida asked with wry amusement.

“Something like that,” Hartley told her, leaning her weight against the back of the chair and running her hands down the length of her face, trying not to think about the terrible situation they'd found themselves in. The Doctor was going to be ropeable, who knew what they were going to have to do to get the TARDIS back, if they even could? And if not, what were their options? Live out the rest of their days under the black hole?

The Doctor and Hartley had a hell of a lot of days to go, and she didn't fancy spending all of them sitting around on her arse, staring up into the face of certain death.

“Would you like a refreshment?” one of those creepy looking aliens seemed to pop up out of nowhere, the sphere in his hand glowing with his words.

“No, I'm right,” she told it, or maybe him, gently. “Thank you for offering, though,” she offered kindly, smiling politely at the creature who ducked its head in a respectful move before shuffling away slowly.

“Great, are you a Friend of the Ood as well?” Danny spoke up, only half paying attention as he tapped away at his tablet distractedly. He sounded rather sour about the whole thing, whatever it meant.

“Friend of the what?” she asked cluelessly.

“The Ood,” he said again, looking up to see her blank expression. “Where the hell did you come from?” he asked, face scrunched in disbelief.

“Wouldn't believe me if I told you,” she said casually, and he sighed, seeming rather over the whole thing in general, before nodding his head in the direction of their tentacled butler.

“It's an Ood, a slave race,” he said. “Friends of the Ood are all about 'liberating' them, or some nonsense like that.”

“Slaves?!” she repeated in horror, a righteous anger dripping through her veins. Maybe it was kind of misplaced, but she had a lot going on, being stuck on an impossible planet and all, so she bit out, “s'pose you could say I _am_ a friend of them, then.”

“Great,” he said with the utmost sarcasm, but she didn't take it to heart. Who knew how long they'd been on this base for? A long enough stay was bound to make anyone grumpy. She'd only been there for under an hour and already she was ready to go completely insane.

Gosh, she could be worse than the Doctor sometimes.

The door on the other side of the room opened with a groan, the Doctor and Rose slipping back into the control room, heading directly over to Zach, who glanced up blankly from his tablet. “The ground gave way,” the Time Lord explained, voice desolate but determined. He had a plan, she could tell, and she was more than ready to hear it. “My TARDIS must've fallen down right into the heart of the planet. But you've got robot drills heading the same way.”

“We can't divert the drilling,” Zach said the words like he was reading them off a card.

“But I need my ship,” the Doctor argued desperately. “It's all I've got. _Literally_ the only thing.”

“Doctor, we've only got the resources to drill one central shaft down to the power source, and that's it,” the Captain said, a glint of pity in his dark eyes, though his tone still remained curt and serious. “No diversions, no distractions, _no_ _exceptions._ Your machine is lost. All I can do is offer you a lift if we ever get to leave this place, and that is the end of it.”

The Doctor looked about ready to start yelling, a fire to his eyes that Hartley herself rarely saw. She stood from her chair, purposefully shifting into the space between the enraged Time Lord and the distracted, human Captain.

The Doctor paused at her appearance, glancing down at her. The fiery glint to his eyes dimmed as he met her gaze, a pleading in her blue stare, silently begging him to relax. The last thing they needed was to piss off their only ride off of this bloody rock.

“I'll er, put you on the duty roster,” Ida said suddenly, tone calm and placating, and the Doctor broke his stare with Hartley to look over at her blankly. “We need someone in the laundry,” she added sweetly, but the Doctor looked horrified at the mere thought of doing something as mundane as _laundry._ She left before he could argue, which was definitely the wiser choice.

Slowly but surely, the remaining members of the crew began to file from the room, each heading off to complete their designated tasks, leaving the three time travellers alone in the control room, except for the Ood that hesitated by the door, awaiting orders.

They were all silent for a long minute, both girls glancing back up at the black hole above them, contemplating their predicament.

“I've trapped you here,” the Doctor had never sounded more remorseful, so full of self-loathing.

“No, don't worry about us,” Rose said instantly, stepping closer to Hartley and threading her arm through hers in a friendly stance, conveying them as a unit. She quickly nodded in agreement, gripping her friend back, swearing to herself that they _would_ find a way off the planet, they _would_ get the TARDIS back, and everything _would_ work out in the end. Because it just had to.

The planet beneath them shook violently, and Rose was jerked out of Hartley's hold from the force of it.

“Okay,” Rose began shakily, reconsidering her stance on the matter as she once more glanced up at the black hole above them. “We're on a planet that shouldn't exist, hovering under a black hole, with no way out. I've changed my mind. Start worrying about me.”

The Doctor smiled pensively, holding out his arms for Rose to slip into like she belonged there. She nuzzled her head into his shoulder, clutching him securely. He held her tightly, staring up at the black hole, the smile all but wiped from his face now that she couldn't see.

In a movement that surprised Hartley, his chocolate gaze moved from the pure black event horizon and directly to her. He continued to hold Rose, but his eyes caught hers, the emotion in them nearly knocking her off her feet.

He looked guilty, remorseful, like in that moment he hated himself more than anything else in the universe. Hartley knew there probably wasn't anything she could say, nothing she could do to make this better. She didn't want him to blame himself – they knew what they were getting themselves into every time they stepped out of the TARDIS doors, they knew the risk they were taking. He bore no blame this time, and she would make sure he knew it.

“Come on,” Rose said, eventually detangling herself from the Doctor and effectively breaking the odd connection between the Time Lord and the immortal. “I'm hungry. Let's see if we can't swipe a bit of food from these guys, eh?” she said with a cheeky grin, an attempt to return to their usual banter.

“Sounds good,” the Doctor sniffed indelicately, tugging absently at his ear. “I want to take another look at that writing, anyhow.”

He led the way back, neither of the girls really sure how to get there anyway. He was quiet, uncharacteristically so, and both women exchanged a knowing glance, aware of how he was punishing himself for everything that had happened.

The habitation area was only half full, just two of the crew still loitering about, and the trio wandered inside. Jefferson, the one in charge of security if she remembered correctly, was eyeing them suspiciously, as though they might suddenly pull out guns and start shooting the place up. She wondered what it might be like to live in such paranoia all the time. It had to be exhausting.

“You all right?” Rose asked the Doctor, who had made a beeline for the far wall and was now crouched down by the symbols, distractedly scribbling notes in his small notebook. Glancing down in a vague curiosity, Hartley noted that most of the notes were in that circular language that she found all throughout the TARDIS library, and on the sticky notes always stuck to the monitor in the console room. She'd never gotten around to asking the Doctor what it was, or why the TARDIS didn't translate it. She made a mental note to do as much as soon as they got back aboard the ship.

“Mmhm,” the Doctor hummed absently in response, quite clearly too distracted to form proper replies.

“I'm gonna go get something to eat,” she continued, and he nodded back, eyes narrowed on the charcoal writing. “Want anything, Hart?” she asked Hartley, who looked up in surprise. She wasn't hungry, and she was too stirred up to even consider forcing food down her throat, so she merely smiled politely and shook her head. “Suit yourself,” Rose mumbled in response, pushing herself off the steps they were settled on and walking over to where the Ood were serving dinner.

The other crew members were spaced out around the room, chatting amongst each other happily as they ate their meals. Hartley didn't miss the way their eyes would slide over to her, Rose and the Doctor every now and again, leaving no doubt in her mind that they were the main topic of conversation that night.

“You still think everything will be alright,” the Doctor spoke quietly, ensuring they wouldn't be overheard, even though they weren't saying anything particularly secretive or life altering. Why was it that most of their conversations these days were had in whispers?

Hartley was settling into her spot, resting the small of her back against the lip of the step behind her. She turned to look at the Doctor, who again was speaking without so much as a glance in her direction.

“When did I say that?” she asked in bewilderment, she herself staring over at Rose who was stood conversing with one of the Ood pleasantly, a tray of space food in her hands and a smile on her pink lips.

“You didn't,” he answered simply. “But you never have to.”

Turning back to look at him, she tilted her head curiously. “What does that mean?”

“It's the cornerstone of your personality,” he said in a tone of distinct boredom, like this should have been obvious from the start, and she was slow for not realising it sooner. “Unwavering optimism,” he muttered, shaking his head ruefully, as though it were the one thing about her that he simply couldn't understand.

“I wouldn't call it 'unwavering',” she said wryly, leaning her head back until it bumped against the cool metal of the railing.

“You have doubts?”

“Doesn't everyone?”

He considered this while still scribbling in that circular language. “What about this time?” he finally asked, voice gentle and curious. “Any doubts we'll make it out?”

“This place...it just gives me a bad feeling,” she admitted reluctantly, eyeing the walls around them like the room itself might be eavesdropping on their conversation. “It's this...energy. Like it's bleeding out of the walls,” she said with a shudder of dark disgust. She could feel it in the corners of her consciousness, like a stain at the edges of her vision. She loathed it.

The Doctor finally abandoned his fruitless task, turning to look at her, curiosity and bright wonderment glittering in his expressive eyes. “You feel it too?”

“Yeah?” she said slowly, taken aback by the intensity of his stare.

“It's just strange,” he admitted, looking away again. He stared at the wall, but she knew in her gut that he wasn't really _seeing_ it. “I'm not used to other people being able to sense these things,” he told her quietly. “It's usually just me.”

Hartley's heart melted, and she opened her mouth to assure him her wasn't alone in this – not anymore – but then suddenly Rose reappeared beside them, a look of bemusement on her face.

“You okay?” Hartley asked her instead, eyeing the tray full of odd looking food in her hands.

“Yeah,” Rose nodded, and Hartley cocked an eyebrow, only she didn't explain, instead turning towards the tables across the room. “Come on, Doctor,” she continued, holding her tray against her hip as she nudged the alien in the shoulder. “Give that a rest and come have dinner with me.”

He looked like that was the last thing he wanted to do right then, clearly much preferring to spend his time trying to decipher the symbols, but he felt so guilty about their situation that he begrudgingly moved away from the writing on the wall and followed the his youngest companion over to one of the empty tables. Hartley wasn't sure whether the invitation was extended to her, so she awkwardly hesitated by the stairs until Rose realised she wasn't following.

“Come on then, Hart!” the blonde called impatiently over her shoulder.

She felt instant relief, practically sagging under the weight of it. She hurried after them, watching as they each settled into one of the seats on either side of the table, leaving nowhere for her to sit. Contemplating her dilemma for a minute, she finally crawled onto the tabletop, shuffling backwards so her spine was pressed against the wall and crossing her legs to rest her hands on her knees.

Neither the Doctor nor Rose gave her so much as a second glance, used to her unabashed, tactile ways – though several members of the crew shot her bemused glances. She responded with a polite, happy smile, and they were quick to look away.

“What is this stuff, anyway?” Rose asked curiously, picking up a fork and blinking down at the goop on her tray with slight suspicion.

“Protein and vitamins, mostly,” the Doctor told her casually, glancing down at it with a sniff. “Just a way to cram all the nutrients they could into the smallest servings possible.”

“What's it taste like?”

“Take a bite and find out.”

Rose popped a small portion into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully as Hartley watched her reaction closely. She didn't gag in disgust, which she supposed was something. “Not bad, I s'pose. Better than that fruit on New Earth that we sampled, at any rate.”

The Doctor chuckled, remembering the time fondly. Hartley just toyed with a loose thread on her jumper, knowing this to have happened when she wasn't with them.

Rose continued eating in silence, the quiet between them comfortable as they absently listened to the rest of the crew chat amongst themselves. She'd just finished the last of her meal when the lights above them flickered, plunging them into darkness before slowly blinking back to life. She sat up straight, on high alert, just on the off chance something was seriously wrong.

“Zach? Have we got a problem?” Ida was the first to act, talking into the comm on her wrist.

“ _No more than usual_ ,” the Captain replied calmly. “ _Got the Scarlet System burning up. Might be worth a look._ ”

Ida's eyes widened, and in an instant she was over by the controls at the wall. “You might want to see this,” she said to the group of newcomers. “Moment in history.”

With a flick of her wrist she opened the shutters above them, the light surrounding the black hole filtering through the thick glass, bathing them in an ethereal orange glow. Hartley stared up at the sight, her breath caught in her throat as she realised the gravity of what she was seeing.

“There. On the edge. That red cloud,” Ida said, and Hartley eyed the splash of red slowly being sucked into the event horizon of the black hole. “That used to be the Scarlet System. Home to the Peluchi, a mighty civilisation spanning a billion years, disappearing forever. Their planets and suns consumed,” she spoke matter-of-factly, but there was a reverence in her voice that made Hartley tear up. All that history, all that mighty culture just _gone_. Luckily, it wasn't lost to her and her travelling companions forever. She made another mental note to ask the Doctor to take them there once this was all over, right in their prime, so she could appreciate the civilisation for all it was. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have witnessed its passing,” Ida finished solemnly.

Things were silent for another long minute, each person on the base staring up at the once-in-a-lifetime sight, humbled into silence. The moment passed with a joint sigh, and Ida reached out to close the shutters again.

“Er, no, could you leave it open? Just for a bit,” the Doctor asked, stopping her quickly, making her look at him with raised eyebrows. He gave a little grin, and she seemed to smile back. “I won't go mad, I promise.”

“How would you know?” she countered smartly, but did as requested and left them open for the newcomers to see. “Scooti, check the lockdown. Jefferson, sign off the airlock seals for me,” she instructed, and the others hurried off to complete their orders.

The trio were silent as they watched the others leave, until Rose spoke up, her voice thoughtful and curious. “I've seen films and things, yeah; they say black holes are like gateways to another universe.”

“Not that one,” the Time Lord shook his head, staring up with dark, narrowed eyes. Hartley might have described him as haunted. “It just _eats._ ”

The question then had to be asked, did that mean there were some black holes that _did,_ in fact, lead to other worlds?

“All that history, gone,” she mused, barely realising it was out loud. She stared up at the sight, electric blue eyes taking in every detail of the impossible sight, struggling to believe it was something she was witness to. She didn't feel worthy.

“Thus is the circle of life,” the Doctor murmured back, and she cast a glance in his direction to find him already looking at her. She attempted a smile.

“Long way from home,” Rose spoke up, forlorn but attempting to sound nonchalant.

The Doctor's gaze switched to her, and then he immediately turned his attention to the sky. “Go that way,” he instructed, an air of playful kindness to his voice that Hartley was only just getting used to hearing. “Turn right, keep going for about...five hundred years? And you'll reach the Earth,” he finished cheerfully, and Rose couldn't help but smile in response.

Hartley wondered whether he knew every single planet in the entire universe by name. Admittedly, she wouldn't have been surprised.

“We'll see it again,” Hartley mumbled, staring up in that direction as though if she looked hard enough she would be able to spot the planet she once called home. Did she still? It was hard to say. It was like growing up in one town, then moving away as she grew up. It wasn't _home_ in the same sense anymore, but it would always be the place she felt loyal to.

“You think?” Rose frowned, not quite believing it. She sighed, looking down at her phone, toying with the buttons idly. “No signal. That's the first time we've gone out of range,” she commented, tracing a finger over the plastic screen.

Hartley wondered who she would call. Her mind flew to her Dad, but what could she possibly tell him? ' _Dad, I'm on a planet in an entirely different galaxy with a madman who lost his box and our other friend, but bad news is, we're stranded here. Won't be back for dinner, at least not in your lifetime. Love you_ '?

There were limits to even her ability to talk her way out of bad situations.

Another person floated to mind. What would Jack say, were she to ring him and tell him where she was? It was stupid to fantasise, she didn't know his phone number – if he even _had_ a phone.

She knew more so what she'd say to him. Doubtlessly something along the lines of ' _I'm so sorry. I love you. Stay weird'_.

“Mind you, even if I could...what would I tell her?” Rose added pensively, staring unseeingly across the empty room, and Hartley shook her head to clear it of thoughts of Jack. “Can you build another TARDIS?” she asked hopefully, and Hartley felt bad for her, while at the same time admiring her strength. She was keeping it together well for someone with such a seemingly bleak future.

“They were grown, not built,” the Doctor answered her morosely, an empathetic gleam to his warm brown eyes. “And with my own planet gone, we're kind of stuck.”

“Well, it could be worse,” Rose attempted to see the positive, tossing the Time Lord a tongue-in-teeth grin. “This lot said they'd give us a lift.”

“And then what?” the Doctor countered sullenly.

“I don't know,” she murmured back pensively. “Find a planet, get a job, live a life; same as the rest of the universe.”

“I'd have to settle down,” he said with a distasteful grimace. “Get a house or something. A proper house with – with _doors_ and things. _Carpets_. Me, living in a house!” he exclaimed, and Hartley couldn't help but chuckle at the ridiculous thought. “Now that, _that_ is terrifying,” he said with a muted horror.

“You'd have to get a mortgage,” Rose teased lightly, and he actually paled. Hartley snickered.

“No,” he muttered, aghast.

“Oh, yes,” she beamed brightly, her tongue again poking out between her teeth.

“I'm dying. That's it. I'm _dying._ It's all over.”

“What about me? I'd have to get one, too,” she laughed, before sobering as she suddenly had a thought. “I don't know, could be the same one. We could both, I don't know, share...” she trailed off, peeking over at the Doctor to find him staring at her with wide eyes.

Hartley suddenly felt very much like she was intruding, but knew leaving now would draw too much attention. So she was stuck staring determinedly up at the black hole above them, pretending like she couldn't hear their entire conversation – and doing a pretty bad job of it, too.

“Or not, you know. Whatever. I don't know. We'll sort something out,” Rose hurried to play it off, and as Hartley glanced down at them sneakily, she wondered whether she was imagining the look of hope in the Time Lord's old eyes.

“Anyway,” he said awkwardly, turning away before she had a chance to properly analyse the expression. Things faded into silence, and Hartley returned her gaze to the glass ceiling, trying to ignore the gaping hole in the universe and instead focusing on the beauty of the stars around it. “I promised Jackie I'd always take you back home,” he murmured suddenly, but Hartley didn't look away from the constellations above her.

“Everyone leaves home in the end,” Rose replied simply.

“Not to end up stuck here.”

“Yeah, but stuck with you, that's not so bad,” she said cheerfully.

“Yeah?” the Doctor asked, and this time Hartley knew she wasn't imagining the hope in his voice.

“Well, Hartley too, of course,” Rose said suddenly, and Hartley ripped her attention from the stars to blink at Rose in surprise. “Can't forget our third musketeer,” she teased, reaching forwards to poke her dear friend's arm.

Touched that she'd been included in such a moment, Hartley smiled widely, reaching over the table to grasp Rose's arm, squeezing gratefully. She realised Rose probably knew, somehow, that she was often left as a sort of third wheel. The effort to include her left her feeling warm and loved, and she smiled up at the stars above her in illogical happiness. Before she could say anything in reply, however, the shrill ringing of Rose's phone cut through the air, and they all looked down at the device in surprise.

Hadn't they just established it had no service? Then how could it be ringing?

Hartley was overcome with a sudden anxiety. She tangled her hands together in her lap, eyeing the device distrustfully. Rose shot a hesitant look at the Doctor, who nodded for her to pick the phone up, no doubt wildly curious himself.

“ _He is awake_.”

The words were loud enough for the other two to hear, and Rose flinched, tossing her phone to the other side of the room, where it hit the floor with a bang, cracking into pieces. “What the _hell_ was that?” she hissed, whirling back around to pin the Doctor with a terrified look. Hartley's pulse was racing, the occurrence more than slightly strange, and only making the dark feeling inside of her grow.

“I don't know,” the Doctor was much more calm than either of the others, “but I'm going to find out.”

* * *

“Evening,” the Doctor loped up to Danny, who flinched and whirled around at the sound of another voice in the room.

“Only us,” Rose added with a placating grin. Hartley followed on their tails, arms crossed over her chest as she ignored Danny in favour of wandering to the railing and leaning over it, eyeing the Ood with a sad eye. They looked so unhappy down there, sitting in absolute silence. It was heartbreaking.

“The mysterious trio,” the man from the future hummed, turning his attention back to the tablet in his hands, tapping away at the screen. “How are you, then? Settling in?”

“Yeah. Sorry, straight to business,” the Doctor said quickly, not sounding very sorry at all, “the Ood – how do they communicate? I mean, with each other?”

“Oh, just empaths,” Danny shrugged. “There's a low level telepathic field connecting them. Not that that does them much good. They're basically a herd race. Like cattle.”

“Said the shark to the fish,” Hartley mused aloud, but in the sudden quiet her voice carried, and the other three turned to look at her. She did nothing but toss them a flat glance before turning her eyes back to the Ood, gaze trailing over them in concern.

Were they bored down there? Why weren't they allowed _things_? They looked to only be permitted to sit there in silence, which seemed like a horrible sort of existence, in her opinion. Maybe she could get her hands on some books for them? Could they even read?

“Anyway,” the Doctor drawled, drawing the attention away from her. “This telepathic field. Can it pick up messages?”

“Because I was having dinner, and one of the Ood said something, well, odd,” Rose explained.

“Hmm. An odd Ood,” Danny smirked, but it was probably a joke he'd made a thousand times before. It didn't make anyone laugh.

“And then I got something else on my, er, communicator thing,” she said, lacking for a better word to say phone.

“Oh, be fair,” Danny said callously. “We've got whole _star_ systems burning up around us. There's all sorts of stray transmissions. Probably nothing.” Hartley turned, fixing him with the same stare that the other two were shooting him. “Look, if there was something wrong, it would show,” he defended quickly. “We monitor the telepathic field. It's the only way to look after them. They're so stupid, they don't even tell us when they're ill.”

Hartley wasn't a person who thrived on conflict – it was actually quite the opposite. But when she heard him being so heartless towards the Ood, she felt like slapping him in the face and telling him exactly how much of a jerk he was being. She didn't, but it was still nice to keep in mind that the option was there.

“Monitor the field,” the Doctor repeated, apparently knowing little about the Ood. He brushed over the insulting words like they were nothing, and Hartley sent him a frown that went unnoticed. “That's this thing?”

The monitor sat in front of them, the screen reading _Basic 5_.

“Yeah,” Danny confirmed flippantly. “But like I said, it's low level telepathy. They only register basic five.”

Hartley winced, staring at the monitor grimly as it quickly began to count up, the numbers getting higher and higher with every passing moment. As the number climbed, so did her heart rate.

“Well, that's not basic five,” the Doctor frowned, reaching up to tug at his hair in a sort of anxious movement. “Ten, twenty,” he read out in shock, “they've gone up to basic _thirty_.”

From below them, the Ood lifted their head as one, and Hartley flinched backwards in surprise.

“But they _can't_ ,” Danny began to scramble for an explanation, tapping away at his device with wide, shocked eyes.

“Guys, the Ood,” Rose said, pointing down to where the Ood were now standing on their feet. Hartley's throat went dry, and she stared down at them in muted horror. “What does basic thirty mean?” Rose asked carefully.

“Well, it means that they're shouting,” Danny told her bleakly. “Screaming inside their heads.”

“Or something's shouting _at_ them,” the Doctor countered grimly.

“But where is it coming from? What is it saying? What did it say to you?”

“Something about the 'beast in the pit',” Rose revealed.

“What about your communicator? What did that say?”

“He is awake,” Hartley said hollowly.

“ _And you will worship him_.”

The words came from the Ood below them, all speaking as one, and again, Hartley couldn't help but flinch.

“What the hell?” Danny gasped.

“He is awake,” the Doctor repeated, staring at the herd with those big, intelligent eyes.

“ _And you will worship him_.”

“Worship who?” he demanded, but he received nothing but silence in response. “Who's talking to you?” Nothing. “Who _is_ it?!” The Ood made no movement to indicate they had heard. “We need to get down there to examine them,” the Doctor told Danny, his words more of a barked order than a request.

“Yeah,” Danny looked shellshocked, eyeing the Ood warily before looking down at his pad and beginning to tap at the keys, unlocking the gate and allowing the Doctor and his companions through. The Time Lord all but leapt down the stairs, landing at the bottom with a thump and rushing over to the closest Ood, pulling out his sonic as he moved, no time to waste.

“What is it, Doctor?” Rose was asking warily, eyeing the Ood with a sliver of distrust. “What's making them say those things?”

“That's the question, isn't it?” he murmured back distractedly, sonic hovering carefully over the Ood, who merely blinked back peacefully. Hartley knew he was throwing himself into the mystery, desperate for something to cling to other than his hopelessness at losing the TARDIS and being stuck to live out his life in boring, linear time.

Hartley opened her mouth to ask what he was looking for, but was interrupted as the base suddenly shook like an asteroid had hit it, nearly sending her to the ground. She reached out, grasping ahold of Rose, both women using one another for balance.

“What the-” the blonde began, only to be cut off by another violent tremor that left them clutching to each other once more, fighting to stay upright. “What's happening?”

“ _Emergency hull breach. Emergency hull breach_.” The computer answered Rose's question for her, the voice droning and utterly apathetic.

“Which section?” Danny hurriedly asked into his communicator.

“ _Everyone, evacuate eleven to thirteen_ ,” Zach's voice said over the speakers, his tone rushed but still forcibly calm. “ _We've got a breach. The base is open. Repeat, the base is_ open!”

“This way!” Danny shouted to them over the alert sirens, grabbing Rose by the arm and hauling her through the corridor in a panic. The Doctor broke between them, silently but obviously staking his claim in a way that made Hartley roll her eyes, even despite the imminent danger they'd once again found themselves in.

The doors seemed to take forever to open and close, sealing themselves against contaminants and the like, keeping the group of travellers hopefully safe.

“Come on, come on,” Danny was muttering as they painstakingly waited for the doors in front of them to open. He was beginning to sweat, beads of moisture rolling down his dark skin.

Finally it cracked open and the four of them spilled into the corridor, gasping when they came face-to-face with the other half of the remaining crew. “ _Breach sealed. Breach sealed_ ,” the computer's robotic voice droned.

“Everyone all right?!” the Doctor was beginning to grow anxious, a look that Hartley wasn't used to seeing unless they were in _dire_ circumstances. So obviously, things were just about as terrible as they felt, which made Hartley's stomach clench with nerves. “What happened? What was it?” he was demanding of the crew, who were still gasping for air from the run for their lives.

“ _Oxygen levels normal_.”

“Hull breach,” Jefferson divulged through a stern scowl. “We were open to the elements. Another couple of minutes and we'd have been inspecting that black hole at close quarters.”

Both Rose and Hartley grimaced at the thought. A fate worse than death, the latter thought grimly, pit of nerves only growing in her gut like a virus through her system.

“That wasn't a quake,” the Doctor stated fiercely, his tone impatient and biting. He wanted answers, and he wanted them now. “What caused it?”

Nobody had any answers, the crew exchanging nervous, bewildered looks that made the Doctor grit his teeth in frustration.

“ _We've lost sections eleven to thirteen_ ,” Zach's voice once more came over the speakers, ever so cool and collected. “ _Everyone all right_?” he asked, weary.

“We've got everyone here except Scooti,” there was a heavy pause as everybody looked around to verify this. Hartley suddenly felt sick, a roll of nausea crashing through her system. Scooti – she'd been the smaller, younger one. Cute, Hartley remembered, and then swallowed thickly in fear. Where was she? Was she okay? “Scooti, report,” Jefferson barked into his communicator. “Scooti? That's an order. Report!”

“She's all right,” Zach revealed calmly from his place in the control room. “I've picked up her biochip. She's in habitation three. Better go and check if she's not responding. She might be unconscious.”

There was a beat of silence as everyone in the corridor recovered from the last five minutes, still breathing deeply from the panic. Hartley ground her teeth together, looking up and down the corridor they were in. she could still feel that sort of energy bleeding from the walls themselves, a darkness and a weighted stare, like someone – or something – was watching them.

“ _And how about that, eh_?” Zach added with placid enthusiasm, and Hartley flinched at the sudden words. “ _We survived_.”

“Habitation three. Come on,” Jefferson prompted the lot of them, pressing a hand to Ida's shoulder and gently urging her forwards. Hartley held onto her stomach as though her insides might fall out if she let go, a pained grimaced remaining glued to her expression. This whole adventure seemed to be giving her a sort of indigestion. “I don't often say this, but I think we could all do with a drink,” the head of security added with a tired huff.

Reluctantly they all turned and began to walk, following the older man through the large, empty corridors and on towards Habitation Three.

“What happened?” Hartley heard the Doctor ask Toby, his voice quiet and calm.

“I don't...I don't know,” the younger man murmured helplessly from where he was curled on the floor. Hartley frowned, holding herself tighter, the action now more of a hug than anything else. “I was working and then I can't remember. All that noise. The room was falling apart. There was no air-” he began to grow panicked.

“Come on. Up you get,” Rose's kind nature shone through as she reached down to help him up. She glanced at Hartley for help, and the redhead stepped closer, gently bringing him to his feet. They focused on the shaking archaeologist, who seemed more rattled than all of the others combined. “Come and have some protein one,” she added enticingly, and though he was still grimacing, he let them pull him to his feet.

“Oh, you've gone native,” the Doctor commented with a sneer, only a hint of amusement shining through.

“Oi, don't knock it. It's nice,” Rose argued with a playful, tongue-in-teeth grin. “Protein one with just a _dash_ of three,” she said brightly. “Am I right, Hart?”

“Hm?” Hartley hummed, not having been paying attention. “Oh, yeah, it's not so bad,” she agreed absently, speeding up to get to the Habitation area quicker. She felt exposed in the corridors, unprotected in a way she couldn't explain.

There was a pause before Rose began to murmur something to Toby, and the others up ahead were talking too, their voices receding to a dull murmur that Hartley paid no attention to.

“What's wrong?”

She hadn't noticed that the Doctor was beside her, and she struggled not to flinch at his sudden question, turning to see him watching her with his intelligent brown eyes, the kind that looked _through_ you rather than _at_ you. She suddenly knew that lying wasn't going to be an option. He'd just know.

“Terrible things are going to happen here,” she murmured to him quietly, keeping her voice down so as to not alarm any of the people around them – some of whom she had a feeling wouldn't be making it off this station alive. It was a morbid thought, but one she was powerless to stop.

“What makes you say that?” the Doctor asked gently, turning to face the direction they were walking. It was a light question, not a barked order or any kind of accusation, for which she was grateful.

“I don't know,” she responded absently, reaching up to press a hand against her rolling stomach. “I feel it, right here,” she said softly, gesturing to her abdomen. He was silent, reaching up to scratch at his faint stubble, processing her words.

“I feel it too,” he murmured, a rare worried frown furrowing his brow. “It's your empathy,” he explained quietly. “It's still growing in you – you're still learning how to harness it. But it's there, telling you something is very, very wrong.”

“If I'm an Empath, like the Ood,” she began, impressively steady considering the weight of her question, “then will whatever's happening to them, happen to me?”

The Doctor suddenly looked more troubled than ever. “I don't know,” he said, but she got the feeling he did, and didn't like the answer.

They shuffled into Habitation Three, the light from the destroyed star systems above them bathing them in that ethereal orange glow.

“ _It says Habitation Three_ ,” Zach was saying to Jefferson, who was rapidly growing more frustrated as the seconds ticked on and there was no Scooti in sight.

“Yeah, well, that's where I am, and I'm telling you she's _not_ _here,_ ” he growled into his communicator.

“I've found her,” the Doctor suddenly announced, his voice morose, and Hartley frowned, looking over at him in confusion, only to follow his line of sight up to the glass ceiling. A gasp tore from her mouth, and she recoiled like she'd been slapped, taking a step back into the Doctor, who was pressed against her back, his solid pressure keeping her grounded. Her eyes stung with grief as she stared up at the young woman's body, floating in open space, eyes held open in horrific death.

“Oh, my God,” Rose mumbled in distress, staring up at the body with equally wet eyes. Scooti's corpse began to float away from the window, drifting slowly towards the black hole above them, an unjust ending if there ever was one.

“I'm sorry,” the Doctor apologised sorrowfully, and Hartley pressed back into him, desperate for comfort against the horrible sight. He didn't grip her back, but he was there, and that was everything. “I'm so sorry.”

“Captain,” Jefferson began into his communicator, voice thick but at the same time void of emotion. “Report Officer Scootori Manista PKD, _deceased_. Forty-three-K-two-point-one.”

“She was _twenty_ ,” Ida revealed, her voice faint with horrified shock, mourning the loss of the beautiful young woman. “Twenty years old.”

“ _For how should man die better than facing fearful odds? For the ashes of his father and the temples of his Gods_.”

For once it wasn't Hartley to say the quotation, but rather Jefferson, who stared up at the floating body in deep, wretched remorse, like it were all somehow his fault. “Thomas Babington Macaulay,” Hartley said, recognising the quote with ease, and though Jefferson nodded, he didn't look away from the heartbreaking sight above them.

All of a sudden, the gentle humming that had so quickly become background noise to the lot of them vanished, plunging them into a stark, uncomfortable silence.

“It's stopped,” Ida said, and everyone finally turned their stares from Scooti's drifting corpse onto one another in surprise.

“What was that?” Rose asked, beginning to sound afraid. Nobody spoke, only serving to make her more anxious. “What was it?” she demanded with a spike of uncontainable fear.

“The drill,” the Doctor finally answered her hollowly.

“We've stopped drilling,” Ida announced. “We've made it. Point Zero.”

“What happens now?” Rose was the one to ask, her voice surprisingly steady, all things considered.

“Now, we do what we came here to do,” Ida replied, chin tilted up proudly, sticking strictly to the mission and pushing her grief over Scooti away with everything she had, compartmentalising. “We find out what the hell this place is.”

* * *

“I'm going down,” the Doctor announced, to neither of his companions' surprise. They turned to look at him, watching him watch the crew as they hurried around, preparing to drop Ida down into the heart of the planet they were standing on, just because they were _curious_.

The Doctor was right about one thing – it was oddly beautiful.

“No surprise there,” Rose murmured flatly, leaning back against the railing calmly.

“Keep them away from here for a minute,” the Time Lord instructed her quietly, beginning to shuffle backwards towards the door behind them where they'd already seen Ida fetch her spacesuit.

“What should I do?” Hartley asked him curiously, wondering what her part in all this would be.

“Follow me,” he mumbled, and she turned around with raised eyebrows, watching as he waved her into the small room with him.

“Hmm,” she purred teasingly. “You and me, all alone in a tiny little room?” she asked as she playfully wagged her eyebrows.

The Doctor looked caught between blushing and rolling his eyes. “You really _did_ spend too much time around Jack,” he muttered, and his words made Hartley laugh despite everything that had happened.

“Come on, Doc,” she pressed, watching as he moved over to the remaining spacesuit, beginning to pull it on over his own pinstripe suit. “What's the real reason you wanted me away from Rose?”

The Doctor was silent for a long few moments, slowly pulling on the spacesuit and avoiding her eyes. Hartley let him have his space, giving him the time he needed to collect his thoughts. She knew there were probably a lot of them.

“Are you going to be okay?” he finally asked, and her eyes shot open in surprise.

“You're worried about me?” she asked, bemused by the question. She'd never considered herself someone the Doctor would be _concerned_ for, particularly not now that she was immortal, as it were.

The Doctor frowned, eyes going blank for a brief moment before he shrugged. “I mean you _and_ Rose,” he corrected stiltedly, and she sternly reminded herself that she _wasn't_ a bad person for feeling kind of disappointed at the distinction. “If I go down there, are you two going to be alright up here?”

“Well, you know _I_ will be,” she said casually, leaning back against the wall and staring at the door, stubbornly refusing to meet his eyes. He was silent, waiting for her reply. She sighed, the sound heavy and weary. “We're going to be fine,” she assured him, then spun around to blink at him, “you know I'll protect Rose with my life...quite literally, right?”

“I know,” he agreed, a vague sort of frown on his face. “I feel better knowing she'll have you...should anything go wrong,” he sniffed, an odd look of frustration on his face.

“Nothing's going to go wrong,” she said immediately, refusing to entertain the thought for even a moment. He hummed, reaching up to tug thoughtfully at his ear. “What is it?” she pressed, picking up on the familiar nervous tic and looking over at him closely, wondering what was bothering him.

“If I don't come back,” he began quietly, “do _whatever_ you need to do to get her to safety. No matter _what,_ Hartley.” She was powerless to do anything but nod her head, the very thought of that being something that needed to happen making a lump appear in her throat. “Make sure you look after her.” He was frowning almost sadly, a crease appearing between sharp brows and the corners of his mouth pulling downwards.

“Of course,” she swore, then frowned right back. “But, I can't guarantee I'll be able to stay with her forever,” she added warily. “Who knows if or _when_ I'll get pulled away again?” She sucked in a breath, crossing her arms over her chest as she considered the problem.

“If I'm dead, hopefully the connection will sever,” he said casually.

“You're _not_ going to die.” The words were snapped, more an order than a reassurance.

The Doctor gave a grim smile, eyes glinting with a million thoughts she would never be privy to, and she stared back. Cobalt blue met earthy brown, and their connected gaze was full of things that she wasn't sure would never be said.

“Why _you_?” he asked suddenly, eyes glinting with a ravenous curiosity.

She knew what he was asking, knew it in her bones. It was something Hartley herself wondered every day, whenever things went quiet and she was left alone with her thoughts for a moment too long.

_Why her?_

“Is now really the time to be asking such a question?” she countered weakly, knowing she didn't have an answer – and unless the TARDIS suddenly grew a body to talk to them with, she doubted she ever would. “Aren't there more important things on your mind?” she asked gently.

“You're always on my mind.”

The words made Hartley blink, and she glanced sharply at the Doctor, who appeared equally as shocked by the bold statement. She eyed him closely, watching as he cleared his throat awkwardly and reached up to tug at his borrowed spacesuit like he suddenly wasn't getting enough air.

“I mean, the question of your _existence,_ is always on my mind,” he corrected abruptly, probably not wanting her to get the wrong idea. “Not – not _you_...”

“I know what you mean,” she spared him out of pity, and he practically sagged with relief when she didn't leave him a stuttering mess.

The pair were silent for a long minute, the Doctor deftly adjusting the suit to make sure it fit, and Hartley staring at the wall, trying to slow her suddenly racing heart.

“Hart?” the Doctor spoke suddenly, and she looked away from the scuff on the metal wall, meeting his eyes, which were surprisingly wary. “Do you really believe everything will be okay?” he asked quietly.

“I do,” she smiled back gently, forcing it out despite the still-lingering panic that clung to her mind like it had claws.

“How?”

She considered this, pondering her answer while he triple-checked his suit. “Faith,” she finally said, the answer surprisingly simple but true all the same.

“In what?” he asked, confused.

“Usually?” she said with a small, now finally _genuine_ , smile. “In you.”

The Doctor looked like she'd said the most confusing thing in the world, and she only smiled back confidently, the expression soft in a way he was growing so used to, but was still somehow at the same time new.

He opened his mouth to say something, but before the words could come out there was a banging on the door, loud and abrupt, making both travellers jump. “Who's in there? We need to do a headcount.”

Moving quickly, not wanting to be lost in her swirl of confused thoughts, Hartley leapt forwards, grabbing at the handle and pushing open the door, revealing Jefferson. His eyebrows were at his hairline, and he seemed torn between surprise and exasperation as he took in the sight of a blushing Hartley and the Doctor, who was still pulling at his suit.

“You right?” he asked sharply, eyes sliding between the pair of them suspiciously.

Hartley cleared her throat and stepped around the Head of Security with what dignity she could scrape together, knowing exactly what the man had to be thinking. “Not what it looks like,” she muttered to him, but his eyebrows only climbed higher, clearly not believing a word she said.

Rolling her eyes, Hartley decided she didn't care, stepping around him and moving out into the open. She spied Rose leaning against the railing, and headed for her, coming a stop beside her. The blonde looked up, shooting her a tense smile. “What'd the Doctor want?” she asked, glancing down into the big, gaping hole beneath them. Hartley wondered what was down there; wondered whether she even wanted to know.

“I think he wanted reassurance,” she answered honestly, staring into the abyss thoughtfully. There was a whispered voice in her head, telling her that she _could_ jump. What would happen? She'd survive it – she'd survive anything. But then she wouldn't be able to protect Rose, and she didn't have a temporary-death wish anyhow. She supposed it was human nature – the whisper to jump.

“Reassurance?” Rose echoed, confused.

Hartley turned back to her with a small, sad smile. “That everything's going to be okay.”

Rose frowned, considering this quietly before the familiar sound of the Doctor's voice washed over them both.

“Not much good at it, am I?” Zach was saying to him, tone wry and tired.

“Do me a favour?” the Doctor added quickly, and both women turned away from the gaping chasm beneath them to look over at him. He didn't seem to notice, attention fully on the Captain of the expedition. “If anything happens to Hartley, and you need to evacuate...bring her body with you?”

Hartley couldn't see Zach's face, but the following silence was telling enough. He was no doubt wondering why a request had such high priority. What did a dead body matter in the grand scheme of things? Surely there was more to it then sentimentality. Hartley knew he would likely never understand.

“Why?” Zach finally asked, and the Doctor gave a grim smile, eyes still imploring. Although he remained without answer, Zach relented with a nod. “Alright, fair enough,” he said, and the Doctor nodded back in gratitude. Zach threw a glance in Hartley's direction, and the redhead offered a gentle smile. He shrugged to himself, turning and shouting, “positions! We're going down in two. Everyone, positions!”

His crew began to rush across the space, hurrying to prepare for the drop they'd been working towards. There was a buzz in the air, a hum, an excited energy that fermented throughout the group. They were so close to answers, they could all taste it.

Hartley wasn't sure she wanted to know, but she did know one thing: there was nowhere to go but down. Literally.

The Doctor watched Zach go, then his eyes flickered back over to his companions, who approached with forced, encouraging smiles. “Oxygen, nitro balance, gravity. It's been ages since I wore one of these,” the Doctor told them cheerfully, looking down at the big helmet tucked under his arm fondly.

Rose smiled, but the expression was dimmed by worry. “I want that spacesuit back in one piece, you got that?” she commanded playfully, and the Doctor's eyes glittered.

“Yes, sir,” he said obediently, taking a moment to smile at the both of them before slipping the helmet over his head. A thick sheet of glass now separated them, but Hartley still saw his expression clearly, a worry in his eyes; not for himself, but for them.

“It's funny,” Rose mused quietly in a voice that let Hartley knew her next words weren't likely to be in any way amusing, watching the Doctor adjust the settings of his equipment. “People back home think that space travel's going to be all whizzing about and teleports and anti gravity, but it's not, is it? It's tough.”

The Doctor eyed her with consideration, taking in her words carefully. “I'll see you later,” he finally smiled, the expression small and appreciative, fond in a way that made Hartley's chest ache uncomfortably.

Rose grinned back coyly, “not if I see you first.”

She grasped either side of his head, pulling his helmet down to her level so she could press an affectionate kiss to the laminated glass separating them. He pulled away, beaming at her widely and making no move to wipe off the small smudge of lipgloss on the glass. Hartley expected him to leave, but instead he turned to look at her, a gentle look on his face that she still wasn't accustomed to receiving.

“Look after her,” he said, and she felt irrational disappointment skewer her through. He must have noticed the drop in her expression, for he ducked down to catch her eyes through the sheet of glass. “And look after _yourself_ ,” he added warmly. She looked back up, taking note of the sincere glint to his dark eyes, feeling better with the comment. “Promise me,” he said, and she could tell he needed to hear it.

She smiled, just slightly. “Only if you do the same,” she compromised, and his lips quirked up as he nodded his head. She wanted to hug him, squeeze him so tightly that he understood how much she cared about him, so he understood how scared she really was, but he turned away before she could garner the courage, heading for the lift that would drop he and Ida into the deep, dark pit below.

Zach counted down, and Hartley had barely come to terms with it before the Doctor was being lowered down beneath the ground, taking her faith with him.

She stood beside Rose, never removing her eyes from the screen that showed the capsule's progress, a little image telling them where they were within the planet's core. “You okay?” Hartley asked Rose, who seemed to be holding her breath.

“Yeah,” she replied unconvincingly.

“He'll be okay,” she said as reassuringly as she could.

“I know,” Rose nodded, but both of them could hear how stale it sounded, lacking in confidence.

“ _You've gone beyond the oxygen field_ ,” Zach's voice flooded through the comms suddenly, causing both women to flinch in surprise. “ _You're on your own_.”

The words were unintentionally ominous, and Hartley felt her chest squeeze at the thought of the Doctor down there all by himself. Yes, he had Ida – but he needed a friend, he always did, it was fundamental to his process. She could only hope Ida was up to the task.

  
Rose reached out, grasping hold of a stray communicator and holding it to her chest like a lifeline before speaking into it loudly. “Don't forget to breathe,” she reminded the Doctor sternly. “Breathing's good.”

“ _Rose, stay off the comm_ ,” Zach ordered from the control room.

“No chance,” she deadpanned back, and Hartley knew, deep in her bones, that it had made the Doctor smile.

Another few long, crucial seconds, and the screens flashed red as the capsule seemed to drop the rest of the way down, much too quick to be safe. Hartley's heart leapt into her throat, and she inhaled sharply, pulling the cuffs of her jumper in tight fists, squeezing as she stared desperately at the screen.

“Doctor?” Rose shouted urgently into the comm. “Doctor, are you alright?”

Hartley's throat felt thick, a ball of terrifying emotion blocking her airways. She ground her teeth together anxiously. Her heart sped up, panic seizing her. She could survive being stranded there, she could survive never getting back to Earth, and she could survive supporting and taking care of Rose – she couldn't, however, do it all without the Doctor. She couldn't even imagine having to. It was too painful a thought.

“ _Ida, report to me_ ,” Zach's voice washed over them again. “ _Doctor_ ,” he said, tone growing urgent, more so than she'd yet heard. Hartley stopped breathing all together.

“ _It's all right_ ,” the Doctor's wonderful, brilliant voice flooded the comms, and the relief Hartley felt was so strong she had to snap out a hand to grasp onto the railing, her knees shaking with the adrenaline of it all. “ _We've made it. Getting out of the capsule now_ ,” he said, and Hartley exchanged wet smiles with Rose.

“What's it like down there?” Rose asked while Hartley embarrassedly ran her fingers under her eyes, glad to see no tears had actually fallen free – that would have been far too humiliating.

“ _It's hard to tell. Some sort of cave...cavern_ ,” he told them conversationally. “ _It's massive_.”

Hartley struggled to imagine what they were looking at. What was down there, and what had happened to it all?

“ _Rose_ ,” he continued after a pregnant pause, “ _you can tell Toby we've found his civilisation_.”

Rose beamed, the expression wide and happy. “Oi, Toby. Sounds like you've got plenty of work,” she called to the guy himself.

“Good, good. Good,” Toby muttered, seeming to rock to and fro where he was sitting. Nobody else seemed to think this was particularly concerning, but Hartley was worried, turning to go speak to him.

However, she didn't get very far, barely three steps over and a searing pain ricocheted through her head, like she'd been stabbed in the brain – only she wasn't dying. A cry ripped from her lips, knees giving out under the force of it all, collapsing to the ground enough to bruise, holding her head in anguish.

“Hart?!” Rose's panicked voice asked in her ear, hands bracing themselves on her shoulders. “Hartley! Can you hear me?!” Rose was demanding. And she could; she could hear her perfectly, but she couldn't form enough of a thought to even begin to piece together a reply.

People around her, footsteps, shouting, but there was a voice in her head, one that defied translation. It was purring at her, rumbling and smooth but at the same time striking terror into her heart. The agony seemed to last forever, but like any sort of pain, her body fought through it, growing accustomed to the agony in her mind.

“Hartley?” Rose's voice was desperate now, shaking her shoulder roughly, needing her to snap out of it.

“I'm okay,” she finally managed to gasp out, cracking open her eyes.

“We've gotta go,” Rose said quickly, panic in her voice. “The Ood, something's happening. Can you walk?”

“Yeah,” Hartley grunted, and without hesitation Rose wrapped an arm around the smaller girl, hoisting her up and beginning to lead her hastily from the room.

“ _I shall become manifest_ ,” the voice in her head became clear, and she pressed a hand to her temples, which were aching like something was trying to wrench apart her skull with a crowbar. “ _I shall walk in might_ ,” it said darkly, and she felt a wave of nausea along with the pain. “ _My Legions shall swarm across the worlds_.” Hartley shuddered, looking up to see the Ood approaching them, eyes glowing a horrific crimson. “ _I am the sin and the temptation and the desire. I am the pain and the loss and the death. I have been imprisoned for eternity. But no more_!”

“ _Door sealed. Door sealed_ ,” the door behind her chimed flatly. Hartley could hear her pulse in her ears, she gripped her head, panic welling in her like water in a geyser, ready to burst.

“Oh God,” Rose muttered, arm wrapped around Hartley like she were the one protecting her, instead of the other way around, as it should have been.

“Open fire!” Jefferson commanded, voice stone cold, and Hartley flinched backwards into Rose as the bangs of gunfire filled her ears, only making the pain in her head grow. She couldn't watch the Ood die, she just couldn't bear it, so she turned into Rose who gripped her back, her eyes shut too.

Once the bullets finally stopped coming, Hartley dared to open her eyes. She refused to look at the ground, where the bodies of the dead Ood lay, instead focusing on the pain in her head, reaching up again to massage her temples as Rose darted down to the comms, picking it up and calling out for the Doctor. She received nothing back except static.

Hartley stumbled over, struggling to keep her balance. “Hart!” Rose exclaimed when she noticed her approach. “You should sit down!”

“I'm okay,” she insisted stubbornly.

“You don't look it,” argued Rose.

“Manage to get ahold of the Doc?” she asked instead, forcing herself to remain standing, one hand braced on the railing, the cool metal under her skin helping to ground her, like a tether to reality.

“No,” Rose answered shortly. “What's the matter with you?” she continued on quickly, hazel eyes scanning her friend up and down, searching for whatever was wrong.

“Migraine,” Hartley lied.

“A little more credit, please,” she scoffed, and despite the crippling agony she was in, Hartley managed a fond smile.

“I don't know,” she said honestly. “I think...I think it's got to do with whatever's down there,” she admitted weakly, narrowed eyes flickering down to the deep inky blackness of the never-ending pit, wondering what was down there that was so bad, so powerful it could do all _this_?

“But why's it only affecting you?” Rose questioned smartly. “Only you and the Ood...and Toby.”

“Maybe we're part Ood,” Hartley suggested in a weak attempt at humour, but Rose didn't indulge her with so much as a smile, too worried to do anything more than frown in deep concern.

“What did it feel like?” she pressed, refusing to give.

Hartley's expression wavered, and she lifted a hand to her head as if she might be able to reach inside her skull and touch the heavy weight of the presence in her mind. “It felt like pure evil,” she said, and didn't mention the fact that she could still feel it there, pressing against her thoughts, whispering the most horrible things into the dark recesses of her mind.

Rose's eyes widened, but she was prevented from saying anything when the comm suddenly crackled to life. “ _Rose_?” Zach's voice said through the speaker. “ _Any word from Ida or the Doctor_?”

Reluctantly Rose pulled away from Hartley to pick up the comm, holding it up to her lips with a deep frown. “I can't get a reply. Just nothing. I keep trying, but...” she trailed off, and Hartley could hear the pain and uncertainty in her voice.

There was a rush of static, then the Doctor's voice was saying, “ _no, sorry, I'm fine. Still here_.”

“You could've _said_ , you stupid _fucking_ alien!” Rose hissed into the comm furiously, and despite the burning pain in Hartley's head, she managed a proud smile.

“ _Whoa. Careful_!” the Doctor chastised her for her language. “ _Anyway, it's both of us. Me and Ida. Hello_.” There was a beat. “ _Hart there too_?”

“She's got a headache,” Rose revealed, but Hartley was too sick to be mad at her for it, holding her throbbing head down in her hands, trying to rub away the pain. “I think it's something to do with the Ood. It seemed _really_ bad,” she admitted, concern in her voice.

“ _Hartley_?” the Doctor asked.

“Here!” she shouted back, but even she could hear the tinge of hardened pain to her usually-sweet voice.

“ _You'll be okay_ ,” he told her, but she knew he was just trying to make her feel better. He really had no clue.

“What is it?” she asked even though she was sure he didn't have an answer, her voice tight and strained.

“ _I'm going to find out. You'll be okay_ ,” he repeated, and she got the feeling he was just trying to convince himself of the fact, and that made her feel decidedly _not_ okay.

“ _What's your status_?” Zach interrupted them urgently.

“ _The seal opened up,_ ” the Doctor replied, back to business. “ _It's gone. All we've got left is this chasm._ ”

“ _How deep is it_?”

“ _Can't tell. It looks like it goes down forever_.”

“The pit is open,” Rose recalled the thing's words, and Hartley saw her shudder as she relayed them. “That's what the voice said.”

“ _But there's nothing. I mean..._?” Zach trailed off, clearing his throat and continuing. “ _There's nothing coming out_?”

“No, no. No sign of the Beast,” the Doctor sounded exasperated that he even had to say as much.

“It said Satan,” Rose murmured, and this time it was Hartley who shuddered, a chill running down her spine like a drop of icy water. She clutched her head tighter as it gave another violent throb, the pain shuddering and travelling through her bones like tiny bolts of agonising lightning.

“ _Come on Rose, keep it together_ ,” Hartley heard the Doctor murmur to their other companion.

“Is there no such thing?” she countered, unyielding. “Doctor, tell me there's no such thing,” she pressed. There was a pregnant pause, and Hartley waited for his answer with bated breath.

“ _Rose, we're coming back_ ,” the Doctor finally announced.

“Best news I've heard all day,” Rose sighed in relief, but Hartley couldn't help but notice that he never answered the question.

“ _Keep an eye on Hartley until I get there_ ,” he added, then cut off the connection with a pinch of static.

“I resent that,” Hartley muttered weakly, weight pressed against the railing. The pain was draining her, and she knew now it wasn't a physical thing – if it was, it would have healed by now. No, this was something more, this was a psychic attack, it was the only explanation. The voice continued to whisper, and every now and then her vision would flash crimson, like somebody had dropped a red scarf over her eyes, but then it would disappear, and she was left wondering whether it had even actually happened in the first place.

She was jolted from her thoughts as Jefferson turned on Toby – the Archaeologist, she remembered with a wince – pointing his rifle in the poor kid's face in threat.

“What're you doing?” Rose demanded, rushing over to them and sliding in between Toby and the barrel of the weapon.

“Shit,” Hartley swore, painfully pushing herself off the railing and stumbling forwards, stubbornly nudging at Rose until she was stood behind her. This way she was prepared to take the bullet if it came down to it.

“He's infected,” Jefferson spat. “He brought that thing on board. You _saw_ it.”

“Are you going to start shooting your own people now? Is that what you're going to do?” Rose demanded furiously, and Jefferson's jaw clicked with concealed emotion.

“If necessary,” he said hollowly.

“Well then, you'll have to shoot us _if_ _necessary_ ,” she sneered back at him, “so what's it going to be?” Jefferson didn't move a muscle, staring down at Toby with a thunderous expression, finger hovering over the trigger. “Look at his face,” Rose pressed strongly. “Whatever it was, it's _gone._ It passed into the Ood. You saw it happen. He's clean.”

Jefferson looked like he doubted this very much. “Any sign of trouble, I'll shoot him,” he finally said with great reluctance, only to turn to Hartley, end of his gun positioned directly over her heart. Rose gave a small grunt of irritation. “You as well,” he warned the traveller, a steely look to his eyes.

“What's _she_ done?” Rose argued heatedly.

“That headache of hers,” he said lowly. “It wasn't normal.”

Hartley pressed back against Rose in a silent plea not to argue any more. “Well, you're welcome to shoot me any time you like,” she told the man holding the gun. “It'll give me a few minutes without this bloody headache, at the very least,” she added in more of a mutter to Rose, who looked strongly object to this plan. “Then I'm _sure_ I'll be up again to punch you clean in the nose,” she added to him spitefully.

Jefferson stared back at her like she were clinically insane, which was probably fair, but the pain in her head was so intense, she was caring less and less about what was coming out of her mouth.

“One wrong move, you hear me?” the man finally warned, and she nodded as solemnly as she could. With a grimace of disdain, he turned away and stalked over to Danny, who had at some point also reappeared.

Rose squeezed Hartley's arm then crouched down beside a shivering Toby, whose eyes were wide in unrestrained terror.

“Are you all right?” she asked him, voice full of compassion.

“I don't know,” he answered shakily.

“Can you remember anything?”

“Just, it was so angry. It was fury and rage and death,” he muttered, trembling with his fear, fear that Hartley understood. The voice was still there, buried deep within the pages of her mind, whispering things; terrible, horrible, unforgivable things. “It was him,” Toby whispered with horrified conviction. “It was the devil.”

“Come on,” Rose said gently, leaning closer and pulling the shaking guy into her arms. He shivered in her grasp, his eyes wide and unseeing over her shoulder. Hartley thought he looked rather...empty, and that scared her almost even more than the whispers.

“Did you feel it too?” Toby asked in a scared murmur, and Rose pulled back only to find his attention on Hartley, whose eyes were just as haunted as his, just as full of darkness.

“Yes,” she admitted, feeling the seed of it still, sitting in her head, like it was waiting for something, or biding its time.

“ _Okay, we're in_ ,” Ida's voice said through the comms, and Rose climbed to her feet, squeezing Hartley's shoulder on the way past as she moved of to the monitor. “ _Bring us up_.”

Jefferson began to work the controls, telling them, “ascension in three...two...one-”

Before he could hit the button, everything went dark. It was so sudden that Hartley let out a squeak of shock, flinching like something had moved to hit her, although there was nothing. The emergency lighting came on a moment later, but it was still dim, Hartley only just able to make out the others in the low glow.

“ _ **This is the darkness. This is my domain**_.”

Hartley gasped, grasping desperately at her aching head. “Please tell me everyone else can hear that,” she muttered, and Rose gave a little grunt of confirmation. She groaned, shutting her eyes tightly against the intruder in her head, wanting to force it out but not knowing how.

“ _ **You little things that live in the light, clinging to your feeble suns which die**_.”

“ _That's not the Ood. Something's talking through them_ ,” Zach's voice said sternly.

“ _ **Only the darkness remains**_ ,” the disembodied voice continued, unaffected by the interruption.

“ _This is Captain Zachary Cross Flane of Sanctuary Base Six, representing the Torchwood archive. You will identify yourself_ ,” Zach ordered it, leaking as much authority into his voice as he could.

“ _ **You know my name**_.”

“ _What do you want_?”

“ _ **You will die here. All of you. This planet is your grave**_.”

“It's him, it's him, it's him,” Toby had begun rocking again, tilting himself back and forwards in way of comfort. Hartley's hands slammed over her ears, but it did no good, the voice was coming from inside her own mind.

“ _If you are the Beast, then answer me this. Which one, hmm_?” the Doctor's voice broke through the discussion, and Hartley felt relief gush through her veins. The Doctor was here. The Doctor would save them. “' _Cos the universe has been busy since you've been gone. There's more religions than there are planets in the sky. The Archiphets, Orkology, Christianity, Pash Pash, New Judaism, San Klah, Church of the Tin Vagabond. Which devil are you_?”

“ _ **All of them**_.”

“ _What, then you're the truth behind the myth_?” the Doctor scoffed skeptically.

“ _ **This one knows me as I know him. The killer of his own kind**_ ,” the voice growled, utterly unbothered.

“Shut up!” Hartley yelped against it, wondering how it _dared_ say such things to the Doctor.

“ _It's okay, Hart_ ,” the Doctor's voice calm voice washed over her like a drug, and she sagged backwards at the sound of it. “ _How did you end up on this rock_?” he continued on without pause, and the voice seemed to grow louder with fury.

“ _ **The Disciples of the Light rose up against me and chained me in the pit for all eternity**_.”

“ _When was this_?”

“ _ **Before time**_.”

“ _What does that mean_?”

“ _ **Before time**_.”

“ _What does before time mean_?”

“ _ **Before light and time and space and matter. Before the cataclysm. Before this universe was created.**_ ”

“ _That's impossible. No life could have existed back then_ ,” the Doctor argued.

“ _ **Is that your religion**_?”

There was a pregnant pause. “ _It's a belief_ ,” he allowed reluctantly.

“ _ **You know nothing. All of you, so small. The Captain, so scared of command. The soldier, haunted by the eyes of his wife. The scientist, still running from Daddy. The little boy who lied. The virgin.**_ ”

Each person was spoken about, and each knew who they were. Hartley wondered if she'd been spared, but what he said next shook her down to her very core.

“ _ **The lonely immortal, the Heart of a storm she knows not, doomed to be trapped where she is not wanted, for all of her days**_ **.** ”

Feeling as if she might be physically sick, Hartley bent at the waist, holding her arms around her middle and squeezing her eyes shut tight against the onslaught of emotion and physical pain.

“ _ **And the lost girl,**_ ” it continued like it hadn't attacked Hartley's every insecurity within one single sentence,“ _ **so far away from home. The valiant child who will die in battle so very soon.**_ ”

Reluctantly pulling her head up, Hartley looked over at a terrified Rose. “Doctor, what does that mean?” she asked shakily into the communicator.

“ _Rose, don't listen,_ ” the Doctor commanded furiously.

“What does it mean?” she pressed anxiously.

“ _ **You will die and I will live**_.”

There was a furious roar, one that rattled Hartley's very bones, and her arm snapped out to grasp hold of the railing, keeping herself upright with some effort. Everybody around her flinched, and Hartley had to swallow a cry of pained panic. What exactly had they gotten themselves into?

All at once, everybody began to talk, demanding an explanation from anyone who would listen. Hartley could do little else except squeeze her eyes shut and fight against the pressure against her mind, eating away at her thoughts like some kind of dark, evil virus. The scared, raised voices all around her were making her migraine worse, and she whimpered against the pain, against the cruel voice hissing in her head.

There was a sharp, piercing ring of feedback through the comms, and immediately everybody stopped talking over one another, falling blissfully silent.

“ _You want voices in the dark? Then listen to mine,_ ” the Doctor said sternly, voice leaving no room for argument. “ _That thing is playing on very basic fears. Darkness, childhood nightmares, all that stuff-_ ”

“But that's how the devil works,” Danny countered smartly.

“ _Or a good psychologist_.”

“ _Yeah, but how did it know about my father_?” Ida asked, voice weak and vulnerable through the tinny speakers.

“ _Okay, but what makes his version of the truth any better than mine, hmm_?” the Time Lord challenged them quickly, effectively shutting them all up once more. “ _'Cos I'll tell you what I can see. Humans – brilliant humans. Humans who travel all the way across space, flying in a tiny little rocket, right into the orbit of a black hole, just for the sake of discovery. That's amazing! Do you hear me? Amazing, all of you. The Captain, his Officer, his elders, his juniors, his friends. All with one advantage. The Beast is alone. We are not. If we can use that to fight against him-_ ”

Hartley was just beginning to believe him, just beginning to think that there was a chance of them all surviving this, there was a chance to get through it and come out the other end intact. Then, just as that belief solidified, there was a loud snap and the cable connecting the capsule to the base broke in two. It fell into the shaft, and Hartley let out a sharp cry of panic, taking a step forwards only to be pulled to a rearing stop by the agony in her brain.

“Doctor, we lost the cable!” Rose's voice was shouting desperately into the comms. “Doctor, are you all right? Doctor?!”

“ _Comms are down_ ,” Zach said, but Hartley was barely listening. The pain was beginning to grow bearable again, and with a slightly clearer head, she shot up, hurrying over to Rose and swiping the comm from her hand.

“Doctor?” she asked, feeling like she could barely breathe. “Doctor, if you're just not answering to be funny, I'm gonna flay you alive, you got that?” she hissed into the comm.

There was no reply, and her heart was beating so hard that she was genuinely concerned about it giving out – that'd be embarrassing, an immortal suffering heart failure. Jack would piss himself laughing.

“ _I've still got life signs, but we've lost the capsule_ ,” Zach said over the comms, and Hartley could tell Rose was holding her breath from behind her.

“Say something,” her blonde companion demanded into the comm. “Are you there?”

“ _There's no way out. They're stuck down there_ ,” Zach told them grimly.

“I don't accept that,” Hartley hissed at him, jaw hurting from how tightly she was grinding her teeth.

“We've got to bring them back,” Rose argued.

“They're ten miles down,” Jefferson growled, like he could think of a thousand better things to be doing right then then explaining as much to a pair of desperate little girls. “We haven't got another ten miles of cable.”

From the door off to the side, there were a series of loud, scary bangs, and Hartley whirled around, prepared to hit something should the need arise.

“Captain? Situation report,” Jefferson said into his personal comm.

“ _It's the Ood. They're cutting through the door bolts. They're breaking in._ ”

“Yeah, it's the same on door 25.”

“How long's it going to take?” Rose asked warily.

“Well, it's only a basic frame, it should take ten minutes.” There was another crack as a new bolt was cut, and the man gave a regretful wince. “Eight.”

“Right,” Rose began evenly, squaring her shoulders. “So we need to stop them, or get out, or both.”

“I'll take both, yeah? But how?” Danny asked, staring at her like she'd grown a second head.

“You heard the Doctor. Why do you think that thing cut him off? 'Cos he was making sense. He was telling you to _think_ your way out of this. Come on!” Nobody said anything, utterly silent in response, and she rolled her eyes, shooting Hartley a look that clearly said, ' _God help us_ '. “For starters, we need some lights,” she said logically. “There's got to be some sort of power somewhere.”

“ _There's nothing I can do_ ,” Zach said helplessly over the speakers. “ _Some Captain, stuck in here, pressing buttons_ ,” he added bitterly.

“That's what the Doctor meant!” Rose told him enthusiastically. “Press the right buttons.”

“They've gutted the generators...” he said in a defeated sort of voice, then there was a beat, and he spoke again, this time with a hint of hope. “But the rocket's got an independent supply. If I could reroute that...Mister Jefferson? Open the bypass conduits. Override the safety.”

Jefferson snapped to attention, throwing his rifle over his shoulder and turning to the conduits box behind him, cracking it open and entering in his key code. “Opening bypass conduits, sir,” he said obediently, and Hartley found herself holding her breath as she waited for it to work.

“Channelling rocket feed in three...two...one,” he said, then with a muted crackle, the lights came on around them. Immediately Hartley felt safer, now able to see more than a few feet in front of her face. The light was comforting, a step in the right direction.

“There we go!” Rose exclaimed brightly.

“Let there be light!” Danny added gleefully.

“What about that strategy nine thing?” Rose continued with purpose, and Hartley turned to look at her in surprise. She was taking charge, stepping up in a leadership role she hadn't been given, but that was needed nonetheless.

She went around to each person, using their skills as a base for where to go next. Hartley was in slight awe of it all, and she watched her work, wondering when exactly it was that little Rosie had grown up.

“The sooner we get control of the Base, the sooner we can get the Doctor out!” she finished once everyone had an assigned task, pausing at the railing and looking down into the pit with a wistful expression.

Hartley stepped up beside her, leaning against the railing and glancing down into the all-encompassing, never-ending darkness where the Doctor was trapped. “When did you get all authoritative?” she asked, managing a smile despite the pressure on her brain, an insistent presence.

She didn't know what it wanted, but she knew it wasn't anything good. Giving in wasn't an option, and there was always one tiny part of her mind fighting against it, throwing everything she had into the task, working instinctually to try and keep it from ruining her.

“No one else was stepping up to the plate,” Rose shrugged like it was no big deal. “Besides, I've seen the Doctor take control enough times to know how to _get shit done_.” Hartley gave a tiny chuckle at the unexpected swear, and Rose gave a cheeky smirk back. “You all right?” she asked a moment later, concern glimmering in her hazel eyes, hand coming up to gently press against her back, the weight soothing her distressed friend some.

“This is going to sound crazy, Rose,” she began weakly, forearms braced against the rickety railing.

“I doubt it.”

She took a deep, shaky breath. “I can still _hear it_ ,” she whispered, like saying the words too loud might make it all the more real. “In my head, it's _still there_. Like a cloud, or a fog, hovering at the edge of my consciousness...waiting for – something...”

Rose didn't call her insane, didn't make a big deal out of it or ask her a billion questions like the Doctor would, instead all her friend did was wrap her arms around her shoulders, pulling her tightly into her side and resting her temple against her shoulder, hugging her warmly, telling her without words that she was there for her, no matter what.

“You'll be okay,” she murmured after a few moments had passed, nuzzling her friend's shoulder affectionately, comforting her beyond words. Hartley leant into the touch gratefully, shutting her eyes and feeling the menacing whispers in her head go quiet for one blissful moment.

“What makes you think so?” she mumbled back curiously, her head resting on the crown of her blonde hair.

“The Doctor said as much,” Rose replied with such conviction that Hartley didn't doubt it. “Besides, you're you. You can't exactly die, so of _course_ you'll be okay.”

Hartley smiled, but the expression was grim. There were plenty of fates far, _far_ worse than death that Hartley could still experience, but she didn't feel like bringing those up, if only to keep Rose feeling positive. “Yeah,” she murmured, not sounding very convincing to her own ears, but Rose didn't seem to notice, squeezing her back tightly.

“How do you think he's doing?” she asked after a pause, and Hartley considered the question carefully, trying to imagine what the Doctor was doing down in that mysterious pit. Wondering if he was okay. Could he feel what she could feel, that presence on the edge of his mind? Was it easier for him to fight against? Probably. He was a lot stronger than she could ever hope to be.

“I think he's doing just fine,” she told Rose soothingly, their roles abruptly switching, although neither noticed.

“Yeah,” Rose agreed weakly. “Me too.”

They remained in silence for another few moments, taking comfort in one another, before finally Rose broke away with a deep inhale, running her hands over her face tiredly before pasting on a confident expression and turning to head over towards Danny, who was tapping away madly at his station. Hartley, for lack of anything better to do, followed her over.

“What've you got for me, Danny?” Rose asked him quickly, coming to a stop by his side.

“Well, there's all sorts of viruses that could stop the Ood,” he began. Hartley perked up from his right, leaning closer to the screen to see, but most of it was just squiggles and nonsensical equations. “Trouble is, we haven't got them on board,” he finished, and the immortal deflated with a sigh.

“Well, that's handy, listing all the things we haven't got,” Rose told him in the most dry tone that Hartley had ever heard. “We haven't got a swimming pool either. Or a Tesco's.”

The screen suddenly beeped, and a large ' _AFFIRMATIVE_ ' flashed across the screen, and Hartley's hope was rekindled.

“Oh, my God. It says yes. I can do it!” Danny exclaimed eagerly. “Hypothetically, if you flip the monitor, broadcast a flare, it can disrupt the telepathy,” he explained to the women, who stared at him hopefully. “Brainstorm!”

“What happens to the Ood?” Rose questioned quickly.

“It'll tank them – spark out.”

Rose grinned wide, teeth glinting in the lights. “There we are, then. Do it!”

Danny was grinning too, but the smile abruptly dropped, replaced by a disappointed frown and a resigned sag of his shoulders. “No, but I'd have to transmit from the central monitor. We need to go to Ood Habitation,” he said with a sigh.

From the doors beyond there was a loud, insistent bang that made Hartley flinch. Another bolt had been cut. “That's what we'll do, then,” Rose proclaimed without hesitation, slapping Danny on the back and stepping around he and Hartley, heading for the military man across from them. “Mister Jefferson, _sir._ Any way out?” she asked brightly.

“Just about. There's a network of maintenance tunnels running underneath the base,” he told her, gesturing to whatever was displayed on his screen. “We should be able to gain access from here.”

“Ventilation shafts,” Rose grinned widely again, mischief in her eyes. Hartley knew she would usually feel the same – but with the whispering in her thoughts coupled with the blinding migraine in her head was almost too much to bear.

“Yeah, I appreciate the reference, but there's no ventilation,” Zach replied dryly. “No air, in fact, at all. They were designed for machines, not life forms.”

There was another loud bang from the seal door, and the sound of it might as well have been a gunshot. Hartley kept from flinching, merely angling a wince at the grating below her feet. It looked quite a lot like the TARDIS' flooring, actually. She briefly wondered if it was something she'd ever get to set eyes on again.

“ _But I can manipulate the oxygen field from here_ ,” Zach's voice said over the comms. “ _Create discrete pockets of atmosphere. If I control it manually, I can follow you through the network._ ”

“Right,” Rose began warily, “so we go down, and you make the air follow us by hand.”

“ _You wanted me pressing buttons_ ,” his voice now was wry, and it almost made Hartley smile.

“Yeah, I asked for it,” Rose allowed. “Okay, we need to get to Ood Habitation. Work out a route.”

“ _Shouldn't take a minute_ ,” Zach said evenly, then fell silent. Hartley needed something to do, so she moved over to Toby, who was still furiously trying to translate the symbols of the Beast.

“You hear, we're gonna get out through the tunnels,” she told him in a low voice. Leaping at the opportunity, Toby nodded, shoving his work into his pockets and dusting off his hands as he climbed to his feet.

“Hart, help me with this!” Rose called from across from them, and she turned to see her trying to pull up a slab of grating. Hurrying to her side, Hartley gripped the edge and pushed, forcing it to peel back from the rest of it, revealing a large hole in the floor, just big enough for them to climb through.

There was another gunshot-like bang from the door, and this time Hartley did flinch, biting down on her tongue in fright. Trying not to focus on the furious thumping of her terrified heart, she knelt down by the grating, one eye trained cautiously on the door. She'd fight if she had to, even though her body seemed to be more affected by gravity than usual, limbs heavy and exhausted from the migraine wreaking havoc in her head.

Another bang, and Jefferson was striding away from his computer, heading for the three of them by the hole, the only one left not there was Danny, who was typing furiously at his station.

“Danny!” Rose called to him loudly, casting an anxious glance at the door.

“Hold on! Just conforming!” he called back distractedly.

“Dan, we got to go _now_! Come on!” Jefferson snapped impatiently.

“Yeah!” he shouted, reaching across himself and yanking out a small orange computer chip, holding it up triumphantly. “Put that in the monitor and it's a bad time to be an Ood,” he said with a low, victorious smirk, and Hartley wanted to tell him not to celebrate yet – the battle was _far_ from over – but she didn't have the energy.

“We're coming back. Have you got that?” Rose said forcefully before any of them could descend into the tunnels below. “We're coming _back_ to this room and we're getting the Doctor out.”

“Okay,” Jefferson agreed, though Hartley couldn't help but feel his assent was insincere. “Danny, you go first, then you, Miss Tyler, Miss Daniels, then Toby,” he said sharply, very much the military man Hartley knew him to be. “I'll go last in defensive position. Now, come on, quick as you can.”

She waited until Danny and Rose had disappeared, then grabbed each side of the grating and quickly lowered herself into the hole. Her arms shook under her own weight, and they gave out without warning. She dropped, landing on the hard metal plating beneath her with a pained grunt.

“Okay?” Rose asked quickly, turning to look at her in concern.

“Fine,” she said through gritted teeth, her legs aching and her head swimming, not helped by the God awful smell flooding the shaft they were crammed into.

“ _Just go straight ahead_ ,” Zach's calm voice said over the comm as Toby dropped into place beside her. “ _Keep going till I say so._ ”

Jefferson gave an order to move, and they began crawling on their hands and knees in a uniform, single-file line. No sounds but their scuffing hands on the metal and their sharp, uneven breaths filled the tunnel, although Hartley could hear her pulse pounding frantically in her ears.

“Not your best angle, Danny,” Rose said jovially, referring to his arse, which was almost completely shoved in her face from their positions.

“Oi, stop it,” Danny complained from ahead.

“I don't know, it could be worse,” muttered Toby from behind Hartley, his voice carrying in the metal of their route.

“Keep your eyes _off_ of my arse,” Hartley deadpanned, and Toby cleared his throat uncomfortably at the dangerous edge to her voice. Usually she was more than happy to engage in a little harmless flirting; but in that moment her head was pounding, her heart was racing and her anxiety levels were so off the charts that it wasn't even remotely funny.

“ _Straight on until you find junction seven point one_ ,” Zach's voice said, and Hartley relaxed at the sound of it, reminded somebody was watching over them. “ _Keep breathing. I'm feeding you air. I've got you_.”

At his words, Hartley inhaled deeply. The air smelt something awful, and tasted stale and gross on her tongue, but she couldn't exactly complain, continuing to crawl just behind Rose, ears carefully trained, anxiously listening for anything unexpected.

It was hot, her skin damp and clothes sticky, hair clinging uncomfortably to her face, but she ignored it, soldiering on until finally Danny came to an abrupt stop, and the others followed his lead, taking the opportunity to catch their breath. “We're at seven point one, sir,” the Ood Keeper said into his comm.

“ _Okay, I've got you. I'm just aerating the next section_ ,” he told them evenly.

“Getting kind of cramped, sir. Can't you hurry up?” Danny asked in something of a whine.

“ _I'm working on half power, here_ ,” Zach replied defensively.

“Stop complaining,” Jefferson drawled.

“Mister Jefferson says stop complaining,” Rose relayed cheekily.

“I heard.”

“He heard.”

“But the air's getting a bit thin,” Toby interjected.

“ _He's_ complaining now,” she murmured with a hint of a smirk.

“I heard.”

Hartley was valiantly ignoring all of this, just breathing in and out, wishing her headache would subside. That presence remained in her head, a constant cloud on the horizon, threatening to bring a hurricane with it. She hoped that, wherever the Doctor was, he was safe, and working to overcome such a powerful, terrifying foe.

“Danny, is that you?” Rose asked after she'd sniffed, and Hartley inhaled without thought, cringing at the horrible smell.

“I'm not exactly happy,” he snapped back, embarrassed as he avoided the women's eyes.

“ _I'm just moving the air – I've got to oxygenate the next section. Now, keep calm or it's going to feel worse_.”

From somewhere within the intricate tunnel system there was a loud, metallic bang, and Hartley gave a violent flinch, almost slamming back into Rose, who also flinched at the noise, all of them turning to face the general direction it seemed to have come from.

“What was that?” Danny demanded, sounding about half as terrified as Hartley felt.

“Mister Jefferson, what was that?” Rose repeated, but Jefferson's only response was to loudly cock his gun, the sound making Hartley shudder.

“What's that noise?” Toby asked nervously, his panting the loudest.

“Captain, what was that?” Jefferson finally asked into his comm.

“ _The junction in Habitation Five's been opened. It must be the Ood_ ,” Zach revealed, and Hartley felt like she might throw up form the stress of it all. It wouldn't have been so bad if she didn't still feel a piercing sort of pressure at her head, like somebody was stabbing at her brain with a pair of scissors from the inside. Zach's voice washed over them again, beginning to lose its cool, unruffled edge. “ _They're in the tunnels_!” he warned them sharply.

More sounds flooded their small, cramped space. A thunderous tapping, something moving through the tunnels towards them – and fast.

“Well, open the gate,” Danny hissed into his communicator.

“ _I've got to get the air in_!” Zach argued without hesitation.

“Just open it, sir,” he squeaked back, shaking so hard that Hartley could hear him rattling against the metal beneath him.

“Where are they? Are they close?” Rose demanded quickly, less terrified and more focused, knowing they had a task to complete and focusing on that. She and Hartley had been in enough situations such as this for it not to bother them quite as much. Besides, they had the Doctor.

“ _I don't know. I can't tell. I can't see them_ ,” Zach replied, exasperated and dry. “ _The computer doesn't register Ood as proper life forms_.”

“Whose idea was that?” Rose hissed crossly.

“Open the gate!” Danny shrieked the order, growing wildly desperate, and Hartley carefully inhaled, willing her head to stop aching. There was still that part of her, some sliver of consciousness she didn't understand how to control, that was fighting tirelessly against the Beast's influence. It was draining her, and she felt even more clammy than everybody else seemed, skin damp and uncomfortable, struggling to find traction against the smooth metal beneath her.

The gate finally slid upwards and Danny dove through it in a desperate rush, almost slamming into the sides of the tunnel in his haste. The others followed, quick as they could, desperation growing as they could almost feel the Ood gaining on them. Hartley felt like they were being stalked, or followed by a predator. It made her even more anxious, panic clawing at her, threatening to drag her down below.

“ _Danny, turn left. Immediate left_ ,” Zach ordered him quickly.

“The Ood, sir – can't you trap them? Cut off the air?” Jefferson asked loudly, shuffling backwards, one arm holding out his gun, aiming at the empty tunnel that they knew was about to be crawling with Ood.

“ _Not without cutting off yours_ ,” he responded. “ _Danny, turn right. Go right! Go fast, Dan. They're going to catch up_.”

Jefferson gave a frustrated huff, then abruptly stopped, facing the other end of the tunnel, seemingly without a hint of fear. “I'll maintain defensive position,” he called the the four of them.

“You can't stop!” Rose argued loudly.

“Miss Tyler, that's my _job,_ ” he replied unflinchingly. “You've got your task, now see to it.”

Hartley didn't want him to be hurt – she didn't – but she also knew what a sacrifice meant, it was usually her in that position. And it would have been this time, too, if not for the knowledge that she couldn't – _wouldn't_ – leave Rose alone. She didn't know where this adventure would take them, but she'd be _damned_ if she'd leave Rose without someone to protect her, especially with the Doctor's fate still so unknown.

“Come on, Rose,” she prompted her friend hastily, reaching out to grasp her by the arm and drag her after her, forcing her ahead. “We need to keep going!” she yelled when Jefferson began to fire his weapon at the Ood, the sound magnified by the small space, making her ears ring painfully.

He'd make it back, she told herself stubbornly as they moved, he'd be _fine._ And he wouldn't die for them. Not when it should have been her.

Danny led the way, and they didn't have time to stop, racing as fast as they possibly could on their hands and knees. Hartley didn't know where they were going, letting the others lead the way without thought, having faith they would get them to safety.

“Eight point two!” Danny shouted suddenly, and Hartley bumped into Rose as she realised they'd stopped. She sat back, inhaling heavily, desperately sucking in the awful, stale air. “Open eight point two. Zach!” he bellowed into his wrist.

“ _I've got to aerate it_!” Zach replied loudly, a hint of dismay in his voice.

“Open it _now_!” Danny screamed at him.

“ _I'm trying_!”

Desperate and panicking, Danny began slamming the heels of his palms on the metal of the gate.

“Danny, stop it. That's not helping,” Rose hissed at him, but Hartley shuffled forwards.

“He's panicking,” she said, trying to shelve the agony in her head and the terror in her chest and focus on helping Danny. “Try to slow your breathing,” she told the younger man, whose eyes were wild with panic. “It'll open. Just give him a moment.”

“ _Jefferson, I've got to open eight point two by closing eight point one. You've got to get past the junction. Now move. That's an order, now move_!” Hartley heard the gunshots come to an abrupt stop, and she sucked in a worried breath. “ _I'm going to lose oxygen, Jefferson, I can't stop for your dramatics_!”

Slowly, the gate before them began to lift up, and Danny leapt through it as fast as he could manage. Hartley paused, looking back over her shoulder for Jefferson. He had yet to appear.

“ _Danny, turn left and head for nine point two. That's the last one. Jefferson, you've got to move faster. John, move_!”

Hartley watched as he finally appeared around the corner, moving as fast as he could to reach them in time. Desperate, she stayed where she was, hand held out to grab him.

“ _Hartley_! NO!” Rose screamed from behind her, but she stubbornly didn't move. Jefferson wouldn't die for them, he just wouldn't, she refused to let that happen. _She_ was supposed to die. That was how it worked. That was why she had this _gift_ , wasn't it?

Before Jefferson could reach her, a hand grabbed her by the collar of her jacket and yanked her backwards. She was still damp with sweat, and she hadn't been expecting the move. With a scream she was tugged into the next compartment, and Jefferson looked up just in time to meet her wet, desperate eyes. There was an acceptance in his eyes, and he sent her a small, resigned nod just before the gate slammed over his face, locking him away from safety.

She screamed out in horror, scrambling to get back to the gate, thinking maybe, just maybe she could wrench it back up with her bare hands. She was pretty strong when she wanted to be, surely she could move a stupid little gate!

“We have to keep moving!” Toby yelled at she and Rose, who continued to tug her down the shaft. Despondent, Hartley hurried after them, but her body felt numb, like it was somebody else moving for her and she were just along for the ride.

They came to a stop in front of the next door, all four of them collapsing against the sides of the tunnel, panting as they fought to catch their breath. Hartley stared across the shaft unseeingly, listening with a sinking horror as Jefferson's voice flooded the passage by way of Danny's comm.

“ _Regret to inform, sir, I was a bit slow. Not so fast, these days_ ,” he said, grim but calm all the same.

“ _I can't open eight point one, John. Not without losing air for the others,_ ” Zach replied flatly.

“ _And quite right too, sir. I think I bought them a little time_ ,” he said with a puff.

“ _There's nothing I can do, John, I'm sorry_ ,” Zach sounded guilt-ridden, but at the same time stoic. Hartley supposed that was just how some people dealt with grief. She, herself, had tears burning at her eyes that she stubbornly refused to let fall. The sound of his voice was haunting, giving her chills. He was already dead, he might as well have been speaking from beyond the grave.

“ _You've done enough, sir. Made a very good captain under the circumstances. May I ask, if you can't add oxygen to this section, can you speed up the process of its removal?_ ”

“ _I don't understand. What do you mean_?” Zach asked in confusion, but Hartley already understood. As somebody who spent an unusual portion of her life getting killed, she knew what it was like to die, and knew what it was like to wish you had the power to choose your own way to go out. If it were her in his position, she'd have done the exact same thing.

“ _Well, if I might chose the manner of my departure, sir, lack of air seems more natural than, well, let's say death by Ood. I'd appreciate it, sir_!” he said over the comms, and Hartley's chest ached more than her head had the whole day combined.

There was a beat. “ _God speed, Mister Jefferson._ ”

“ _Thank you, sir._ ”

The next few moments were the longest Hartley had experienced in an age. She held her breath, closing her eyes as though there was something she could avoid seeing. There was nothing, no indication of his passing, just a thick silence that left her gritting her teeth against the grief, and the self-loathing.

“ _Report Officer John Maynard Jefferson PKD deceased, with honours. 43 K two point one_ ,” Zach finally said, voice as grim as Hartley felt. She swallowed against the lump in her throat and opened her eyes, glancing over at Rose, whose eyes were glistening in the low light.

“Zach, we're at the final junction, nine point two,” said Danny into his communicator, more unsteady than Hartley had yet heard him. “And er, if my respects could be on record. He saved our lives...” he finished, surprising Hartley with his sincerity.

“ _Noted_ ,” Zach said stoically. “ _Opening nine point two_.”

The gate had barely opened halfway before they all saw the Ood sitting on the other side, its menacing red eyes gleaming but dead at the same time, and she flinched back, yanking Rose with her.

“Lower nine point two! Hurry, Zach!” she shouted desperately, and Hartley didn't think before kicking out her feet, striking the Ood in its face and successfully knocking it backwards, buying them a few extra seconds to scramble away.

“We can't go back! The last one's sealed off. We're stuck!” Toby argued as they all came to a sudden stop, seemingly without options before them.

Hartley desperately searched for an idea, anything to help save them. In the end, it wasn't her at all, but rather Rose, who leapt upwards abruptly, shoving at the grating above them and climbing through to the next level.

“Come on! Up!” she ordered the three of them in a bark, struggling to crawl out of the tunnel, then leaning back in the help Danny up first. Toby waved Hartley ahead of him, and knowing they didn't have time for an argument she complied, grasping Rose's outstretched hand and allowing she and Danny to heave her out of the tunnel and into an empty corridor of the base.

Taking a beat to breathe, it was a moment later she realised Toby wasn't following. Spinning back around, she saw Rose and Danny crouched over the hole, hissing at the young archaeologist to hurry up and get the safety. A chill ran down Hartley's spine. The whispered pressure on her brain magnified for a flaring moment, and she shuddered under the weight of it, skin prickling unpleasantly.

Then Toby was being lifted from the tunnel and the pain dropped, replaced with the same dull sort of ache that she'd experienced for what seemed like hours now. How long had it been since they'd arrived on the impossible planet? Her sense of time seemed to have disappeared, along with her nerve.

“It's this way,” said Danny, bringing her from her thoughts and forcing her back to the moment. He was already moving, barrelling towards the door at the end of the long corridor. He managed to get it open, and they all spilled out into the room from earlier – Ood Habitation.

“Get it in!” Rose was shouting before they'd even shut the door behind them.

Hartley didn't wait, making a beeline for the railing, slamming into it with such force that her ribs ached. Staring down into the lodgings of the Ood, she saw at least eight below them, staring up at her with evil, glowing red eyes.

Heart in her throat, Hartley could only reach back and slap Danny's arm in anxious fervency. “ _Now_ , Danny,” she prompted him shrilly as the Ood turned as one and began to climb the thin staircase leading to the landing they were standing on, those globes of theirs glowing almost as brightly as their eyes.

“I'm trying!” Danny insisted, and she could feel him moving frantically from behind her, but didn't dare take her eyes off the Ood to look. There was a bang from further down the hall, and Hartley grit her teeth against another onslaught of hissed darkness in her head.

“Danny, get that thing transmitting!” Rose shouted at him desperately.

There was a beat, then a loud, ringing vibrato echoed from all around them. Hartley flinched, expecting it to hurt, but she realised quickly that it didn't, only the Ood didn't seem to be as unaffected.

Grabbing their heads in what Hartley could only assume to be agony, they collapsed to their knees, silent in their torment. Gasping, the young immortal held a hand to her chest. Remorse surged through her like a landslide, and unable to watch, she squeezed her eyes shut tight against the horrific sight.

“You did it! _We did it_!” Rose cheered from behind her, and she could hear them embracing one another in celebration. Hartley didn't feel like there was much to celebrate – it hadn't been the Ood's fault, whatever that thing below them was, _it_ was to blame. Still, she understood they would have killed them had they not been stopped. She only wished there had been another way. “Zach, we did it. The Ood are down,” Rose continued into the comms. “Now we've got to get the Doctor.”

“ _I'm on my way_.”

“Come on,” Rose didn't stop for a moment. There wasn't even time for a heartbeat to pass before she was dropping the radio and making a beeline for the doors. The others followed at the same pace, and the thought of finding and rescuing the Doctor was pretty much the only thing keeping Hartley from throwing up at the sight of the bodies of the Ood, laying lifeless on the floor, having died where they'd stood.

Danny knew the way back to the drilling area, and he led them through the halls quickly, Rose practically nipping at his heels in her eagerness to reach the Doctor. Zach, now able to move freely throughout the base without the threat of the Ood, met them at the doors, but Rose barely gave him a glance in her haste to reach the radio, leaping in Hartley's way without thought, though she wouldn't hold that against her.

“Doctor, are you there? Doctor, Ida, can you hear me?” she was saying before she'd even taken a breath; Hartley, on the other hand, was holding hers, too anxious to get her lungs to work properly.

“The comms are still down,” Zach interjected before Rose could get too worked up about not receiving an answer. “I can patch them through the central desk and boost the signal. Just give me a minute,” he muttered, gently nudging Rose out of the way and beginning to type away at the keyboard in a hurry.

Rose's lips were pressed into a thin, worried line, and Hartley shuffled closer, wanting to comfort her but not knowing how. She had faith in the Doctor, faith he would find his way out of there, pull off some astonishing miracle at the last second – she believed it with every atom of her being, even if only because the alternative was far too terrifying to consider.

“Okay,” said Zach suddenly, stepping away from the console and letting Rose approach the radio. “Try now.”

“Doctor, are you there?” the blonde asked into the comm, gripping it so tightly her knuckles went an unnatural white. “Doctor, Ida, can you hear me? Are you there, Doctor?”

There was a beat, then Ida's static-laced voice was saying, “ _he's gone_ ,” and Hartley's limbs all felt heavy, like they'd been suddenly filled with cement rather than blood. She could hear her pulse pounding in her ears, and she swallowed around her dry throat, sides scraping together like sandpaper.

“What do you mean, he's gone?” Rose demanded after a long few moments that might as well have been an eternity.

“ _He fell into the pit_ ,” Ida replied, voice thready and weak. “ _And I don't know how deep it is. Miles and miles and miles_...” she trailed off quietly. But the only thing Hartley was sure of, was that the Doctor _wasn't_ dead. He couldn't be, because she'd _know_ ; surely she would. She'd be able to _feel_ it.

From beside her, Rose was only blinking uncomprehendingly, and Hartley briefly wondered whether they were thinking the same thing. “But what do you mean, he fell?” she finally asked, her voice just as weak as Ida's, full of a gobsmacked kind of confusion, like people around her were saying words but none of them were making any sense.

“ _I couldn't stop him. He said your name, Rose – but, Hartley_...”

“But Hartley _what_?” Rose snapped back, the terror in her voice more of an echo than a palpable thing. Hartley could do no more than hold her breath.

“ _He just said, 'C.S. Lewis, page 71',_ ” Ida told them thinly, the confusion in her voice obvious, probably wondering what meaning this could possibly have had between the two of them. Rose looked vaguely like she'd been slapped, and when Hartley reached out to press a hand to her arm, she flinched back like the touch had burned.

Zach had sympathy shining in his eyes as he stared at the pair of them, then his hand reached out for the radio. Moving slowly, like she were underwater, Rose handed it over, the expression on her face blank.

“I'm sorry,” he told them both sincerely, and with Rose so shellshocked, Hartley was the one to nod back. Their condolences were appreciated, but unnecessary. The Doctor was fine, there wasn't a universe in which it was possible he _wouldn't_ be fine.

She was so sure, and then the whispering started up again, niggling in the back of her brain on a loop. There were no words, as such, just an idea, just the thought that _maybe_...

“Ida? There's no way of reaching you. No cable, no back up. You're ten miles down. We can't get there,” Zach said in to the radio, voice full of guilt-ridden remorse.

“ _You should see this place, Zach. It's beautiful. Well, I wanted to discover things, and here I am,_ ” Ida replied, but her voice shook, revealing her terror.

“We've got to abandon the base. I'm declaring this mission unsafe,” Zach told them all, making sure Ida could hear them as well. Rose didn't so much as blink, and Hartley doubted she could even hear them. “All we can do is make sure no one ever comes here again,” he said gravely.

“ _But we'll never find out what it was_ ,” Ida said despondently.

“Well, maybe that's best.”

“ _Yeah_.”

Zach hesitated, the regret spread over his face deep, and Hartley knew this would haunt him for years to come. “Officer Scott-” he began professionally, but the twist to his lips made his emotion obvious.

“ _It's all right_ ,” she interrupted him without pause, the fear making her words quiver. Hartley's chest ached, pained by the option laid out before them, the only one possible. What a sacrifice Ida was making, even if she had no choice. It was one not even Hartley could understand, and she'd died for her friends more times than anyone ever should have had to. “ _Just go. Good luck._ ”

“And you,” Zach agreed, then gently put down the radio, sighing heavily before turning to the remaining people in the group. “Danny, Toby, close down the feed links. Get the retrotropes online, then get to the rocket and strap yourselves in,” he told them, turning and striding away purposefully. “We're leaving.”

“I'm not going.”

Hartley's bowed head snapped up to stare at Rose, whose face was serious and imploring. She wasn't sure why she hadn't expected this, it was something Rose would do.

Zach turned back around with a frown. “Rose, there's space for you,” he assured her in a surprisingly gentle voice.

“No, I'm gonna wait for the Doctor,” she replied, thready and weak. “Just like he'd wait for me.”

Zach's eyes shifted over to Hartley, who wasn't sure how to react. “I'm sorry, but he's dead,” he said morosely.

In a way she'd never before experienced, Hartley felt emotions that weren't her own swell over her. From her left, Rose sniffled, and began to speak, voice wrecked with her turmoil. “You don't know him. 'Cause he's _not._ I'm telling you, he's not. And even if he was, how could I leave him all on his own, all the way down there?” she asked, eyes devastated. “No, I'm going to stay.”

“Rose,” Hartley stepped in front of her, reaching up and placing her hands on her shoulders to steady her. “Rose we have to leave.”

“But he's not dead,” she argued rather pitifully, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “You _know_ he's not.”

“I know,” she agreed in an undertone, leaning closer to her dear friend, gripping her shoulders tighter. “I _know_ he isn't,” she promised, and Rose's eyes took on a gleam of hope. “But if we stay, we _will_ be.”

“So you just want to leave him?” she asked sharply, like Hartley was betraying their friendship.

“ _You_ are my priority right now,” Hartley told her, voice just as sharp, but also imploring. “I will do whatever I need to do to keep you safe.”

Her words only seemed to upset Rose further. “You don't get to make my choices for me, Hartley,” she said angrily. Sighing regretfully, the Doctor's words from earlier that day echoed loudly in her mind.

_If I don't come back, do_ whatever _you need to do to get her to safety. No matter_ what _, Hartley._

“I'm sorry, Rosie,” she apologised sincerely, and the confusion practically rolled off her in waves that turned quickly to panic as Hartley lifted her hand to her neck. Jack had taught her how to do this, but she'd never tried it on anyone other than him. She always had been a fast learner, however.

Pinching the pressure point on Rose's neck, the girl's eyes rolled back into her head, and her knees gave out. She collapsed, but Hartley was quick, diving beneath her and catching her before she could hit the grating below.

There was a pause, and Hartley looked up to see the men of the expedition all staring down at her in varying degrees of caution and discomfort. “Somebody help me carry her,” she said quickly, refusing to allow herself to wallow in her guilt over her actions.

Zach moved forwards first, ducking down and gently lifting the unconscious Rose over his shoulder, standing to his feet with a huff of exertion. “We've got to go,” he said stoically, and the others nodded, turning and marching after him out into the corridor.

Feeling vaguely like she might throw up, Hartley could only wrap her arms around herself for some semblance of comfort before following, bringing up the rear. Out in the corridor, they were surrounded by what she thought were dead Ood, only for one by her feet to twitch, and she stifled a yelp of terror.

“Did that one just move?” asked Toby in a hiss, noticing it too.

“It's the telepathic field. It's reasserting itself,” Danny replied lowly.

“Move it. Get to the rocket,” Zach ordered them urgently. “ _Move_!”

The rocket entrance wasn't far from where they were standing, only a few doors down, and there was a large metal plating that served as the barrier between them and salvation.

“Inside,” Zach barked, and none hesitated but Hartley, who paused before stepping inside, turning to look back out over at the doors leading back in the direction of the drilling area.

Some part of her half expected the Doctor to strut through with a self-satisfied grin and a TARDIS to match. But the longer she stared, the more aware she became that that _wasn't_ going to happen. He was gone – not dead – but gone; trapped down in the pit with the evil thing whispering horrid doubt into the back of her mind.

“Hartley,” Zach called, and she reluctantly turned away from the still doorway and moved into the rocket, silently following him deeper into the machine. She made no move to talk, mutely walking with him, almost numb from the weight of her decisions, until they came to the seating area, where Toby and Danny were already getting buckled in.

Zach took a moment to gently put Rose in the spare seat, and then respectfully waved for Hartley to buckle her up, which she appreciated. She snapped her friend's straps into place, holding her in her seat, then pulled back to look at her slumbering form. Rose was unconscious, thanks to her, but there was still a crease at her brow, disturbed by their situation even in her sleep.

“Hartley,” Zach said, voice holding the faintest hint of impatience. “We've got to go, _now_.”

Moving quickly, Hartley ducked down and pressed a gently kiss to Rose's head, silently praying she'd forgive her when she woke up. Then she spun around and strode over to the seat beside Zach up the front, the only one not occupied. She sat down and mechanically strapped herself in. She felt her eyes water, but adamantly refused to let the tears fall. She'd be strong, if not for herself or Rose, then for the Doctor.

“Dislocating B clamp. C Clamp. Raising blu-nitro to maximum. Toby, how's the Negapact feed line?” Zach spoke efficiently, flicking switches on the console before him like he'd been born to do it. She tried not to think of how much she would miss the Doctor's way of prancing around the TARDIS' console, like the ship were his partner in a dance.

“Clear. Ready to go, sir. For God's sakes, get us out of here!” Toby demanded, but there was something off in his voice, something strangely insincere. She was too anxious to look back and assess it, she was more concerned with the mission they were about to undertake. She'd never been on a real rocket before, and she had a feeling it didn't have the same inertial dampeners that the TARDIS so wonderfully provided.

“Captain, I think we're going to have a problem passenger,” Danny muttered as the rocket began to almost vibrate from beneath them. Despite herself, she had to glance back this time, turning around to peer at Rose, who had begun to groan, waking from her forced slumber quickly.

“Keep an eye on her,” Zach commanded without looking away from his controls.

Rose blinked her eyes open, and she took a moment to realised exactly what was happening before she leapt up, restricted only by her harness. “Wait. We're not-” she began shrilly.

“It's all right, Rose. You're safe,” Danny said placatingly, and Hartley found herself annoyed at him for it. He didn't get to act like that towards her, her feelings and worries were valid, she wasn't someone to be talked down to.

“I'm not going anywhere!” Rose hissed at him piercingly, yanking at her straps in a blind panic. “Get me out of this thing! Hartley! Get me _out_!”

“Rose, calm down,” Hartley told her calmly, though the guilt in her voice was almost tangible. She looked up at the immortal, betrayal glinting in her hazel eyes, and Hartley wondered if this was ever going to be something she could forgive.

“And _lift_ _off_!” Zach cried in triumph, more emotion than he'd shown since the moment they'd met, and Hartley had to slam her eyes shut tight as she felt the G-force hit her like a punch. Her stomach clenched unpleasantly, and she bit down on her tongue, trying not to think of the circumstances surrounding the rocket and all the things that could possibly go wrong.

“Take me back to the planet,” Rose said once they'd all recovered from the sudden thrust. “Take me _back_!” she demanded desperately, and Hartley reluctantly forced her eyelids open to peer back at her warily. She was holding up a nail gun of some kind, but from the looks of it, it probably wouldn't do too much damage. Still, she doubted Zach wanted it waved in his face while he was attempting to fly them to safety.

“Rose, put it down,” she said gently, one hand pressed to her rolling stomach, eyes focused on her friend.

“ _You_ _don't_ get to talk to me,” Rose hissed at her furiously, and Hartley flinched back like she was the one with a gun in her face. “Take me back or I'll shoot,” she warned Zach, the weapon shaking violently in her grip.

“Would you, though? Would you really?” the captain asked, voice and words measured, utterly unbothered by her threats. “Is that what your Doctor would want?” he added, and like magic words, Rose slumped back in her seat, the gun hanging limp in her hand. “Sorry, but it's too late anyway,” he continued gently. “Take a look outside. We can't turn back. This is what the Doctor would have wanted. Isn't that right?” he asked, and reluctantly Hartley glanced out the window, fear rattling her insides painfully when she met with the sight of the black hole, burning before them like a dark sun, swallowing everything it touched – even the light.

Rose fell silent, as did they all. Hartley closed her eyes again, trying not to focus on the throbbing in her temples. She could still feel it, whatever _it_ was, at the edges of her consciousness, muttering to her, making her want to jump into a spiral of doubt. The only things keeping her strong were Rose's breaths from behind her and the knowledge that the Doctor would want her to be strong – he would _need_ her to be strong, for Rose, at least.

They continued to fly in silence, the roar of the rocket's engines beneath them haunting. Then laughter filled the air, a throaty chuckle that was anything but contagious. She knew without looking back that it was Toby. But why?

“What's the joke?” Danny asked, sounding about as frustrated as Hartley felt.

“Just, we _made_ it. We escaped. We actually did it,” Toby replied in a sort of sneer that didn't match his words.

“Not all of us,” Rose interjected hollowly, and Hartley lifted a hand to her chest, where her heart seemed to be scolding from within her, remorse threatening to burn her alive.

“We're not out of it yet. We're still the first people in history to fly away from a black hole,” Zach said, voice wonderfully calm in comparison to Hartley's emotions. She latched onto his innate serenity, clutching at it like she might clutch onto the Doctor's cheerfulness in a similar circumstance, using it to keep herself from panic. “Toby, read me the stats.”

“Gravity funnel holding, sir,” Toby told him, and she could hear the inappropriate, beaming grin on his face, making her feel sick with trepidation. “Always holding.”

There was a lull of silence, and though Harley would have been entirely content to stew in it, her desperation to make sure Rose was okay outweighed her need for quiet. “Rose-” she began once she'd worked up the courage.

“No, Hartley,” Rose replied, soft voice muffled by the loud roar of the rocket's engine.

“But Rose-”

“Don't. Just don't.”

Hating herself just that little bit more, Hartley slunk down in her seat, instead bringing her hands up to hold her head. Emotions rocked within her, a darkness clawing at her consciousness, desperate to be noticed. It was horrible, like a seed of evil emanating from all around her. She thought the further away from the planet, the easier it might get; however this wasn't the case.

“Stats at fifty three. Funnel stable at sixty six point five. Hull pressure constant. Smooth as we can, sir, all the way back home. Coordinates set for planet Earth,” Toby said, a smug note to his voice that made Hartley's skin prickle.

They lapsed into silence again, but Hartley changed her mind about wanting the quiet. In the quiet the whispers were louder, they were stronger, holding more of a pull. She grit her teeth against it, and practically slumped in relief when Rose spoke up, breaking the silence with her musings.

“It doesn't make sense. We escaped, but there's a thousand ways it could've killed us. It could've ripped out the air or, I don't know, burnt us, or anything. But it let us _go._ Why?” she asked them. Her words weren't comforting, and they were making Hartley nervous – probably because she was making too much sense. “Unless it wanted us to escape?”

“Hey, Rose, do us a favour,” Toby said, his voice low and dark. “Shut up.”

Defensive, Hartley spun around to glare at Toby, opening her mouth to argue, but Rose held up a hand telling her no, not even looking away from him as she did it. Obediently sealing her lips, she sank back into her seat and went back to attempting to block out the Beast's whispers.

“Almost there,” Toby continued victoriously. “We'll be beyond the reach of the black hole in forty, thirty nine...” he continued to count down, the rocket trembling more violently from beneath them, and Hartley gripped onto the edge of her seat, trying to keep her teeth from rattling at the motion.

He'd only made it a few more numbers before the whole rocket jerked to the side, violently enough that Hartley's neck ached from the jolt. “What happened? What was that?” Danny demanded shrilly.

“What's he doing? What is he _doing_?” Toby shouted over the alarms blaring from the console above them. Hartley was momentarily thrown by his out of place words – what did he mean, _him_? But she didn't have long to ponder it, the rocket giving another turbulent shake, this one more brutal than any other, and Hartley gripped tighter at her seat in panic.

“We've lost the funnel. Gravity collapse!” Zach shouted, hands blurring over his controls.

“What does that mean?” Rose yelled back in question.

“We can't escape. We're headed _straight_ for the black hole!”

“It's the planet. The planet's moving. It's falling,” she told them, the distress in her voice thick, and Hartley tried not to think about what that meant for the Doctor, wherever he was.

Suddenly a piercing scream rang out from behind her, and with a gasp she spun around, laying eyes on Toby; only he wasn't himself anymore, but rather something different. His eyes were a milky, bloody red, and his pale skin was covered in the symbols of the untranslatable language, all etched in something as black as charcoal.

“ _I am the rage_!” he began to chant in a deep, horrifying voice. “ _And the bile and the ferocity_.”

“It's Toby. Zach, do something!” Rose screamed at the Captain, who looked over his shoulder with a shout of shock.

“It's him! It's him! It's _him_!” Danny was crying out, leaning as far away from the thing as he could manage.

“Stay where you are. The ship's not stable!” Zach shouted back over its chanting.

Hartley shouted for Rose, who seemed to have forgotten all about her betrayal, reaching out a hand that Hartley took without thought, gripping it and trying to pull Rose as far from the thing as she could with her harness in the way.

The thing – once Toby, but now not – opened its mouth, and a stream of fire spurted from its lips. Hartley felt the crackling heat from where she was sitting, and flinched away before it singed her skin.

“What is he? What the _hell_ is he?” Zach demanded in a panic.

“ _I shall never die. The thought of me is forever. In the bleeding hearts of men, in their vanity and obsession and lust. Nothing shall ever destroy me. Nothing_!” it continued to bellow, and Hartley looked over at Rose in time to see her holding the gun from before in her hands, aiming it directly at the viewing window before them.

“Go to hell,” she muttered rather quietly, but Hartley heard her perfectly even over the roaring engines and Beast's triumphant, boastful growls.

Hartley ducked in time for Rose to pull the trigger, and then all the air was sucked from the room. The human-bodied Beast gave a roar to match the overworked engines, and Hartley covered her face as he flew by, sucked out into empty space, pulled instantly towards the devouring black hole.

“Emergency shield!” Zach yelled, and a thick shutter appeared in place of the shattered glass. They could breathe again, but they were still being dragged into the black hole.

“We've still lost the gravity funnel. We can't escape the black hole!” Zach called over the chiming of the warning alarms around them.

“But we stopped him,” Rose replied with unflappable conviction, “that's what the Doctor would've done.”

“Some victory,” Zach muttered bitterly, still desperately fighting his controls in an attempt to save them, but they all knew it was a lost cause. “We're going in.”

The rocket only grew more unstable. They were being thrown around so much that Hartley could feel her own brain thumping around within the confines of her skull.

“The planet's lost orbit. It's falling!” Danny cried out from behind her, and without hesitation she threw her arm back again. Like they were magnetised, Rose's hand found hers, and nothing in the last hour mattered as they locked fingers, gripping one another for support.

Hartley wondered what would happen to her inside a black hole. Would she be doomed to remain conscious, torn apart or evaporated or shrunk? Would she be cursed to never die, just experience it forever? Would it be hell? If there was a devil, surely it had to be.

Hartley heard the monitor beep, and Rose gripped her hand tighter.

“The planet's gone,” Danny gasped, and Hartley's chest clenched in her internal agony. “I'm sorry.”

“I did my best,” Zach told them despondently, the slightest edge of apathy to his voice, but Hartley supposed they all had different ways of dealing with things. “But hey! The first human beings to fall inside a black hole. How about that? History,” he said grimly, though Hartley felt anything but accomplished.

Closing her eyes, Hartley thought that there were so many things she'd wanted to do; people she wanted to meet, things to see and experience, songs she wanted to dance to and books she wanted to read. How was it fair she wouldn't get the chance? Did the universe care for her so little that this was how it ended for her? Give her eternal life only to doom her to eternal damnation?

Clenching her eyes shut and squeezing Rose's hand with everything she had, she tried to tell her through their hands how much she loved her, how much she meant and how sorry she was. Rose squeezed back, and she knew that her friend understood. If they had to die, Hartley was just glad they could die holding hands.

In her panic, another thought struck her. If the planet was gone, then so was the Doctor. So was any chance he had of rescue or escape. Pain unlike any she'd had before shuddered through her. He was everything to her, he really was. The thought of a universe without him was almost too much to bare. Eyes stinging with tears of pain, she squeezed Rose's hand tighter, trying to draw comfort from her friend's touch.

Then, so abruptly that it almost didn't register at all, the shaking stopped, replaced by a silence that was deafening. Gripping Rose's hand, Hartley warily opened her eyes, peering around at the small room they were stuffed inside. The flashing emergency lights had stopped, and everything was still, like they hadn't been about to be torn apart by a black hole.

“What happened?” Rose asked quietly, but her voice was loud in the sudden quiet.

The whole rocket tilted to the side, but this time it wasn't violent, but instead rather gentle. Leaning into the turn, Hartley focused on slowing her breaths, feeling her heart rate gradually return to normal. “We're turning. We're turning around,” Zach revealed in pure bemusement. “We're turning _away_!”

Feeling her pulse freeze, she realised with a start that there was only one conceivable reason such a miracle could possibly come to be.

“ _Sorry about the hijack, Captain. This is the good ship TARDIS_ ,” the Doctor's cheerful voice crowed over the speakers, and Rose let out a hysterical laugh from behind her. “ _Now, first thing's first. Have you got a Rose Tyler on board_?”

“I'm here! It's me!” Rose called shrilly, overcome with relief, finally letting Hartley's hand go to cover her face in her emotion.

“ _Glad to hear it_ ,” they could hear his smile through even the static. “ _And Miss Hartley Daniels_?” he added, and Hartley felt a flare of sharp, potent relief.

“Didn't even die this time!” she shouted to the ceiling, the grin on her lips approaching maniacal, and the Doctor's responding laugh was enough to have her tingling from happiness.

“Where are you?” Rose called out as well, bordering on tears she was so overwhelmed by delight.

“ _I'm just towing you home. Gravity schmavity. My people practically invented black holes – well, in fact, they did. In a couple of minutes, we'll be nice and safe_ ,” the Doctor babbled, and Hartley could hardly believe there was a moment she'd thought she might never hear his voice again. “ _Oh, and Captain? Can we do a trade? Say, if you give me Hartley and Rose, I'll give you Ida Scott? How about that_?”

“She's alive?!” Zach exclaimed in shock.

“ _Yeah! Bit of oxygen starvation, but she should be all right_ ,” he told them cheerfully. Then his voice dimmed, becoming more subdued. “ _I couldn't save the Ood. I only had time for one trip_. _They went down with the planet._ ”

Everybody took a moment's silence for the fallen Ood, none more heartfelt than Hartley, who dropped her head in guilt, wondering if there was anything more she could have done.

“ _Ah_!” chirped the Doctor abruptly, back to his usual self. “ _Entering clear space. End of the line. Mission closed!_ ” There was a beat, then he way saying, “ _get the girls and meet me in the cargo hold. I'll be there in a moment._ ”

Zach turned to Hartley in confusion. “The cargo hold?” he asked bewilderedly.

“Don't worry about it,” she told him with an impish grin. She wanted to stay, make sure these humans would be okay, that they'd get home safely; but she knew they had to leave, had to get going. They'd be okay, she knew they would. They were resourceful and clever. They'd survived the Beast, now they could survive anything. “Thank you for everything, Zach,” she said sincerely, reaching forwards and pulling him into a hug before he could protest. He was warm and solid, and he didn't squirm, just let her hug him tightly until he eventually brought an arm around her and gently squeezed her back. “You're the second best Captain I've ever met in my life,” she added, pulling away to grin at him widely.

“Second best?” he asked with a cocked eyebrow.

She laughed, “my brother would kill me if he knew I didn't put him first.”

“He never has to know,” he replied with the tiniest hint of a smile.

“Did you just make a joke?” she asked coyly, with a responding beam brighter than any sun could ever hope to be.

“Go on, get out of here,” he waved her off, turning back to his controls, though his tiny, content smile was impossible to miss. Rose turned to him to say goodbye too, and Hartley looked over at Danny.

“Come on, you,” she said with a nod in the direction of the door. “I believe the Doctor agreed to a trade?” she added with a smile, and he nodded.

“It's this way,” he told her, pointing towards the back. Rose reappeared, and with a nod they followed Danny through the tiny, metallic corridors of the rocket. He led them down a flight of stairs, then into a slightly bigger room full of large, brown wooden boxes – but she wasn't looking at any of those – all her eyes were fixed on was the big blue box, bigger than all the rest, sitting in the centre of the cargo hold.

Rose gave a gasp from beside her, like she hadn't truly believed it until that moment, and she made a beeline for it without pausing to wait for Hartley, though she didn't hold it against the girl.

“Wait here,” Hartley told Danny, who was staring at in pure confusion, watching as Rose disappeared inside of it. “I'll bring Ida out,” she promised him, and he nodded.

She didn't stop to take it in, pushing her way into the TARDIS and scanning the console room before heading straight for Ida, who was gingerly sitting up against one of the large pillars of coral. Rose and the Doctor were hugging, murmuring secrets into one another's ears as the Doctor swung her around gleefully, but Hartley paid them no attention, ducking down to help a groggy Ida to her feet and helping her down the ramp.

“Good to go?” she shouted out to the Doctor, who called back a very distracted assent that she took to mean yes. Ida's head was lulling, and she coughed every few seconds. Pulling the door open, she helped her out into the cargo hold, and Danny lit up at the sight of her.

“Ida!” he called, rushing towards them in a flurry. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” she said around a cough, eyes half drooped shut.

“Do you need anything?” Hartley asked her kindly, wondering if they should just take them to a hospital, rather than let them find their own way home.

“No, really, I'm fine,” Ida assured her, attempting a more convincing smile.

Reluctant but understanding, Hartley nodded, and from behind her there was a shout of her name, and she looked over her shoulder to see Rose poking her head out from the doors to the TARDIS, tongue poking out between her teeth. “Ready?” she asked brightly.

Nodding, she turned back to the pair who were both eyeing the box, baffled by its appearance. “Stay safe, stay strong, stay wonderful,” she told them, and they turned their baffled gazes onto Hartley, who only beamed back at them happily before turning and disappearing back inside the police box.

“You think they'll be okay?” Rose asked as she shut the door after her, leaning back against it with a small exhale of relief.

“I _know_ they will,” she said with absolute certainty, then a throat cleared from over Rose's shoulder and she turned to see the Doctor staring at them with raised eyebrows.

Overcome with a wave of such strong relief, Hartley didn't even pause before sidestepping Rose and catapulting herself at the Doctor, who caught her with a muffled ' _oof'._ Arms thrown around his neck, she clutched him tightly, palms brushing the familiar fabric of his pinstripe suit, having shed the space suit before she'd reappeared. He gave a stifled laugh as he squeezed her back, so tightly it was almost like he'd actually been afraid of losing her. She warmed at the thought.

Pulling back, she smiled at him widely, her hands pressed to his wiry shoulders. “Guess my faith in you wasn't _totally_ misplaced, now, was it, Doc?” she asked playfully, pulling away to gently prod his chest.

He smiled back, the expression open and happy. “Maybe so,” he relented with a soft laugh.

She sobered, staring up at him with the kind of gratitude that took your breath away. “Thank you.”

“For saving you?” he sniffed like it was no big deal. “If I had a penny...” he teased.

“Shut up,” she laughed happily, tapping him again. He grinned at her, more sincere than she was used to receiving, then he abruptly spun around, facing the console and tapping away at the keys.

“Zach? We'll be off, now,” he said into the comms, and she knew his voice was ringing out through the rocket. “Have a good trip home – and the next time you get curious about something. Oh, what's the point? You'll just go blundering in,” he muttered, but there was a smile on his face that betrayed his elation. “The human race.”

“ _But Doctor, what did you find down there_?” Ida's voice asked through the TARDIS' comms, anxious and pressing. She needed to know, needed answers, and Hartley could easily relate. “ _That creature, what was it_?”

“I don't know. Never did decipher that writing,” the Doctor drawled as he fiddled with a switch on the console. “But that's good – day I know everything? Might as well stop,” he turned to his companions with a cheesy grin.

Hartley was happy to leave it there, but Rose pressed on. “What do you think it was, really?”

“I think...” he hesitated, looking away to gather his thoughts, “we beat it. That's good enough for me.”

Rose was serious, the look in her eyes scared, more so than she'd been at any point down on the planet. This wasn't a fear of the now; it was a fear of the future. “It said I was going to die in battle,” she reminded him in a small voice, and he took a moment to weigh her words.

“Then it lied,” he replied, point-blank. Rose attempted a smile back, and he latched onto it, grinning back at her widely. “Right, onwards, upwards. Ida?” he asked into the comms. “See you again, maybe!”

“ _I hope so_ ,” Ida's voice said sweetly, and Hartley wondered what had happened between them down in the pit – it must have forged some kind of bond, she couldn't imagine it hadn't. Though, she supposed rules like those never applied to the Doctor.

“And thanks, boys!” Rose called to Danny and Zach.

“We owe you one!” Hartley added jovially.

“Don't think we won't collect!” Danny yelled back, and as she smiled, she had a feeling he was too.

“ _Hang on though, Doctor_ ,” Ida said before they could end the connection. “ _You never really said. You three, who_ are _you_?”

Hartley and Rose both turned to the Doctor, who made no move to stifled the wide smirk sitting at his lips. “Oh,” he said keenly, looking between his smiling companions with pride, “the stuff of legend.”

With a pull at the controls, the connection was severed and the Time Lord sent them into the vortex with a shudder of the ship, away from the black hole that had threatened to end them all.

“Now then, you two,” he began, turning around to face the women behind him. “Off to bed. Had enough adventure for one day, I'd wager.”

“But don't you want to know-?” Rose started to say.

“You can tell me all about it over breakfast,” he replied with a shrug of his shoulders. “For now, you're both okay, and here, and that's all that matters.”

Rose looked very much like she wanted to argue, but then a yawn overcame her, and the Doctor smiled as she clearly tried to hide it.

“Go on, get something from the kitchens – something yummier than _Protein One_ ,” he added playfully, and Rose snorted her amusement, “then get to bed. I want you up bright and early. I was thinking we'd visit Jacasda Four, a planet on the edge of the Milky Way. Some people call it the Disneyland of space – _well,_ I do, anyway.” He seemed to realise he was rambling and cut himself off, waving the girls away quickly. “Go on, then,” he prompted them idly. “Go sleep it off.”

Rose reached up to hug him once more, mumbling something into his ear that made him chuckle, then she turned and left, wandering out of the console room sleepily. “Coming, Hart?” she asked over her shoulder, and Hartley was just about to agree when a thought crossed her mind, making her reconsider.

“Be right behind you,” she said quickly, and Rose frowned like she wanted to ask why, but changed her mind and simply shrugged, disappearing into the depths of the TARDIS with dragging, tired footsteps.

“What's up?” the Doctor asked, popping the 'p' playfully as he idly fiddled with a splattering of flashing knobs on the console.

“I had a question,” she began tentatively.

“You usually do,” he quipped, but for once she wasn't in the mood for banter. His cheery expression melted into one more serious as he slowly nodded for her to continue.

“When you fell into the pit, Ida gave us your message,” she said, unhurriedly beginning to walk around the console, absentmindedly letting her fingertips trail over the cool metal of the panelling. The Doctor didn't stiffen, but he didn't flinch either. He was perfectly unresponsive, merely blinking back at her as if she'd merely commented on the state of the weather. “ _C.S. Lewis, page 71_ ,” she recalled thoughtfully, tapping at a blinking red light with her nail.

“Yes, well, I decided it was something that needed to be said – in the event of my death,” he told her conversationally, and she frowned down at the familiar console before her.

“ _Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art, like the universe itself. It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival._ ”

The quote from her lips hung in the air between them, but Hartley liked it; she found it gave substance to the atmosphere, where there had been none.

“Couldn't think of anything I needed to say to Rose that she didn't already know,” he shrugged casually, adding, “that hadn't already been said.” He sniffed, reaching up to scratch at the back of his neck. “You, on the other hand? Figured the least I could do was make sure you didn't spend eternity thinking I didn't consider us to be friends.”

Hartley's lips pulled up at the corners. “How kind of you,” she said dryly, but there was a tinge of amusement to her voice that had the Doctor's shoulders relaxing when he hadn't even realised they'd been tensed.

She felt warmed by his way of message. A quote from an author she adored – it was fitting, personalised to her in a way she hadn't been sure he'd been capable of producing. “How'd you know it was from _The Four Loves_?I could have meant any of his books,” the Doctor said, not meeting her eye as he fiddled with the console.

“I have a good memory,” she told him simply, stepping back until her weight was leant against the jump seat. The Doctor hummed, acting disinterested, although she could tell he wanted to ask questions. But there would be time for that later – all the time in the world. “Well, I should head to bed,” she said, and he snapped his eyes up from the console room floor, blinking at her like he'd forgotten she was even there.

“Right,” he nodded. “Off you pop, then,” he made a show of shooing her away. “I've got to fix the atom accelerator anyway. Been a bit stiff for days now.”

She beamed at him, but he was already too lost in his tinkering to notice. “Night, Doc,” she called back to him as she approached the door. He only gave a distracted wave of acknowledgement in reply, but despite this – and every horrible thing that had happened that day – Hartley still fell asleep with a smile on her lips.


	23. Love & Monsters

**LOVE & MONSTERS**

“ _It doesn't do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.”_

Albus Dumbledore

* * *

“What do you want for your birthday?” Hartley asked her blonde travelling companion. The pinball machine below her dinged loudly, and she cheered when she realised she'd beaten her previous high score.

“My birthday?” Rose asked bewilderedly, picking up the remote and pausing the movie she was watching, some black and white film that Hartley was sure they'd seen at least twice before.

“Yeah,” she nodded, deciding to quit while she was ahead and stop playing the game. She switched the machine off, turning around and leaning back against it, crossing her arms over her chest. “It's coming up in a few days,” she added casually.

“How on _Earth_ do you know that?” Rose asked, and Hartley could understand the confusion.

She shrugged, suddenly feeling shy. “I like to keep track of the days,” she revealed, eyes wandering over the various games held on the shelves in the recreation room of the TARDIS, not feeling comfortable enough to meet Rose's probing gaze. “It's not easy going from linear time to TARDIS time; keeping a calender makes the transition a little easier.”

Rose couldn't fault her for it. She knew leaving this life so abruptly had hurt Hartley, and she couldn't imagine how hard it must be to come back so suddenly, having to readjust all over again.

“So, go on then,” Hartley grinned, shocking Rose with the light in the expression. She shouldn't have been surprised, however. Hartley was nothing if not a ball of beaming positivity, refusing to let the horrors of the universe bring her down. “Tell me what you want. Anything in the universe. Literally,” she wagged her eyebrows playfully, and Rose smiled.

“I dunno,” she replied, glancing up at the raised ceiling in thought, eyes tracing the crawling coral that wound its way through the every room on the infinite ship. “I guess I just want to see something amazing,” she finally decided.

“But we do that every day,” Hartley complained with a roll of her eyes, moving across to the couch and throwing herself over the top, collapsing into the space beside a bemused Rose. “Tell me something you want, something material that you'll be able to keep with you forever.”

Rose shrugged helplessly, not knowing what to say. “Do we really need to celebrate my birthday?” she asked. Immediately she knew she'd said the wrong thing when Hartley's expression dropped into a frown.

“Of _course_ we need to celebrate your birthday, Rose,” she sighed, spinning around on her cushion and throwing her legs over the other girl's lap, her bare feet nearly smacking Rose in the nose. She laughed, playfully trying to shove the smaller girl off. “It's not every day a girl turns twenty,” she added, unperturbed, and Rose blinked.

“Blimey, that's right,” she said with a tint of shock. “I'm nearly twenty.”

“It's not so bad,” Hartley told her, being several years Rose's senior and having already celebrated her own twentieth – although that was an entire _life_ ago. “People can't dismiss you for being a teenager anymore,” she explain. “Oh, and you're less likely to get carded at a bar, even if you do look like you're twelve.”

“I get the feeling you're talking from experience,” Rose smirked.

“Why yes, I have both been twenty _and_ mistaken for a twelve year old.”

Rose snorted, pushing Hartley off with more force and rolling her eyes. “Come on, Mini Mouse,” she poked out her tongue playfully. “Let's finish this film before bed.”

Hartley waited until she was sure Rose was asleep before she headed for the control room, spilling out into the large, spacious room with an eager smile. The Doctor looked up from where he was stood by the console, attempting to pry off a large panel from the side of it.

“Thought you were in bed,” he said distractedly, turning his attention back to his task.

She hurried over to the jump seat, collapsing onto it and tucking her legs under herself as she stared down at him expectantly. “How could I possibly be asleep when we have such important plans to discuss?” she countered.

“We do?” he asked obliviously, suddenly turning to look at the roof in contemplation. Had he forgotten something important? Nothing was coming to him.

“It's Rose's birthday in two days!” she reminded him chirpily, excitement overriding her frustration.

“Is it?” he hummed thoughtfully, abandoning his task and turning around to face her properly. “You're still marking down the days, then?”

“That isn't important,” Hartley shook her head, not wanting a reminder of the little things she did to keep herself sane. “What _is_ important is that we haven't gotten her anything yet!”

“I'll have a look round the TARDIS, I'm sure we'll be able to find something nice,” he said offhandedly, only to wince when Hartley shot him her most lethal glare, the kind that made you wonder how someone so small could possibly be so terrifying.

“We're not giving her secondhand space junk for her birthday,” she said sternly, shooting him a look that would make a lesser man's heart race. As it was, the Doctor's hearts only sped up slightly, for which he was grateful she couldn't tell. “We've got every shop in the whole galaxy, the whole _universe,_ to choose from, and you're too cheap to buy her something nice?”

“I-I'm not _cheap_ ,” he argued, but Hartley rolled her eyes and leapt off the jump seat, striding across to the console and tapping it pointedly.

“Prove it then, spacewalker,” she goaded him, lifting her eyebrows in challenge.

Never to be outwitted, the Doctor raced forwards, beginning to pilot the TARDIS while keeping an eye on the smug redhead standing beside him. “I need to know what you want to get her, to know where to go,” he said, pumping the correct lever several times very fast. “Say you wanted to buy her jewellery, then we wouldn't go to the planet Clarino, which is known for their board games and pure crystal chess sets.”

“Jewellery sounds nice,” she nodded approvingly.

“Then the asteroid we're looking for is Zelena-151,” he said knowingly, grinning widely as he slammed his hand down on a shiny green button. “Its entire mass is made of the most precious gold in its galaxy. They've been harvesting it for years to make jewellery. Anyone who's _anyone_ goes there to get pieces handmade.”

Hartley grinned, the expression open and bright. “Y'know, if you ever decided to settle down,” she began, and the Doctor grimaced at the mere suggestion, “you'd make a great living as a tour guide.”

“So I've been told,” he mused, the room filling with the familiar wheezing before the floor itself shook as they landed. She turned to leave, only to pause halfway to the door when she realised the gaping hole in her plans.

“Um, Doc?” she began reluctantly, hands twisting together in front of her nervously.

“Hm?”

“I kind of...need to borrow some money,” she admitted with a sigh. “I promise I'll pay you back,” she added quickly. She wasn't sure how – she didn't even know the exchange rate of whatever currency they used here – but she was nothing if not stubborn. She'd find a way.

“Money, right,” said the Doctor, patting his pockets like a man who'd forgotten where he'd left his wallet. The thought of the Doctor with something as ordinary as a _wallet_ was almost enough to make her laugh aloud “Uh, maybe there'll be some in the supply closet?” he suggested, a confused look on his face.

“...We have a supply closet?” she blinked in surprise.

The Doctor looked indignant. “Of _course_ we have a supply closet,” he seemed dangerously close to rolling his eyes. “What kind of ship doesn't have a supply closet? Honestly,” he finished with a scoff.

“Where is it?” she questioned, glancing over her shoulder like it might appear out of thin air; which, knowing the TARDIS, wasn't that much of an impossibility.

“Turn left and follow it to the end,” he replied, turning to swipe his coat from where it hung over a branch of coral. “They take currency-keys in this era – they'll look like little white rectangles, kind of like lego.”

“Got it!” she called, disappearing into the hall. She wondered why he would keep the money in the supply closet, but as she walked, she reasoned that it actually made sense. Sure, the Doctor didn't tend to _steal_ , but he certainly didn't _buy_ anything either.

The supply closet was nothing to write home about. It was a spacious room filled with funny looking brooms, a handful of shiny silver spades and a whole row of brightly coloured feather-dusters. There was even a large collection of yard equipment – the purpose for which Hartley couldn't even begin to guess.

Along the back wall were a series of shelves, on them sitting small boxes labelled by century. She peeked inside the one reading 'Twenty-First', finding it to be full of British money from her own time period. She wondered whether it were legitimate money, but immediately doubted it and cast the thought away before it could eat at her.

She wasn't sure which century they were in, but she peeked inside each box until she came across one full of little white blocks, scooping out a handful and shoving them into her pocket before turning and heading out into the hall, beginning to make her way back to the control room.

“Finally,” the Doctor complained when she appeared, scooping up the coat that she'd left on the jump seat and tossing it to her smoothly. She plucked it from the air in a practised move, threading her arms through the sleeves and following the Doctor to the door.

They'd landed in the middle of a shopping mall. It was large, shops and people everywhere she turned. She blinked at the hustle and bustle, and the loud wall of chatter that slammed into her the moment they stepped from the TARDIS.

“Look up,” the Doctor's voice was close behind her, so much so that his breath fanned out across the shell of her ear as he spoke, and she couldn't have helped the shiver that wracked through her if she tried.

The Time Lord didn't seem to notice, however, which was a relief. Hartley shrugged the odd sensation off, turning her head up to the roof, only to find it wasn't a regular ceiling, but instead a large glass dome that allowed view to space. She audibly gasped, blinking up at the bright purple nebula and twinkling stars above them.

“Pretty, eh?” the Doctor mused, somehow sounding both awestruck and unimpressed in the same instant.

She wondered if he ever got used to seeing these kinds of sights. It was hard to tell with the Doctor, he wasn't the easiest person to read when it really counted. She herself swore to never become complacent, to never look at the miracles of the universe and shrug them off. She would forever be in stunned awe at its beauty. She didn't want to drag her eyes from the sight, but the Doctor nudged her with his elbow, urging her along.

“C'mon, we're blocking foot traffic,” he said, tucking his hands into his pockets and beginning along, weaving in and out of all the people swarming the centre.

“Where're we going?” she asked, giving to sky one final, appreciative glance before following him, not wanting to get lost in the sea of busy shoppers.

“Depends,” he shrugged. “What'd you wanna get her? Did you have anything in mind?”

He sounded surprisingly patient considering the menial task, but she supposed that was because it was for Rose. He'd do anything for Rose.

“Something gold,” she nodded, pushing away any hint of a negative thought and focusing on the closest thing she had to a best friend, now that Jack was unreachable. “Maybe a necklace?”

“I think any one of these shops will be able to suit your needs,” he said slyly, and as she looked closer she realised every single shop was jewellery themed in one way or another. She let her eyes wander, sliding over the different, but also similar, stores.

She was just about to give up and ask the Doctor to pick one when her eyes caught a flashing sign in the window of one of the smaller shops of the futuristic space-mall.

“This way,” she instructed the Time Lord, not daring to touch him, simply hoping he would follow as she ducked and weaved her way through the throng of people. “Why's it so packed?” she asked conversationally as they walked. “There's nothing here but jewellery.”

“It's the most famous place in the galaxy for it. Best quality you can find. Customers come from every corner to visit,” he told her factually. “Also, they do tours to the surface and the mines where all the gold comes from. It's very popular among tourists.”

Hartley was interested, dying to ask if they could take one of the tours. But she didn't want to push her luck, so she said nothing, continuing to lead him towards the shop she'd spotted.

“I'll wait here,” he said once they reached the store, leaning against the window and staring out at the crowd.

Hartley said nothing, slipping inside the shop and walking directly up to the counter. “Hi,” she greeted the older man behind the display with a polite smile. He smiled back, the expression tired but nonetheless genuine. “I'm interested in what the sign you have out front says,” she began. “I'm not great with the lingo, but a holographic locket would be...?”

“We would take the recording of you here,” he explained, gesturing to the small booth set up off to the side, “then we download the video into a locket of your choosing.”

“Can you add sound?” she asked hesitantly.

He smiled like he wasn't used to hearing somebody speak politely, adjusting his glasses before leaning across the counter casually. “It costs extra, but yes,” he nodded, and she grinned, amazed that she'd found the perfect thing on her first try.

Hartley knew the Doctor wasn't planning on abandoning her again, but then again, he hadn't really been planning it the first time, either. Were she to be left once more on a satellite thousands upon thousands of years in the future, this time without even a vortex manipulator for security, she wanted to be sure Rose would at least have something proper to remember her by. “That sounds perfect,” she smiled at the man brightly, hoping to mask the storm of pain she was concealing behind her eyes. “Where's your selection?”

She spent about five minutes picking out the right locket. It was a simple oval, the rose gold it was crafted from was glittering like none she'd ever seen. Beautiful, intricate roses were etched into the front, a hint of significance that wouldn't be missed.

“Can two people be in the recording?” she asked the man once they'd settled on the right pendant. He nodded affirmatively, and she held up a finger, rushing to the door and pushing it open.

“Finally-” the Doctor began, apparently not as patient as she first thought. She didn't let him finish, grasping him by the lapels of his coat and yanking him into the store with her. “Do you need help with the currency?” he asked, reaching up pull at his ear.

“No,” she said, then reconsidered. “Well, yes, but that comes after.”

“...After what?” he looked wary.

“I'm getting her a holographic locket!”

“Brilliant?” he murmured, the word coming out like a question. “And?” he asked when she didn't elaborate.

“And I want us both to be in it, you daft old Spacewalker,” she rolled her eyes, grinning up at him cheekily. He snorted at the insult, but didn't seem overly bothered by it.

“This way, if you would,” the man behind the counter prompted them, and Hartley was quick to usher the Doctor in the direction of the booth. “You can record up to thirty seconds of footage,” he explained, beginning to tap the buttons on the side, “and it will play on a loop when the locket is opened.” He quickly ran them through the controls so they could stop and start recording as they needed to.

“What am I even meant to say?” the Doctor asked once the man shuffled away, moving back into the main part of the store to help a young couple looking at his selection of rings. “ _Happy Birthday, Rose. Here's to many more_?”

“Don't be so boring,” she chastised him with a laugh, tapping her chin in thought. “How about, _help me, Obi-wan Kenobi, you're my only hope_?” she suggested with a playful grin. The Doctor just rolled his eyes in exasperation.

“If I had a quid for every time someone made that joke,” he mumbled under his breath, and Hartley laughed, reaching over to jab her elbow into his side, making him scowl at her without any real heat.

“Let's just try and see what happens?”

“That sounds like a bad plan.”

“Oh please,” Hartley snorted. “That might as well be the name of your auto-biography.”

The Doctor couldn't help the small smile that spread across his lips, and although he tried to hide it, Hartley still caught sight of it, grinning back proudly as she reached forwards and hit play.

* * *

Hartley only got a few hours of sleep before there was a loud banging on her bedroom door. She grumbled to herself irritatedly as she climbed out of bed, blindly reaching out for her dressing gown just as the TARDIS finally switched the lights back on. She winced at the brightness, staggering over to the door and yanking it open, peering blearily into the hall at the Doctor, who stood with his hand poised to knock again.

“Good, you're awake,” he said happily.

“I am _now_ ,” she muttered, narrowing her eyes just enough for him to be slightly worried for his own safety before she sighed, too weary to bother staying mad. “What's happening?”

“Rose wants to go see Michael Jackson in concert,” he told her with a small bounce. “You in?”

“Yeah,” she murmured, reaching up to rub the sleep from her eyes. “Give me ten.”

“Molto-bene!” he said cheerfully, getting distracted as he leant up against the doorway. “My mate Michael. You know, I helped write _Heal the World_. That was a good day! You can even hear me playing the bass in the background!”

“Why am I not surprised?” Hartley mumbled, unable to help the yawn that broke across her face. She pulled herself together, running her tongue over her teeth and peering at the Doctor warily, watching as he stared at the wall with a dopey grin, lost in his memories. “Can I get dressed now?”

He started, seeming to realise he was standing there uselessly, quite clearly in the way. “Right,” he nodded, pushing away from the door and shoving his hands into his pockets. “Control room in ten!” he called over his shoulder, and Hartley rolled her eyes as she disappeared back into her room.

She showered as quickly as she could, using the lavender body wash she'd picked up at the Moon Markets in the thirty-seventh century. It was her favourite, and she was running low. She made a mental note to ask the Doctor to take her back to get more.

She dressed quickly, pulling on her well-worn jeans with holes beginning to appear on the knees, a simple tank top, then tossing one of her most comfortable jumpers on over it, the knitted wool dragging softly across her skin.

Rose was already in the console room when she arrived, excitedly talking to the Doctor about his experience with Michael Jackson. “Ah, Hart!” the Doctor bounced to his feet when he spotted her, shooting around the console and beginning to hit what seemed like a random assortment of buttons. “Good, we can get going!”

“You a Michael Jackson fan?” Rose asked happily, and Hartley shot her a look of mock offence.

“Who isn't?”

Rose laughed, opening her mouth to reply only for her phone to begin ringing, the sound cutting through the calming hum of the TARDIS. They all glanced to where her mobile was sitting on the jump seat, brows creasing worriedly.

Only one person had the ability to call Rose no matter where she was in the universe, and when it _did_ happen, it was rarely a social call. “Mum?” Rose answered the phone, stepping down towards the doors, turning away as though it would give her any privacy. “You alright?”

There was muffled cries from the other end that Hartley could hear all the way from the console, and she exchanged a concerned look with the Doctor, who was halfheartedly tapping away at the keyboard, pretending his attention wasn't solely on Rose.

“What?” the blonde exclaimed suddenly, spinning around to face them, outrage splashed across her pretty features. “What's his name?”

There were more sad mumbles, and Hartley ached for Jackie, hoping that whatever had happened wasn't too bad, and that she could find a way to help make her feel better.

“I'll take care of it,” Rose vowed, then they exchanged more quiet words before Rose hung up, turning to face the Doctor, fire in her eyes. The Time Lord shifted warily, half hoping the anger wasn't for any reason going to be aimed at him. “You ever heard of an Elton Pope?” she asked him, practically seething.

The Doctor tugged at his ear. “Sounds kind of familiar, actually,” he murmured thoughtfully, but Rose was too busy with her warpath to notice.

“We need to find him,” she declared thunderously. “Right now.”

Hartley had no idea what this bloke had done to Jackie, but she was suddenly genuinely concerned for his life.

It didn't take long at all for the Doctor to locate the man in question, and the TARDIS shook as it landed with a thump. In a practised move, Hartley's hand shot out to grasp the railing so she didn't topple over. The Doctor was already at the door, pulling it open and ducking out into the light of the day. Rose looked furious, stomping after him, hands balled into fists at her sides.

“Someone wants a word with you,” Hartley heard the Doctor say casually as she followed the threatening blonde out the door.

“You upset my mum!” Rose snapped the moment she stepped outside. Hartley followed close behind, pausing in front of the ship with a blink. Some kind of massive, half-melted creature was plopped in the back of the alley, grotesque faces peering out from its slimy, unsightly gut. She bit back a disgusted gag, looking from the alien to Rose, who was still fuming with poorly-bottled rage.

“Great big absorbing creature from outer space, and you're having a go at _me_?” the guy who could have only been Elton Pope asked, his eyes still wet, and Hartley felt a flare of pity at the glint of consumed pain to his eyes.

“ _No_ _one_ upsets my mum,” Rose continued as though he hadn't even spoken.

“At last,” the alien gave an ugly grin, revealing rows of yellow, broken teeth. “The greatest feast of all. The Doctor and his Heart!”

Stunned beyond belief at the title, Hartley nearly choked on her own tongue, eyes widening in a flash of panic. Why did people keep _calling_ her that?

“Interesting,” the Doctor hummed, unintimidated and unperturbed by the alien's words. “A sort Absorbatrix? Absorbaclon? Absorbaloff?” he mused thoughtfully.

“Absorbaloff, yes,” the thing nodded, apparently pleased with the name.

Rose grimaced, finally looking away from Elton to peer at the 'Absorbaloff' with a grimace. “Is it me or is he a bit Slitheen?” she asked the Doctor quietly, keeping an eye on the alien before them.

“Not from Raxacoricofallapatorius, are you?” the Doctor asked him curiously, unbothered by the threat it _thought_ it was posing.

“No, I'm not,” the Absorbaloff said conversationally, a gross grimace on his slimy lips. “They're swine. I spit on them. I was born on their twin planet.”

“Really?” the Doctor sounded pleasantly curious, and Hartley just barely refrained from rolling her eyes at his typical behaviour. In the middle of a crisis, and he was making conversation like they were simply meeting for brunch. “What's the twin planet of Raxacoricofallapatorius?”

“Clom.”

The Doctor blinked. “Clom,” he repeated tonelessly.

“Clom. Yes,” he said, greasy tongue running over his lips. “And I'll return there _victorious_ , once I possess your travelling machine.”

The Time Lord looked dangerously close to laughing out loud. “Well, that's never going to happen,” he responded calmly, smirking in amusement. Hartley pushed off the side of the TARDIS, moving so she was beside Rose, peering down at Elton sadly, taking in the wetness of his eyes and the defeated hunch of his shoulders. Something awful had happened to him, and despite whatever he'd done to hurt Jackie, Hartley couldn't help feeling a pang of sympathy for the poor boy.

“Oh, it will,” the Absorbaloff assured the Doctor darkly. “You'll surrender yourself to me, Doctor, or _this_ one dies,” he said with an ugly sneer in Elton's direction. “You see, I've read about you, Doctor. I've studied you. So passionate, so sweet. You wouldn't let an innocent man die. And I'll absorb him, unless you give yourself to me,” he threatened, reaching a hand out to Elton's head. The kid flinched away but remained knelt where he was, too frightened to move.

Hartley stepped forwards, not sure what she was planning to do, but knowing she wasn't about to let anything happen to this boy. However the Doctor's hand snapped out, grasping at her wrist and pulling her back sternly, a silent order she had no choice but to follow.

“Sweet, maybe,” the Doctor agreed, and if the situation weren't so serious, she might have smiled. “Passionate, I suppose. But don't _ever_ mistake that for nice,” he finished blithely, casting Elton a look of sheer disinterest. “Do what you want,” he said with a note of finality, turning to leave.

“He'll die, Doctor.”

“Go on, then,” the time traveller shrugged, seemingly without a care in the world. Hartley knew it was an act, but he actually so sounded heartless in that moment that it made her flinch.

“Your Heart,” the Absorbaloff continued in that awful, greasy voice. “You wouldn't want to disappoint your Heart. I've read about her too; your human conscience, following you throughout the cosmos, the last person you'd ever want to let down,” he snarled victoriously, as if with that he had won.

The Doctor turned back around, letting go of Hartley's wrist as he did. She pulled her arms across her chest, pulse racing in her ears at the conversation happening before them. What did it mean? Why did this keep happening to them?

“So, I'll say again, Doctor,” the alien from Clom snarled derisively, “give yourself to me, or the human dies.”

The Doctor paused, the look in his eyes carefully blank, but Hartley could guess the sort of storm that was raging from within the confines of that giant mind of his. Finally he shrugged, mask of indifference firmly in place. “Go ahead,” he said carelessly, and the thing snarled wetly.

“So be it.”

The Absorbaloff reached out, slimy fingertips pressing to a shaking Elton's forehead. “Mind you,” the Doctor interrupted, and Hartley let out a breath she didn't know she was holding, “the others might have something to say.”

“Others?” the alien was confused.

“He's right,” an unfamiliar voice spoke from the creature's body, and Hartley gasped. The faces attached to the thing's body weren't just decoration, they were alive; real, living people. Disgust swelled within her, and she bit down at her tongue to quell her nausea. “The Doctor's right,” the voice said loudly. “We can't let him. Oh, Mister Skinner, Bridget, _pull_!”

Hartley grimaced in sad revulsion, but it all happened rather quickly after that. The people within the monster pulled, Elton snapped the cane, and all at once the Absorbaloff was nothing but a pile of goo on the pavement.

“What did I do?” poor Elton whispered in shock, staring down at the spill in horror and disgust.

“The cane created a limitation field,” the Doctor revealed, peering down at the liquid beginning to sink into the cement with a pinched expression. “Now it's broken, he can't stop. The _absorber_ is being _absorbed._ ”

“By what?”

“By the earth.”

A lump appeared on one of the square pavers, and Hartley glanced at it with a wince. Whoever they were, they'd deserved better.

“Bye, bye, Elton,” a woman's tinny voice said sadly, and Hartley could feel Elton's devastation almost as clearly as if it were her own.

Rose stepped forwards, her previous rage having evaporated, in its place an unwavering compassion. “Who was she?” she asked him gently, pity in her soft brown eyes.

“That was Ursula,” Elton said despondently, his agony written into the lines on his face.

Rose glanced to her left, peeking over at Hartley who gave an encouraging nod. The blonde stepped closer to the crying man, crouching down to his level and wrapping her arms around him in a warm hug.

Things were silent for a long minute, Rose gently rubbing a hand over Elton's shoulder as he cried, grief colouring his sobs.

Hartley's chest ached with sympathy, wanting to hug him herself, wishing things hadn't ended the way they had for him. Clearly he'd loved these people, and now they were gone, taken away from him in the worst way possible. Was there something more they could have done? Could the Doctor have saved them? She glanced over at him, taking in the empathetic glint to the Time Lord's eyes and knew, instinctively, that he couldn't have.

Finally Elton's tortured sobs came to an end, Rose gently helping him to his feet. Hartley watched as he scrubbed self-consciously at his red eyes. “We should be going,” the Doctor said sombrely, and Elton's head snapped up, eyes alight with panic.

“You can't go yet!” he blurted, voice hoarse with grief. “I have so many questions.”

The Doctor looked surprised by the words. “About what?” he asked, as if he really couldn't think of anything Elton would want to know.

“I've seen you before,” he said shakily, very clearly trying his hardest not to glance back at where the other alien had melted away. “When I was little, you were in my house. I need to know why.”

The Doctor paused, eyes flickering over Elton's shaking form before nodding his head to the small set of steps to their right. Rose saw the request for what it was, gently leading Elton over to the stairs, sitting him down and taking a place beside him, hands still glued to his shoulders in a silent show of support. The Doctor sat on his other side, and Hartley sat beside him, leaning back so she could see the human clearly.

“You don't remember, do you?” the Doctor began carefully, surprisingly gentle. Elton shook his head, nostrils flaring with emotion. “There was a shadow in your house. A living shadow in the darkness. An elemental shade had escaped from the Howling Halls,” most of this made no sense to the rest of them, but they understood the basics. There was an alien threat, and the Doctor had intervened. “I stopped it, but I wasn't in time to save her,” a shadow of remorse fell over the Doctor's face, and he looked at Elton apologetically. “I'm sorry.”

Elton didn't cry, probably having run out of tears for the day. He sniffled, eyes on the pavement as he swallowed, reminiscing about his mother and what little time he'd gotten with her.

“I wish there was something more we could do for you, Elton,” Hartley murmured compassionately, leaning over her legs and hanging her head.

“I have an idea,” the Doctor spoke abruptly, surprising his two companions with his outburst. “Wait here, I'll be back,” he told them, yanking his sonic from his pocket and darting away, back around to the opposite side of the TARDIS, out of their view.

Elton sniffed again, wiping at his sore eyes. He looked up at Hartley suddenly, wonderment in his dull blue gaze. “I can't believe, after all this time, I'm finally meeting you,” he murmured, looking like he very much wanted to reach out and touch her, just to prove she was real.

The redhead was surprised by his words, glancing over her shoulder like she'd somehow find the Doctor behind her instead. Only nobody was there, and she realised he really did mean _her_.

“Me?” she asked, blinking at him in confusion.

“The Doctor is amazing, and he's the one I've been searching for all this time, but the Heart as well?” he asked with a tiny smile of awe. “I guess I never really thought I'd ever see you with my own two eyes.”

“Oh,” Hartley laughed, feeling somewhat uncomfortable under the intense scrutiny. “Hart's my real name. It's not a title of any kind,” she corrected him quietly, wondering why everyone kept getting it so wrong.

Elton frowned like he didn't understand what she was saying. “But, the Heart is a legend,” he muttered. “Surely you know? It wasn't just the Doctor we were studying. You were always there, at his side, popping up all throughout history.”

“Me?” she squeaked, too shocked to properly process his words.

“Of course, _you_ ,” he nodded, sniffling again and peering at her like he expected her to either vanish into thin air or suddenly say something profound enough to change his entire life. She winced under the weight of that expectation, finding herself unable to do either.

“Elton!” the Doctor shouted from the back of the alley, the TARDIS obscuring their view. “Fetch a spade!”

“What?” the poor bloke asked in pure bewilderment, finally distracted from his examination of Hartley, for which she was grateful.

“Best do as he says,” she murmured as cheerfully as she could manage under the circumstances, deciding to leave pondering his words for a later date, putting it aside and focusing on the present.

Elton looked around wildly, light eyes searching for the object he was instructed to retrieve. “Where am I meant to get a spade?” he asked, gesturing to the large, empty alleyway they were sat in, stressed that he wouldn't be able to bring the Doctor what he needed.

Remembering suddenly the storage closet full of equipment back on the TARDIS, Hartley leapt to her feet. “I'll get one!” she said loud enough for the Doctor to hear, shooting a comforting grin at Elton, who relaxed once more, like her smile alone was enough to make everything better.

“But from where?” he asked curiously as she moved away from the pair sitting on the steps, more towards the TARDIS.

She didn't reply, sending him a cheeky grin before disappearing into the ship. It only took her a minute to locate the supply closet from the other day, pulling one of the more sturdy looking spades from its depths before hurrying back out to the waiting Doctor.

She handed it off the moment she reached him, and instantly he began digging away at the edges of a paver on the ground. She watched, eyebrow cocked in bemusement as he worked.

“What's happening?” Elton asked, walking around the side of the TARDIS, Rose close on his heels. “What're you doing?”

“Saving your girlfriend,” the Doctor responded with a grunt, finishing his task before leaning down and curling his long fingers around the sides of the dug out paver, hauling it up with a surprising amount of strength, considering his thin build.

“Elton?!” Ursula's unique tone squeaked, and Elton raced forwards, taking the square of cement from the Doctor and peering down at his love's face like, if it wasn't so profoundly weird, he would definitely be kissing her right there and then.

“Ursula!” he breathed, hugging the paver to his chest, making her grunt into his shirt before he realised and pulled back, smiling down at her in shellshocked relief. They shared a moment, the glance between them special and unique, before Elton looked up at the Doctor, gratitude spread across his face like writing on a wall. “Thank you,” he said sincerely, eyes glinting with emotion. “For everything.”

Hartley wasn't sure exactly what had happened, but she could guess well enough, and she knew this: if Elton hadn't been so intent on finding the Doctor, he probably wouldn't have run into the 'Absorbaloff', he probably wouldn't have lost all those friends of his, and he would probably still have his girlfriend whole and by his side.

So the guilt remained, sitting like hot acid in her gut, a reminder that not everything they accomplished was always good.

“You can't show her to anyone, Elton,” the Doctor warned him seriously, apparently not as flooded with remorse as Hartley was.

Elton swallowed, nodding his head obediently. “I understand,” he promised.

The Doctor smiled, but the expression wasn't as enthusiastic as they were used to. Maybe he wasn't quite so unaffected after all. “We should go,” he said, taking a step in the direction of the TARDIS.

“Right,” Elton nodded again, smiling at them, although a glimmer of pain lingered in his crystal blue eyes. “People to rescue; worlds to save.”

They never set out to save worlds, Hartley wanted to say, the Doctor just travelled and the trouble found _him_. She felt like correcting Elton was the wrong move, however, deciding to let him keep his illusion of the Doctor's miraculous lifestyle in place.

“I'm sorry again, Elton,” Rose spoke, stepping close enough to squeeze his arm. She smiled, then turned to step back into the TARDIS. She paused in the doorway, glancing over her shoulder with a narrow-eyed stare. “But if you ever go near my mum again, I'll drop you into an active volcano,” she threatened him stonily. Hartley knew she would never, but Elton seemed to believe her, nodding his head in understanding, fear in his pale gaze. Rose grinned wickedly, tongue peaking out from between her teeth before she disappeared back inside the blue police box.

Hartley stepped into Elton's line of sight, smiling at him gently. She understood him, in a strange sort of way. He was tied to the Doctor in a way that was beyond his control, and that was something she could empathise with. She knew what it was like to get a taste of the daft old alien, only to have it unfairly ripped away, and then spend years of your life searching to try and find it again.

“ _It doesn't do to dwell on dreams and forget to live_ , Elton,” she told him wisely, hands pressed gently to his shoulders.

His eyes still glistened with emotion, and he licked his lips before responding. “Albus Dumbledore,” he said thickly, and Hartley's soft smile turned into a proud grin.

“I know a fellow Potterhead when I see one,” she told him brightly. He managed a smile in return, and she shot him a playful wink before nodding politely to the watching eyes of Ursula and disappearing back inside the TARDIS after Rose.

The blonde was already sitting on the jump seat, staring down at the metal grating that was the floor, clearly lost in thought. “You okay, Rosie?” Hartley asked gently, coming to a stop beside her, leaning herself up against the railing and watching her friend closely, sensing something was off.

“Fine,” Rose nodded unconvincingly, and Hartley frowned in worry.

“You sure?” she pressed. “I'm here if you need to talk-”

“I said I'm fine, Hartley!” Rose snapped, turning to look at her with a glare. Hartley blinked in surprise, not having expected the violent reaction. The blonde closed her eyes, taking a deep breath and forcing her shoulders to relax. “Sorry,” she apologised, but Hartley couldn't help but doubt its sincerity.

In the next moment the Doctor bounded into the room, the door creaking shut after him. He skipped up to the console, beginning to input data or coordinates or whatever the hell it was he did with that keyboard of his.

“Where to now, ladies?” he asked happily, oblivious to the tense atmosphere that lingered around them like a fog. “No suggestions?” he continued when he received nothing but silence. The TARDIS began to groan, signalling that they'd dematerialised, no doubt sent floating in the vortex. “How about I set her to random, see where we end up?”

They gave no reply, and the Doctor seemed to finally notice something wasn't right. He turned around, narrowing his eyes at the girls, one looking defeated, the other wildly confused.

“What happened?” he asked, tone suddenly serious.

Rose sighed like the last thing she wanted to do was answer that question, but she knew he wouldn't let her get away with it, so she reluctantly opened her mouth. “The absorbing- _thing_ and Elton, well, they both knew all about Hartley,” she told him, brows pulled together in a frown. “Even called her 'The Heart' like it was some kinda title.”

The Doctor only looked more confused, but Hartley could see what was happening clearly.

“Why didn't they know me? Is it because, maybe, she's around longer than I am?” she sounded so vulnerable that Hartley's gut ached like somebody had shoved in a knife and brutally twisted, shredding at her insides. “ _I'm gonna die in battle_ ,” Rose quoted, reminding Hartley terribly of that long day on the Impossible Planet just a few short weeks ago. “That's what it said. What if it's right?”

“We've been over this,” the Doctor said with a surprising amount of patience, crossing the distance between them and placing his hands on her shoulders, bringing her attention to him. “It _lied_. You're going to be fine.”

“But why did they know about Hart? Why'd they talk about her like she was some kind of _legend_?”

“Hartley sounds a lot like the word heart,” the Doctor pointed out the obvious, his dark eyes flickering away from Rose to meet Hartley's gaze, noting the concern in one another's stare. “Legends are funny like that; they can take a name and turn it into something it isn't. That's all this is,” he promised her. “Rose, you're going to be _fine_ ,” he finished with a hint of exasperation, and finally the hope reignited in her eyes, and Hartley sagged with relief as she smiled back at him calmly.

“See?” Hartley jumped in, hopping up onto the seat beside Rose and companionably nudging her with her hip. “I'm just being over-estimated on a cosmic scale,” she joked, and Rose finally cracked a grin, confirming that things between them were fine once again.

“What's new?” she quipped, and Hartley gave a huffing laugh.

“I think we all deserve some down time,” the Doctor spoke suddenly, something he didn't say very often at all. “You two go watch a movie or have a swim while I run some diagnostics.”

“Are you sure?” Rose asked carefully.

He smiled reassuringly. “We can go somewhere later,” he told her with a nod, shooing them off with a lazy wave of his hand. “Go talk about the...Beach Boys or...eat custard, or whatever it is you two do when I'm not around.”

' _The Beach Boys_?' Hartley mouthed to Rose, who laughed, the tension from earlier all but forgotten.

“Go on, off you trot,” he urged them, and Rose smiled, grabbing Hartley's arm in a move and dragging her towards the door as though nothing had ever happened and it was any old day in their life aboard the TARDIS.


	24. Family Matters

“ _The secret to happiness is freedom..._

_And the secret to freedom is courage.”_

Thucydides

* * *

Hartley was the first one awake on Rose's birthday, to nobody's surprise (the Doctor was already up and at the console, but than again, she wasn't sure she could prove he'd actually even been to bed at all). She dressed quickly, still pulling on her shoes as she raced through the coral-lined halls towards the control room.

“What's got you in such a rush?” the Doctor asked, looking up from the monitor with a bewildered frown as she all but tripped into the room.

“Gotta decorate!” she said quickly, gripping the bag in her hand and setting it down on the jump seat, hurriedly beginning to pull out an array of streamers and balloons. “You're on balloon duty,” she instructed the Time Lord, handing him the little packet of pink balloons. He took them from her cautiously, as though he were trying to work out what to do with them. “You blow air into them,” she told him distractedly, already climbing up onto the jump seat to string the streamers across the coral above them.

“I know what balloons are,” he replied defensively, offended by her comment. “Why do we have to decorate, again?”

“Because it's Rose's birthday,” she replied slowly, like she were talking to a small child, her eyes still focused on the streamers, thankfully missing the look of annoyance the Doctor sent her way.

“Why must you insist on celebrating every holiday you can get your hands on?” he asked her once he'd finally relented and begun to blow air into the pink balloons she'd acquired.

“I don't celebrate _every_ holiday,” she responded curtly, tongue peaking out from her lips as she finished tying a bow in the streamers.

“Last month you forced us to celebrate _Australia Day_ ,” he replied.

“So?”

“So none of us are Australian!”

Hartley fell silent, suddenly lost in thought as she worked, leaving the Doctor to complete his task, shooting her contemplative looks ever other minute. She wondered how to word what she was thinking. How did she explain it without making the Doctor feel bad? Because that was the _last_ thing she wanted.

“Travelling with you...it's all I want to do,” she finally spoke, her voice quieter than before, almost meek as she refused to look down at him, busying herself with tossing the streamers over the columns of coral, decorating the ship in Rose's favourite shade of pink. “Really, I wouldn't give it up for the world; but keeping track of the days...celebrating holidays...it helps keep me, well, sane.”

The Doctor was silent, and she wondered how he was taking her confession.

“But we have a time machine,” he finally said, awfully confused. “I could take you to a hundred Christmases in a row.”

“But they wouldn't _really_ be Christmas,” she argued, stepping off the jump seat, her chucks slapping against the grating as she landed. “It needs to only be once a year; if it were every day, we'd take it for granted, and then it wouldn't be special.”

The Doctor looked pensive at her words, but thankfully didn't have a retort – she was much too distracted to bother bickering with him over _Christmas_.

“Now, will you help me set this up already?” she asked, and with a reluctant sigh he did as he was asked, continuing the blow up the balloons, moving quickly through his task with his large Time Lord lungs.

By the time Rose wandered into the control room, the entire place was decked out in pink, balloons covering the floor like a plastic mist, Hartley and the Doctor stood by the console. Hartley was grinning widely, practically vibrating with excitement, while the Doctor was fussing grouchily with the party hat she'd forced onto his head.

“ _Hart_!” Rose groaned in embarrassment at the sight of it all. “I told you not to make a fuss!”

“And I told you I wouldn't listen,” Hartley countered, utterly unbothered by her protests. She waded through the sea of balloons, snatching Rose's hand in her own and tugging her over to the jump seat, where a small pile of presents sat waiting for her to open.

“ _Guys_ ,” she complained.

“Don't look at me,” the Doctor said, holding his hands up. “It wasn't my idea.”

“Quit being such a blatant party-pooper,” Hartley said sternly, pushing Rose closer to her pile. “Go on, open the small one first!”

Rose gave a sort of whine, but there was a glimmer of happiness in her eyes that let Hartley know she secretly liked it, and that was all she needed. With an over exaggerated huff, Rose picked up the small parcel on top. She lifted it to her ear, rattling it with a raised eyebrow before pulling at the paper it was wrapped in.

The small box from the jeweller's the other day fell into her hand, and Rose looked wary before opening it, as if thinking perhaps Hartley had stuffed a bomb, or something equally as nefarious, inside.

“Go on,” Hartley encouraged her eagerly. “It won't bite you.”

Rolling her eyes, Rose popped open the box, then gasped at the sight of the rose gold locket, oval in shape, intricate roses engraved onto its glittering surface. “Oh my God,” she said, blinking down at the beautiful piece of jewellery in stunned surprise. “Hartley...” she trailed off, not knowing what to say.

“Open it,” Hartley was all Hartley said, stepping closer and bouncing on her toes with barely-contained enthusiasm.

Swallowing, Rose pinched the clip at the bottom, and the top cracked open. Nothing happened for a beat, but then a small, moving blue hologram appeared over the open locket, and again, Rose could only gasp.

“ _Happy birthday_!” the miniature figures of Hartley and the Doctor both cried, pressed close together and grinning up at her giddily. “ _We love you, Rosie,_ ” the little Hartley continued affectionately, “ _don't you ever forget that. We're giving you this so you don't, just to be safe. Anything to add?_ ” she turned to the small Doctor, who frowned in thought.

“ _Oh! Never eat pears, under any circumstances, Rose. It's always a bad idea_ ,” he said in sudden realisation.

Mini-Hartley turned to him with an irritated expression. “ _That's what you choose to say_?” she asked, unimpressed.

“ _It's an important thing to remember!_ ” he argued defensively.

“ _You're a regular Shakespeare, you are._ ”

“ _Oi! Don't ruin Rose's birthday message with badly crafted insults!_ ”

“ _You're the one who can't say something nice!_ ”

“ _So it's all my fault then_?”

“ _Would you just wish the girl well, already, Spacewalker?_ ”

The two echoes of her friends in the hologram were frowning at one another, turned inward as they bickered. It had seemed cute, at the time, but now that Hartley saw it firsthand, it felt like a bad idea. She glanced up at Rose to apologise, only to find her smiling down at the hologram with a wide, sincere, if not slightly teary, smile.

“Uh,” Hartley said as the hologram came to an end, showing instead a holographic picture of Hartley and the Time Lord, both of them smiling happily into the camera, and now up at Rose.

“I love it,” Rose promised her, closing the locket and holding it up to her chest, like she were trying to press it against her very heart.

“Really?” the Doctor sounded more than bemused, and Hartley turned to see him staring at Rose in pure bewilderment. “You liked _that_?”

“It's genuine,” she argued, still smiling, eyes continuing to glisten with the shine of sentimental tears. “It would have seemed unnatural if the two of you _hadn't_ started bickering,” she added happily.

The Doctor looked like he was beginning to seriously question Rose's mental health, but Hartley ignored him, stepping closer to her friend and wrapping her up in a warm hug. “How's it feel to be twenty?” she asked brightly, taking the locket from her hands and motioning for Rose to lift her golden hair out of the way.

She did so, and Hartley threaded the thin but strong chain around her neck, clasping it off at the back. “No different to being nineteen,” she said honestly, and the moment Hartley stepped back, she reached up to grasp the locket in a tight, protective grip.

“Come on, open the rest,” the Doctor said impatiently, wanting to get on with the day. Rose laughed and did as she was told, opening her remaining gifts to reveal a pair of fluffy socks, tickets for her and her mother to go see the ballet, and a first edition copy of _The Wind in the Willows._ “You can tell it's a 'Hartley' gift,” the Doctor stage-whispered to Rose, who slapped him on the chest in reprimand.

“Shut up,” she told him with a roll of her eyes. “I love it.”

“Thought we'd go visit your mum,” Hartley told her as the Doctor shoved the ripped up wrapping paper in the bin.

“Yeah,” the Doctor agreed, “let her dote over you for awhile, tell her about the ballet, then maybe we can go do something fun, like – oh, we could visit the universe's fastest rollercoaster, or eat pasta on Pluto in the eighty-ninth century!”

“There's pasta on Pluto?” Rose asked curiously.

“Imported from Earth, obviously,” he revealed with a sniff, and Hartley smiled as she reclined back on the jump seat, surrounded by her sea of pink decorations.

“I actually had something else in mind, if that's okay,” Rose said, suddenly serious, a pensive expression on her pretty face.

“Of course,” the Doctor chirped, already putting the ship into gear. “All of time and space as a playground. Just name it and we'll be there!” he told her proudly, shooting her a toothy grin as he pumped the lever to his right.

Rose paused, taking a few moments to say it, and it made Hartley curious, wondering what could possibly be so difficult for her to ask for. Then she slowly turned to face Hartley, a sheepish sort of glint to her hazel eyes. “I want to go meet your family,” she finally said, sounding awfully sure of herself.

Hartley's pulse seemed to stop, then start up again, this time slamming against her ribcage like it was trying to escape, if only to avoid what was bound be the most tense, awkward family reunion known to both human and alien kind.

“You want to go visit _my_ family, on _your_ birthday?” she asked incredulously. Adrenaline was flooding her system at the thought of coming face to face with her parents and sister again. Rose only stared back at her sadly, and she wondered what must have been happening on her own face to warrant such a look. “What brought this on?” she asked, voice measured and carefully emotionless, as if she wasn't panicking on the inside.

“You don't talk about them, not really,” Rose said quietly. “I was thinking about it last night. We go and visit my mum all the time, and sometimes you stare at us with this look...like you're really sad about something, and I never knew why. But I finally figured it out – you just miss your own.”

“My mum and I don't get along,” Hartley said immediately, an instinctual response born from years of fighting the same argument over and over.

Rose looked sympathetic at the words, and Hartley didn't dare look over to gauge the Doctor's expression. “But your dad?” Rose asked patiently, and suddenly their roles were starkly reversed. Hartley felt like the younger one, in need of Rose's support, rather than the other way round, as it usually was.

Hartley swallowed around the lump of emotion in her throat. This wasn't how she'd envisioned the day going. “We're close,” she said, then winced. “Were _,_ ” she corrected herself with a silent stab of pain.

“Why haven't you ever gone back home? Seen them? Let them know you were okay?” Rose questioned delicately, and Hartley grimaced.

“Come on, Rose,” she complained. “This can't _seriously_ be how you want to spend your birthday.”

“Stop deflecting,” Rose replied, utterly calm. “This is what I want. I want to see you talk to your parents.”

“But _why_?”

“Is it so surprising that I'd want to see you happy?” she asked.

Hartley exhaled sharply. “Believe me, Rose, going home isn't the best way to go about making me happy.”

“I think it hangs over you,” Rose argued gently. “And I don't want you to live like that.”

“I don't think it's a good idea,” she shook her head, looking down as she kicked at the pink balloons laying idle by her feet.

“Why not?”

“It just isn't-”

“But _why,_ Hart?”

Hartley sighed, bowing her head and closing her eyes, trying her hardest to keep the grief and pain from swallowing her whole.

“It's because of what she is.”

Both women looked up at the Doctor's words, equally surprised by the interjection. Rose was frowning at him in confusion, while Hartley's eyes held a vulnerable fear that she was loath to be displaying. “What she is?” Rose repeated, not understanding.

“She's immortal now,” he reminded her, voice washing over Hartley like the warm waves of an ocean, and she dropped her head, staring stubbornly at the scuffed grating of the floor as she drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them in a hug. “She thinks that by staying away she's protecting them, and herself, from getting hurt.”

He was right. It was something Hartley had only let herself think in the silence and solitude of the night, curled in bed, flashes of a life long since gone passing behind her closed eyes. She couldn't bring herself to go see them, because in the grand scheme of things, barely a moment would pass and they'd be gone. Maybe it was stupid, but she couldn't bear to sit around and watch them wither and die without her. It wasn't fair, on _any_ of them.

“She's wrong.”

She looked up sharply, meeting the Doctor's eyes. There was a compassion in his gaze that she hadn't expected, one that contradicted his stern words. “Am I now, Spacewalker?” she asked, weak and critical in the same instant.

“Avoiding them isn't the answer,” he said, the conviction in his voice overwhelming. “You should see them while you still can; make new memories, ones you'll be able to keep with you forever.”

“But it will only make saying goodbye _that_ _much_ harder,” she countered.

“Yes,” he agreed solemnly. “It will.”

They faded into silence, nothing but the hum of the TARDIS between them, then Rose stepped forwards, pressing a hand on Hartley's shoulder, a reassuring weight against the emotions crashing through her.

She knew the Doctor was right, in the same way she always knew: deep in her gut. She wished he wasn't. She wanted so desperately to take the easier path of avoidance, it was something she'd always been good at, the craft honed over years and years of practise.

“Rose is right, Hart,” the Doctor said, steady and sure. She looked back up at him, meeting his dark eyes across the console room. “It's time.”

Reluctantly, she turned to Rose, who was staring back imploringly. “But on your birthday?” she whined.

Rose grinned wickedly. “Tea with your parents?” she asked cheekily, tongue peeking out from between her teeth. “It's sure to be full of embarrassing stories. Best present you could give me.”

They let it go quiet again, but it wasn't long before the Doctor could no longer sit still. With a shout of enthusiasm he bolted upright, twirling around eagerly as he began to pilot his ship. “Westminster, right?” he asked, remembering vaguely from all those years ago.

With an unhappy grimace, Hartley nodded, and the TARDIS began to shake from beneath them as they flew through the vortex towards her home. “Anything we should know before we venture into the belly of the beast?” Rose asked lightheartedly, nudging Hartley with a jovial grin.

“Mum's a dragon at the best of times,” she replied, voice carefully detached. “Avoid looking her in the eyes; she might just turn you to stone.”

Rose's grin wavered, suddenly unsure if this was such a good idea, but then the TARDIS landed with a familiar jolt and she knew the decision had been made.

“What year is it?” Hartley asked the Doctor, who was threading his arms through the sleeves of his long brown coat.

“2005,” he told her cheerfully. “A few days after you left for good.”

Casting her mind back to all those years ago, she couldn't help but be surprised that he actually remembered the date.

“Are you sure?” she asked warily.

He looked offended. “Why wouldn't I be sure?”

“Does the time when you accidentally kidnapped Rose for over a _year_ ring any bells?” she asked him dryly, and he grimaced at the reminder. Still, he turned and double checked the date, if only to placate the woman before him.

“Definitely 2005,” he promised her, “now come on; time to face the music.”

“I hate you,” she muttered to him, but he grinned back, utterly unaffected. She led the way towards the doors, her palms slick with sweat at the thought of coming face to face with her family, the one she hadn't seen – from her perspective – for over five years.

“This is going to be good for you,” Rose promised her in the gentle voice a psychologist might use on their patient, and she took a moment to turn on her with a glower that wasn't even slightly terrifying.

Hartley turned back to the doors, rolling her shoulders twice, inhaling deeply, then grabbing the handle and yanking the doors open like she was ripping off a bandaid.

The light outside was nearly blinding. The sun was shining, a rarity for Westminster, but it had clearly only just been raining, as the grass before them was wet with a thin mist of dew. She let her eyes adjust, then once she could see again, she frowned at the house in which she'd grown up. It towered high above them, intimidating in its majesty.

“ _This_ is where you live?” Rose asked from behind her, and Hartley gave a twisted grimace of distaste in response.

“No,” she answered her tightly, the words full of a shameless truth, “I live on the TARDIS.”

Her words were met with silence, and without looking back, she sighed tiredly, knowing she shouldn't have been taking it out on her friends. They were only trying to help.

“This does, however, happen to be where I grew up,” she admitted wryly.

The lawn in front of them was sprawling, large and luxurious, a small path leading up to a tall house, three storeys high, with delicate iron detailing along its windows, walls painted an off-white, eggshell colour. On either side there was another house, pressed up against it, but neither were as well maintained as theirs.

“Is your family noble or something?” Rose asked as she stared.

“No,” Hartley replied thinly. “Just lucky.”

The walk up to the door felt an awful lot like a walk to the gallows. Hartley had to keep swallowing back the feeling of panic that was growing within her, desperate to escape. It had been so long for her, so many years had passed since she'd last seen them. Despite all she knew of time travel, it was still baffling that, to her family, not even a full week had passed.

Reluctantly raising a shaking hand, she knocked three times on the lush timber doors, hoping somewhere in the back of her mind that they'd be out, and she'd be able to slink back into the TARDIS and pretend none of this had ever happened.

Unfortunately, her parent's innate luck didn't seem to extend to her. The door was pulled open by a tall woman wearing a deep olive dress that hugged her curves, slightly rounded with age, painted lips pulling down in a frown at the sight of them.

“Using the back door now, are you?” the pretty woman asked in a derisive sort of sneer. “Too ashamed to be seen coming through the front?”

“Hello to you too, mother,” Hartley replied tartly.

“Who're these, then?” Penelope Daniels asked disparagingly.

“Hello, I'm the Doctor,” the alien of the group introduced himself with a large grin, slipping past Hartley to reach out a hand. Eyeing it for a moment, like she was wondering whether shaking it might make her sick, her mother finally grasped it, allowing him to shake them enthusiastically. “This is Rose Tyler,” he added, and Rose smiled at the woman, waving politely. “We're Hartley's friends.”

“So I figured,” the older woman said snidely. “I suppose forcing you to wait outside would only make the neighbours talk,” she added with a long-suffering sigh. “Well, come inside then, but do wipe your feet on the mat.”

She turned away, stalking back into the house, her high heels clicking loudly against the pristine timber floors.

“Wow,” Rose muttered as she did as she was told. “She's...”

“Not what you expected?” Hartley supplied, thinking that it really was a much kinder description than she deserved.

“I was going to say 'the opposite of you', actually, but I suppose it goes without saying.”

They wandered further into the house, Rose eyeing the large, spacious kitchen with wide eyes, taking in its immaculate state and clean, shiny appliances. Knowing her mother had likely retreated to the sitting room, Hartley wound her way through the halls, the route engrained in her mind like the ability to talk or walk – she could have done it blindfolded.

“You're rich, then,” Rose spoke again, keeping her voice low as they passed beautiful pieces of art hung along the walls, sitting inside pristine, vintage frames.

“My parents are, yes,” she said, the words awfully cliché but nevertheless true.

“And you didn't mention this because...?”

“Because I don't consider it a crucial point of my personality and therefore see no relevance in the topic,” she answered curtly.

“Okay, no need to go all _encyclopaedia_ on me,” Rose replied gently, and Hartley took a deep breath, reaching back to squeeze her friend's hand in apology.

The sitting room was large and pale, everything from the walls down to the furniture a flawless, pure cream. A man was sitting on the far edge of the furthest couch, a set of small reading glasses sitting on his nose, his head buried in that morning's paper.

“Dad,” Hartley said his name like a prayer, the air rushing from her lungs as if she'd been winded. Her eyes began to tear up, burning with the need to cry; a need she so often denied herself.

“Pumpkin!” Jacob Daniels climbed to his feet with a light groan, dropping the newspaper onto the couch beside him and opening his arms out for his daughter to throw herself into. “Where've you been?” he asked, one hand cradling the back of her head. He still smelled like old parchment and cigars, and she melted into his hold, squeezing back with everything she had. “Been trying to get ahold of you for days. Emma said you'd disappeared?”

She pulled back, staring up into his eyes, the same blue as hers – electric and bright.

“I'm okay,” she promised him, and his warm, calloused and moved up to cradle her face gently.

“Then why're you crying, eh?” he countered, chin tilting down so he could look at her over the top of his round spectacles.

Reaching up, she wiped embarrassedly at her leaking eyes. “I just missed you, is all,” she said as flippantly as she could, and he smiled back gently, knowing there was more to it but also knowing when not to push.

“Who're your friends?” he asked suddenly, and she blinked, having forgotten anyone else was even in the room.

She turned back to see Rose and the Doctor standing awkwardly in the doorway, the former smiling gently, the latter grinning away like jolly Saint Nick. “Rose Tyler,” she told him, and her dad smiled at the blonde charmingly, picking up her hand and placing a chaste, gentlemanly kiss on the back of it, making Rose's grin widen. “It's her birthday today,” she added in retaliation, and her dad's eyes brightened.

“I hope Hartley got you something good.”

Rose's hand came up to her new locket, and she smiled back, the expression secretive but still open and happy. “She did,” she assured him, before stepping away so the Doctor could introduce himself.

“I'm the Doctor,” the Time Lord said, stepping forwards and holding out a hand. Her dad took it in his, shaking firmly as he smiled back happily.

“The Doctor?” he repeated curiously. “Doctor who?”

“That's the question, isn't it?” the Doctor responded cheekily, and her father only looked more intrigued.

“So how do all you know one another, then?” he asked, taking a seat back on the couch and gesturing for the others to do the same. Unable to resist, Hartley curled up in the spot beside her dad, smirking at the thought of her mother seeing her with her shoes on the sofa.

“Friends of friends,” the Doctor said casually, waving his hand around vaguely. “Though more _friends_ now than just friends of friends, I s'pose,” he continued with a sniff, and Rose elbowed him quickly in the ribs, knowing how to spot and stop a stream of babble when it was coming.

Her dad didn't seem to think anything of it, however, chuckling as he nodded. That was him, always so easy going, forever unruffled by what lay in his path. “What are you a Doctor of?” he asked curiously, hands clasped over his slightly-protruding belly.

“Oh, this and that,” the Doctor replied cryptically, but her dad only chuckled, finding the alien to be particularly amusing. “What do you do?” the Doctor continued, probably as an attempt to get the focus off of himself.

“Retired, I am,” her dad said jovially. “Used to be a firefighter, though. A Captain, in fact.”

“That so?”

“Jacob!” shouted her mother's voice from the next room before any more pleasant conversation could take place. “The pipes are making that sound again!”

Her dad gave a long-suffering sigh that was played up just slightly for his audience, and the group of travellers smiled. “You don't happen to be a doctor of plumbing, by any chance, do you?” he asked jokingly, only to be surprised when the Doctor tugged sheepishly at his ear.

“Well, I mean, maybe...” he trailed off, turning to Rose and muttering just loudly enough for them all to hear, “do they give out doctorates for plumbing on Earth, or am I getting it mixed up with another planet?”

Her dad had never looked more perplexed, but he was kept from asking what the hell the Doctor was on about by the shout of his impatient wife. “Any day now, Jacob!” Penelope yelled, the sound carrying through the old house like the sharp, unharmonious cry of a bird of prey.

“Well then, since you're so out-of-this-world good with plumbing, why don't you come with me to take a look?” he asked. Hartley rolled her eyes at the lame joke, and the Doctor tugged even harder on his ear.

“I'd be happy to,” he agreed, however. Her dad smiled, standing once again to lead him through to the stairs that led to the basement. Rose, who'd been eyeing a handful of photographs lining the mantlepiece, turned to follow.

“You girls are more than welcome to stay up here and have some tea,” said her dad kindly. “No need to come down into the damp with us.”

“No offence, dad, but I think I'd rather the pair of you had some supervision,” Hartley said, only half joking.

He shrugged, “suit yourselves.”

The door leading to the basement creaked loudly as it was pushed open. It wasn't the familiar, warm sort of creak the TARDIS doors gave, but rather a dark, ominous sort of grinding that made the fine hairs on Hartley's arms stand on end.

Inside was dark, the stairs leading down disappearing into shadow. Her dad pulled on the string of the light and it clicked on, illuminating the staircase in an off-white glow. He led the way down, the Doctor following after and the girls following him. The closer they got to the bottom of the stairs, the more they began to understand what Penelope had been complaining about.

There was a noise coming from the pipes. It was a wheezing, high-pitched, screeching kind of a sound. It made Hartley's skin prickle, the noise as grating as nails on a chalkboard.

“We mostly just use it for laundry and extra storage,” Jacob began as they all made it to the bottom. The room was large and spacious, only a small corner being taken up by boxes, with an expensive looking washer and dryer standing against the far wall. “But I keep my tools down here too, and it's the best place for access to the pipes.”

“Well, let's have a look-see,” said the Doctor brightly, moving to where her dad was pointing. He crouched down by a panel of wall and began to work on removing it to get a good look at the pipes. It was screwed on tightly, however, refusing to budge.

Jacob was digging in a small box off to the side, the sound of metal hitting metal loud against their ears until he came across what he was looking for. “You'll need this,” he said, offering a screwdriver to the Doctor.

“Thanks,” the Doctor said flippantly. “But I've got my own.” He pulled his sonic screwdriver free from his bottomless pockets, holding it up with a triumphant grin before aiming it at the screws.

It buzzed, the sound familiar and comforting, and the screws began to unscrew themselves, dropping one by one to the concrete floor with a soft ping. “What's that, then?” asked Jacob, eyes wide as he watched the scene before him.

“Sonic screwdriver!” crowed the Doctor proudly. Jacob only looked more confused.

“You know, I don't think I've ever seen you use that thing on _actual_ _screws_ before,” said Hartley around a small smile she couldn't have helped if she'd wanted to.

“First time for everything,” murmured the Doctor as he finally pulled the panel off the wall, revealing the pipework within. Without the panel there to muffle the sound, it was suddenly extremely unpleasant. Like an incessant ringing, it shrieked away. Hartley had never heard them make that sound before. But, then again, it had been a long time since she'd lived under that same roof. “How long have they been making this sound?” the Doctor asked her dad curiously, sonic aimed directly at the thickest of the pipes, a large copper one that stood out from the rest.

“About three months now,” he replied, reaching up to run a hand down his dusting of grey stubble. “It's been on and off. Doesn't seem to have any particular trigger. I've taken them apart myself, and when that didn't work, I phoned a plumber. He couldn't figure out what was wrong, either. He suggested we completely replace the system – but this house is so old, you see. It'd cost more than a pretty penny.”

While Jacob was talking, the Doctor had been busy sonicking the pipes. He shoved his glasses onto the bridge of his nose and eyed the readings critically, frown knitting at his brow.

“Have you been drinking the tap water?” he finally asked, looking up from over the top of the lenses of his 'clever specs', as Rose and Hartley called them.

“Once it's run through a filter.”

“Hm.”

“Hm?” echoed Hartley, arms crossed over her chest, worry beginning to grow in her chest. It was like vines latching at her insides, threading their way through her system like weeds. “What's wrong with it?”

She was expecting – or maybe just hoping – for him to say it was something perfectly normal. Maybe some kind of chemical reacting with the copper, or an issue with the pressure of the water. Instead, what came from his mouth was the opposite of normal.

“Your pipes are infected by something called an Aquabrute.”

Apart from the piercing whistle of the pipes, the basement was filled with stony silence.

“Is that some kind of fungus, then?” her dad finally asked, voice wary and confused.

“It's much worse than a fungus, Jacob,” said the Doctor gravely. “It's a life form.”

“Oh God,” muttered Hartley, dropping her face into her hands and cursing her luck. She was concerned, sure, but mostly she was just mortified. An alien life form in her parent's pipes? Could this get any madder? Her dad was going to think she'd joined some kind of science fiction _cult._

“A life form?” echoed Jacob, perfectly calm. “What do you mean?” He didn't seem ready to have them committed just yet, but she could tell he was skeptical.

Glancing up at the same moment the Doctor looked over at her, Hartley met his stare with one of her own. He was asking for permission. Sighing heavily, she crossed her arms again and asked grimly, “how bad is it?”

“On a scale of kittens to a Dalek?” he asked smoothly. “Probably about Cybermen.”

“Oh, fantastic,” she muttered, about ready to slam her head as hard as she could against the wall. It might render her unconscious, but that would probably solve at least 10% of her current problems, so it was looking pretty good.

“What do we need to do?” Rose spoke up, straight to the point. “Are we in any danger?”

“Yeah,” confirmed the Doctor grimly, “we are.”

“Sorry, what's an … Aquabrute – and why are we in danger, exactly?” asked Hartley's dad, more out of his depth than she'd ever seen him.

The Doctor turned back to Hartley, utterly expectant. She didn't need to wonder what he was trying to convey – she could see it in his eyes. He needed to know if he could tell her dad everything, or at least as much as he needed to know for the situation they were in.

Hartley was more than reluctant. The last thing she wanted was for her family life and her travelling life to collide. The very idea scared her senseless. In her head, they were two separate entities all together. One was where she'd come _from,_ the other where she was _going._ The two should never meet. It was simply unnatural; counterproductive.

But this was her family's life on the line. Who knew what would happen if she said no, that the Doctor couldn't tell them about all of this? Would she be killing her family? Killing her _dad?_

So, it was with a heavy heart that Hartley released her reservations and nodded her head. “Okay,” she told the Doctor in a sigh, giving him the permission he was looking for. In some part of her mind she was grateful that he'd asked for her permission at all.

“It's an alien life form,” said the Doctor immediately, utterly straightforward.

“And by _alien_ you mean...?” Jacob's question trailed off, voice dying into nothing as he stared back at the Doctor expectantly.

“Extraterrestrial.”

Jacob frowned, considering what he was being told, and whether he could believe it. “What makes you say that?” he finally asked, sounding about as skeptical and wary as could be expected.

“I just know,” replied the Doctor, attention split as he ran the glowing blue tip of his sonic up and down the length of the copper pipe.

“Know _how_?”

“I'm very clever.”

Jacob wasn't satisfied by this response, turning to look at Hartley expectantly, as though hoping she might be able to shed light on the crazy coming from her strange new friend's mouth. “He's...” she trailed off, unsure how to explain. “Very clever,” she finished lamely.

“You can't just repeat what he said,” argued her dad. He wasn't angry, just confused and so far out of his depth he was practically treading water in an effort to survive. “That isn't a proper answer, Hartley. What's going on?”

“This should be a relatively simple fix,” the Doctor interjected before she could gather her wits enough to piece together an intelligent answer. “I'll need some equipment from the TARDIS, however. Rose, with me; Hartley, you deal with your dad.”

“And tell him what?!” she asked shrilly, watching helplessly as the Time Lord turned and made a beeline for the stairs.

The Doctor didn't answer, and she only just barely kept from making a rude hand gesture at his retreating back. Rose shot her an apologetic look as she too turned and scurried up the staircase after the Doctor, leaving Hartley and her dad in the first awkward silence they'd ever experienced together.

“Honey,” he began, slow and steady, voice full of a thousand unanswered questions, “what exactly is happening right now?”

Hartley took a deep breath of stale basement air, hoping it would help, only to be disappointed when it didn't. Her father had always been a kind soul, and he offered her a comforting smile even despite his own internal storm of confusion.

“How about you start by telling me exactly who those people are?” he tried again, offering her somewhere to begin, for which she was grateful.

“They're my friends,” she answered, no word of a lie. Her father's eyebrows rose, but he didn't react with disbelief, so she barrelled on. “We've been travelling together for a while now. Well, kind of. There was a bit of time where I was in Victorian London with my brother Jack, but apart from that, the Doctor, Rose and I have been travelling together through time and space.”

Her father was completely and utterly silent, staring at her without saying a word. She couldn't quite read the expression in his eyes. Maybe it was skepticism, maybe it was disbelief, maybe it was outright concern, but she could barely even hear the ringing of the pipes over how loudly her heart was beating in her ears. She swallowed, throat dry under the sudden pressure.

When she'd woken up that morning, this was _not_ where she'd expected to end up.

“Are you feeling okay?” her dad finally asked, stepping forwards with an outstretched hand that he pressed to her forehead, checking for a fever. She smothered a hysterical laugh and turned away, beginning to pace the spacious area of her childhood home's basement.

“I know it sounds crazy,” she said weakly. Her voice was breathy and faint, but there was no going back now, all she could do was plough on ahead and let the chips fall where they may. “I know it sounds illogical and insane and downright unbelievable, but it's _true._ ”

“What? That you've been travelling with these people through time and space?” he asked dubiously. “Darling, I only saw you the other morning. You were running late to a meeting with your editor but you still stopped by to drop off my favourite breakfast. Don't you remember?” he asked gently, like she were nothing but a fragile doll.

The worst part was, she struggled to remember. It had been so long ago for her, years and years. The day he was speaking of was an entirely different _life_ for her. So long ago it almost felt like a dream she were trying to grasp at with bare hands.

“You don't believe me,” she said instead, disappointment lacing her tone.

Her father immediately looked apologetic. “I think you've been working yourself too hard, Hart,” he said compassionately. “You're running yourself into the ground. You need to take some time for yourself, get some new scenery. You've always wanted to travel.”

“But I _have_ been travelling, dad,” she interjected. “That's what I'm trying to tell you. I've been travelling. For a long, long time,” she said, voice raw with emotion.

He looked uncomfortable now, and her insides twisted as though somebody had grasped them like a wet towel and wrung it out. How could she make him understand? What could she do to prove to him that she wasn't crazy?

The door to the top of the stairs burst open, and the Doctor all but tripped his way down into the basement. Hartley turned, taking in his frazzled appearance and the large, fire engine-like hose he held in his hands, sonic held precariously between his teeth. The thick blue piping of the hose travelled all the way back up the stairs and to the left, disappearing around the corner.

“Okay, I've got a solution,” he announced brightly once he'd taken his screwdriver out of his mouth. “This is attached to the TARDIS. It's an old firemen's hose,” he said with a grin at a still reeling Jacob. “Got the idea from you,” he added happily. “Basically it'll suck the Aquabrute infestation from your pipes into this, then subsequently into the TARDIS, where I can keep it safe until we have a chance to drop it back off on its home world. Now, Hartley, I need you to make an incision––”

“Now, hold on a moment!”

The Doctor's monologue was cut off by her father's sharp interjection. He paused, surprised by the interruption, turning to look at the man with wide eyes.

“I don't know what you've done to my daughter, but it stops this instant,” he said with as much force as he could muster. Jacob wasn't a particularly stern person, he never had been, so his attempt to be so now was borderline laughable. Hartley chewed on her tongue, eyes flickering between the two important men in her life warily, wondering how this would end. “I mean it, mister. I think it's best if you and your blonde friend just go.”

“Mr Daniels, it's rather important I get this Aquabrute from your pipes. Not only is it compromising the integrity of the house itself, but it's rendering the drinking water––”

“I won't have this any longer,” he said, voice shaking with his emotion. Hartley struggled to identify it immediately, but after a moment she understood what it was. Her dad was scared.

“ _Dad_ ,” she said with a whole lot more strength than he would ever manage. He turned to look at her in surprise, eyebrows nearly touching his hairline. “Let the Doctor do this. Either it doesn't work and you prove we're a bunch of crazies, or it does work and we prove we're not. It's fifty-fifty. Pretty good odds, wouldn't you say?”

She knew how to talk his language, that much was apparent when he wilted. Eyes still narrowed into suspicious slits, he clearly knew his daughter had a point, stepping aside and gesturing reluctantly for them to continue with their half-hatched plan.

Putting aside her own emotional turmoil, Hartley spun around to look at the Doctor front on. “What do you need me to do?” she asked, readying herself for the task to come, whatever it may be.

The Doctor hesitated only the briefest of moments, warm brown eyes flickering between the father and daughter before he ploughed on ahead, producing a small device from his pocket. “It's a laser pointer,” he explained, “but in quite the literal sense. Use it to cut a hole this big in the copper piping,” he said, showing her the end of his newly acquired hose. “You need to be quick, or it'll escape.”

“What happens if it escapes?” she asked gingerly.

“You'll be the only one to walk out of here alive,” he replied without hesitation, and she swallowed, nodding that she understood.

“Rose?”

“In the TARDIS, finger on the big red button that'll trap the Aquabrute safely,” he explained. “We've got to do this now, before it moves on to some other end of the house and we lose it.”

Hartley nodded, turning to face the pipe and holding out the small laser pointer, its end aimed at the copper pipe which she now knew to be holding danger within.

“You ready?” the Doctor asked from behind her.

“Always,” she promised without second thought.

“Are you really?”

“Without fail.”

Then, like it were a hidden command, she pressed the button and began to cut into the piping with the laser. The ringing sounds of the pipes suddenly tripled, becoming more of a pained screeching than a ringing, and Hartley had to resist the urge to cover her ears.

The hole she cut was wonky and misshapen, but it was the right size nonetheless, and the Doctor leapt onto it, shoving the end of his hose over the opening. The piercing sound only grew in volume, and he winced, struggling to hold the hose in place.

Acting quickly, Hartley leapt on it too, placing her hands over the Doctor's for extra pressure. Then, just when it seemed like the piercing sound was going to make ears bleed, a lump roughly the size of a basketball appeared in the hose, moving quickly along its length as it was sucked upwards towards the TARDIS.

“Keep holding it!” the Doctor cried over what could only be the nefarious alien's screams. On and on the hose rattled, but the screams slowly grew quieter, until they were but a dim humming in the distance. Finally the hose stopped vibrating with the creature's movements, and the Doctor waited an extra few seconds before nodding to her, telling her it was fine to let go.

They released their hold, Hartley's fingers numb from the position. Cracking her knuckles in the hope to regain feeling, she turned to her dad, taking in his ghostly pale complexion and wide eyes.

“What was that?” he asked weakly, voice trembling with that same fear it had held before.

“Aquabrute!” exclaimed the Doctor in a contrastingly cheerful voice, already winding the hose up and beginning his journey back towards the stairs that would eventually lead him to the TARDIS. “Nasty little things they are. Perfectly normal for one to be found on Earth every now and again. Human pipework is the perfect place for them to hide. They love it, small and dark, full of moisture. Usually once someone calls a plumber they get scared by all the rattling and move on. This one must have been awfully persistent. Or maybe she just liked the old copper; it's a rarity on their home world, after all.”

Her poor dad just stared back wordlessly.

“Come on, let's get this back to the TARDIS,” the Doctor continued.

“You keep saying that word,” her dad said. “TARDIS. What does it mean?” Certainly a strange part to focus on, but Hartley was just glad he could manage to speak at all after what he'd just seen.

“You'll see,” said the Doctor mysteriously. “This way. Off we go.”

He turned and traipsed back up the stairs, looking for all the world like a man who _hadn't_ just rescued a dangerous alien that had been hiding in her family's pipes. Hartley stepped closer to her dad, winding an arm through his and leading him up along the Doctor's path.

“Hartley,” he said as they stepped out into the afternoon air, the rare sunlight beating down on them warmly, like a balm to the shock he'd experienced. “What's going on?” he asked, silently begging her to tell him the truth. Little did he know, she already had.

She didn't answer him immediately, continuing to lead him down towards the back of their sprawling lawn where that familiar police box sat, its seemingly wooden surface glinting deep blue in the sunshine.

“What's that box doing there?” asked Jacob faintly.

“That's the TARDIS,” she explained, coming to a stop beside it and pausing for a moment, knowing that this was the exact moment – the moment when everything changed; when her worlds would collide. “Step inside,” she encouraged him softly, tapping her fingertips against the smooth, blue exterior.

“Inside?” he repeated, struggling to understand. “But it's just a box.”

“Trust me?” she asked, gentle and hopeful.

“You know I do.”

“Then step inside.”

He took a deep breath, squeezing her hand like he were gathering courage from her touch, before pressing a hand to the door and pushing it open. He disappeared from view as he entered the ship, hidden behind the doors, but Hartley was only waiting a few short seconds before he was bursting back into view, eyes round with shock.

He gaped at the apparently small box in bewilderment, trying desperately to wrap his head around what he was seeing.

“Once you've come to terms with it, come inside,” Hartley told him with just a small smile, pushing open the door and stepping through herself. It swung shut, but she knew her dad needed time to process what he was seeing. Alone.

“Think he'll say it?” asked the Doctor excitedly.

“I hope he says it,” chirped Rose.

“They always say it,” Hartley told them evenly, a small smile growing on her lips. “What happened to the Aquabrute?” she asked in the same breath.

“Stored in the depths of the TARDIS,” their pilot answered cheerfully, idly fiddling with one of the many controls littering the console. “She'll be safe there until we take her home,” he assured them.

“She?” Rose asked in surprise.

“I'm assuming, judging by the smell,” he replied flippantly.

“The smell?” Rose questioned, but the Doctor didn't have an opportunity to answer. The door creaked open, and the trio of travellers all turned to look at Hartley's dad as he tentatively shuffled back inside the ship, the look on his face utterly gobsmacked.

“Alright, Jacob?” asked the Doctor kindly.

“It's...bigger on the inside,” the man managed to wheeze out, and Rose and the Doctor high-fived in response. Hartley ignored them and instead smiled sympathetically at her dear old dad, whose eyes were darting around the console room like he didn't know where to look first.

“I know it's a lot to take in,” she told him gently.

“What is it?”

“It's called the TARDIS––” the Doctor began to explain animatedly.

“If it's all the same to you, Doctor, I'd prefer to hear about it from my daughter,” said Jacob, not quite cold but certainly stern enough to cause the Doctor to nod sheepishly. He turned to Hartley, whose mouth grew dry under his old, intelligent, painfully familiar eyes.

“TARDIS,” she began slowly, leaning back against the railing, feeling the ship pulse within her head, like she were trying to comfort her in the only way she knew how. “It stands for Time and Relative Dimension in Space.”

“But what does that _mean_?” he asked, imploring. He was scared, and he wanted answers. “What _is_ it?”

“It's a ship,” explained Hartley tentatively. “It … travels places.”

“Travels where?”

Hartley couldn't bring herself to say it, too afraid because she knew once the words left her lips there would be no going back. She cleared her throat, eyes dropping meekly to the grating of the floor.

“It travels anywhere in the whole of space and time,” the Doctor answered for her, and she sighed, relieved somebody had said the words she couldn't.

“It travels in _time_?” asked her dad skeptically.

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

The console room was filled with a near stifling silence, and Hartley forced herself to look up from the floor and over at her dad, whose eyes were narrowed as he digested the impossible before him.

“How?” he finally asked, a perfectly reasonable question, if not slightly besides the point.

Hartley didn't know the answer – she wasn't even totally sure the _Doctor_ knew the answer – so instead she just simply said, “it's alien.”

Her dad's brow furrowed, and he stopped his perusal of the TARDIS to turn and fix her with a serious frown. “And how exactly did it come to be in your possession?” he asked, nothing if not articulate. Rose sometimes told her she sounded like a walking encyclopaedia, but surely she'd have had to have gotten the trait from somewhere.

The side eye that Rose threw her let Hartley know she too had made the connection. Both girls hid a small smile.

“That is a _very_ long story,” Hartley told her father, stepping up onto the main walkway of the floor and pressing a hand against one of the large coral pillars that appeared to hold up the ceiling. It thrummed under her touch, and she turned to look at her dad who was still standing by the doors, staring at them all in pure befuddlement.

“Considering this is a time machine,” he said, utterly dry, “I'd say we have the time.”

The Doctor grinned, and she got the horrible feeling that the pair of them were going to get on _too_ well, which was just about the last thing she needed. The idea of the Doctor and her dad becoming best mates was about as appealing as sticking her own hand in a blender.

In retaliation, Hartley turned to the Time Lord grinning away like an idiot and announced that, “he's an alien.”

Her dad reacted better than she'd assumed he would. His eyes didn't bulge and he didn't drop to the floor from a stroke born of sheer shock. Instead he merely stared, eyes sweeping the Doctor up and down, as though checking for patches of green skin, or webbed feet, or some kind of other telltale sign that he wasn't from Earth.

“You're an alien?” he asked, skeptical.

“Alien as they come,” the Doctor confirmed with a calm nod.

Jacob's eyes narrowed. “You look human,” he said critically. The Doctor only smiled, a secretive little smile that made Hartley want to roll her eyes. “Where're you from, then?” he continued when the Doctor didn't reply.

“You wouldn't know it,” the Doctor replied.

“Try me,” countered Jacob.

Another amused smile toyed at the Time Lord's lips. “Gallifrey,” he answered with none of the usual pain in his voice. Hartley found herself feeling oddly proud, like he was growing, moving on from the past that haunted him so.

Her dad's mouth pulled down in a frown. “I don't know it,” he confirmed unhappily, and Rose laughed easily from her place beside the Doctor. Hartley managed a smile, her heart still racing from the reality of the situation, from the collision of her two worlds. “So, what's your con, exactly? You kidnap well-mannered, unsuspecting young women and cart them off in your funky little time machine?” her dad continued, sounding mightily unimpressed and ever so slightly judgemental.

“Funky?” the Doctor echoed indignantly, apparently the only thing he'd gleaned from the man's words.

“He didn't _kidnap_ me, dad,” Hartley cried, growing frustrated. She wasn't sure what she'd expected, but overprotective and dubious was probably about right. “I'm here of my own volition.”

“You've only known him for a few days!”

“I've known him over _five years_!” she argued.

“Then how come you never told me about him?” Jacob demanded, not angry but quite obviously hurt. The father and daughter were close. As far as he was aware, they told one another everything.

Hartley fell suspiciously silent. She knew she couldn't say the truth, it would only hurt him more. But the thing was, this wasn't a question she could get away with not answering. He deserved a reply, he deserved the _truth,_ even if she couldn't bring herself to mutter the words.

“Because five years for her has only been about three days for you, Jacob,” the Doctor said it much like a human doctor would deliver heartbreaking, no-hope news to a dying patient. It was quick but kind, said with an aged compassion.

Now Jacob was silent, gaping at the Time Lord as he struggled to wrap his mind around what they were telling him. His eyes flickered back over to Hartley, whose eyes now glittered with pained tears. “That's not possible,” he eventually said, the words coming out choked and strained.

“Time machine,” the Doctor reminded him, matter-of-fact.

A sadness overtook him as he stared at his daughter, his little girl, who he now saw looked far, far older than her mere twenty-five years – but that wasn't right, was it? “You're thirty?” he breathed.

“Had my birthday a few weeks ago,” she confirmed, shaky and weak.

“You don't look any older,” he murmured idly, eyes roaming her frozen features, seeing no difference in her face other than the shadow of pain and the shine of wisdom in her luminescent eyes.

She lifted her shoulders in a vague shrug. The last thing she wanted was to keep any more secrets from him, but she had a feeling that telling the truth about her relatively newfound immortality might have very well broken her old dad's heart. “Guess I have good genes,” she said as lightly as she could manage.

There was a pregnant pause, one that quickly grew uncomfortable.

“Hartley, why don't you take your dad back inside?” the Doctor suggested with a subtle but pointed glance down at his bare wrist. He was getting antsy and wanted to get going, that much was clear. “The Aquabrute is gone, no need to worry. Definitely safe to drink the tap water again,” he continued, stepping forwards to shake the slightly taller man's hand, a friendly smile on his face.

Her dad didn't seem to know how to respond, shaking back as though on autopilot.

“It was lovely meeting you, sir,” said Rose, taking the Doctor's place once he moved on and giving the older man a gentle hug. “I see where Hartley gets her charm.”

Again, Jacob said nothing, still processing the situation before him. Rose's smile wavered, unsure how to proceed. “Come on, dad,” said Hartley, stepping forwards and winding her arm through his. “We've got a lot to talk about.”

“Damn right we do,” he muttered back to her around his scowl, turning and reluctantly heading for doors.

“I'm going to stay with him for a while; answer his questions,” Hartley told them as they paused at the doors. The Doctor opened his mouth like he very much wanted to argue, but Rose elbowed him sharply in the ribs, and he quickly changed his tune, nodding in acceptance. “You two can go for chips or something if you'd like. I'll call Rose later when I'm ready to be picked up.”

The Doctor nodded, glad for the out she'd given him. “See you in a few hours,” he said, already turning away to begin his usual dance around the console, setting a course for his intended destination.

Rose stepped closer to her friend, concern on her face. “You sure you're okay?” she asked, voice low to give them the illusion of privacy, Hartley's dad still standing just behind them. “I can come with you, if you want,” she offered.

“I've gotta do this alone,” Hartley shook her head. “It's only fair.”

Rose smiled, the expression sympathetic. “I'll save you some chips,” she promised, and Hartley reached out to squeeze her hand in thanks before waving vaguely in the Doctor's direction and leaving the ship with her dad.

The sun was still shining when they stepped out into the crisp Westminster air. The doors shut behind them, and Hartley dragged her dad back a few steps, giving the TARDIS plenty of space to dematerialise.

Jacob gaped at the big blue box as it faded from view with a loud, jarring groan, like metal cogs grinding together, or a car with the handbrake still on. If there had been any lingering doubt in him that none of this was real, it evaporated along with the TARDIS.

He swallowed loudly, and Hartley looked up at him in lingering concern. “You okay?” she asked softly, patting him squarely on his chest, a tender, familiar gesture that made her feel at home.

“I think I need a cup of tea,” her dad said bluntly, and she couldn't help but laugh, hugging his arm tighter and beginning to lead him back towards their unnecessarily large house.

They didn't speak as Hartley set out making them some tea. It surprised her how much she remembered. She knew, from what could only be muscle memory, where they kept the mugs and the teaspoons and the raw sugar. Making tea with a regular kettle and not the futuristic one they had on board the TARDIS was strange, but it was also nice, familiar in a nostalgic sort of way.

It wasn't until Hartley was pouring the boiling water into their matching novelty father-and-daughter mugs that anyone finally spoke.

“Five years,” her dad said, a pain in his voice that twisted at her insides. He was upset, and she tried not to speculate too much on why. “Why didn't you ever come back?” he asked, so sad, like he thought maybe it was his fault she'd been gone.

Hartley took her time preparing her answer, going through the motions of stirring small heaps of sugar into their tea, chewing carefully on her words. “At first it was just impossible. I was...stuck, in a sense. It wasn't a bad thing. I wasn't there against my will, as such, but getting home was tricky. Then I was maybe, sort of trapped in the 1870's for awhile there,” she added in a burst, rather like ripping off a bandaid. “But now I'm here,” she finished decisively.

She handed her dad's mug off to him with a sunny smile, overcompensating just a little, although she didn't plan to admit it. He looked kind of faint, taking his mug and gulping down the tea within as though it wasn't still scoldingly hot.

Concerned, Hartley took the now half-full mug and gently removed it from his hands, placing it delicately on the counter in front of him. He looked up at her with sadness in his eyes, and she felt her insides ache with guilt for having been the one to put it there.

“ _Five years_?” he eventually said again, but this time it was a question. “How could you could just...leave your life? Leave your job, your friends and family? Weren't you _happy_?”

“ _The secret to happiness is freedom... And the secret to freedom is courage.”_

Her dad's expression dropped as his eyes moved to the depths of his tea. “Thucydides,” he said, understanding just as she'd expected him to. “You didn't feel free?” he asked, gripping his mug like a lifeline.

“There was just one thing after another, everything exactly same, day after day filled with reality television and meetings to go to and chips to eat. It was incessant, and boring, and soul sucking.” The words poured from her like a torrent, and she did nothing to stop them.

It was something she'd barely ever admitted to herself, barely ever allowed herself to think about, let alone speak about it. But it was true, every word, and saying it aloud felt like she were lifting the burden of it from her very shoulders, making her lighter than she had been in years.

“But that's life, darling,” her dad said quietly.

“But don't you ever think you were meant for _more_?”

“Everyone does,” he replied, both gentle and brutally honest. “But no one ever is.”

Hartley disagreed. “ _I_ _am_ ,” she told him.

He frowned, considering her answer and the conviction with which she said it. “What do you do, then, with this Doctor? What's the point of him? Does he have a job to do? Are you some kind of assistant?” he asked, desperately trying to make sense of it all.

Hartley smiled a little ruefully. “There's no _point_ to it,” she told him with a soft chuckle, taking a deep and satisfying sip of tea before continuing. “There's no job or task or project. It's just about living life to the fullest. It's about having _fun_.”

“So, what is it you do, then? Go tenpin bowling every other Saturday?”

He really didn't understand, and the whole thing was charming in the way only her old dad could achieve. “Dad, that blue box goes _anywhere_ in the _whole_ of space and time,” she said, slow as to make sure he understood every word. This was a difficult concept for him to wrap his head around, and she hurried to explain. “I've met Charles Dickens,” she told him in a gushing whisper.

Her father's eyes went wide, mouth dropping open into an 'o'. “No,” he gasped, letting go of his grip on the mug to grasp at her hands. She gripped him back, grinning so wide she was sure her face would split in two.

“Since travelling with the Doctor, I've been everywhere from World War II to the end of the Earth itself. I've seen pre-revolutionary France and I've met Amelia Earhart. I've eaten seaweed on Neptune and banana waffles on one of Jupiter's moons. We've visited spaceships and planets and walked on worlds where the grass is pink. And the thing is, all of that is only the tiniest, _tiniest_ hint of the full scale of magical, wonderful, impossible things that this universe holds – things that I can go and _see_ for myself. And dad, the truth is, I never want to stop.”

Jacob was silent, listening to her talk with a newfound understanding in his eyes. Once she was done, he weighed his words for an extra moment before asking, perfectly mild, “but _should_ you stop?”

That was her dad, always straight to the heart of the matter. He was so good at seeing past the bullshit most people coated everything with and looking at what mattered, at what was _worth_ talking about.

She smiled, the expression tinged with a sadness for him. He didn't understand, and he likely never would. Not fully. “I don't think I can,” she told him honestly.

“Why not?” he challenged.

She cocked her head gently. “Do you think I should?”

He paused, considering. “I think it's been five years since you've been home, Hart,” he said, quiet and heartfelt. “Who knows how long it will be next time? Or the time after that? And what if, one day, you never come back at all? What if you die in some unreachable time and place, and I never, ever know about it?”

Hartley felt guilt thrum through her veins like a poison. She took another deep sip of her tea, letting it calm her from the inside out. “Dad, I can promise you with a hundred percent certainty that that won't ever happen,” she told him sincerely.

“You can't promise any such thing,” he argued softly, attempting to look stern about it. “Nobody knows when their time is up, Hartley. Nobody.”

She caught his hands again, gripping them with everything she had as she met his eyes, her promise shining in her own. “Dad, I can't tell you how or why, but I promise I'm not going to be dying any time soon. Or ever, even,” she added flippantly.

He gave a humourless chuckle. “I suppose that's a good attitude to have about it,” he said dryly, misunderstanding.

She knew she couldn't convince him, not without telling him the truth. But the idea of being that honest, the thought of breaking his heart like that, was far too much to bear. So she just selfishly remained silent, patting his hands before moving back, drinking down more of her tea.

“What now?” he asked her after a while of companionable quiet. “You go back to that Doctor and his box?”

“And Rose,” she replied, a fond smile sitting on her lips. “She's one of the best friends I've ever had.”

“Are they good to you?” he asked suddenly, worry glinting in eyes that were so identical to her own.

Hartley traced her fingers around the lip of her mug, considering the question. The answer was obvious; of course they were. They were her family; maybe even more so than her own had ever been. But she knew this answer would only hurt her dad, and that was the last thing she wanted to do, instead falling silent as she contemplated how to answer in a way that wouldn't cause him pain.

“The Doctor wasn't always,” she finally admitted, voice quiet as she realised the truth in her words. “At first he was cold and, quite frankly, rude,” she recalled with a grim kind of smile. “We've always bickered, ever since we met. I think, at first, he didn't really trust me, didn't want me around – he'd just come from his own hell, so it was understandable.”

Her dad frowned in confusion, and she leaned closer to relay the next part in a soft voice. It wasn't something the Doctor liked talking about, and it wasn't her story to tell, but she had to explain some of it, in order to help her dad understand.

“There was a war,” she revealed gently, still tracing her fingers around her mug. The tea within was beginning to grow cold, but she didn't care, so lost in her words. “The last Great Time War, the Doctor says. It was against his people and this race called the Daleks.” She grimaced around the name of those loathsome creatures. It tasted like ash in her mouth. “They all died,” she said, like ripping off a bandaid. “All of his people; gone. He's the only one left. The last man standing in a war to end all wars.”

Her dad was silent, sipping his cooling tea as he carefully considered his daughter's words. She wondered what was going through his head, wondered if he disapproved, or if he was pitying the man who'd just saved their house – and quite possibly their lives.

“But now?” he asked, turning his eyes up to stare at her imploringly, like his peace of mind hinged on her answer.

“Now he's my friend,” she replied, an automatic response. Her dad nodded like he fully accepted this answer, but there was still a glint of wariness to his eyes.

“And you trust him?” he pressed.

Her next words held little meaning, considering her new state of being, but nevertheless she said them, meeting his stare with a sincere one of her own. “With my life.”

Her dad smiled, a familiar, gentle expression. One that, although she wasn't an artist, she could have recreated on paper with perfect accuracy.

“I asked you before if you weren't happy in your old life,” he began, finishing off his tea and pushing it off to the side. Hartley copied the action, her tea left mostly untouched. “Are you happy in this one?”

Hartley didn't need to think about it, the answer came as easily as breathing. “Yes,” she said, the words genuine in an instinctual sort of way.

He nodded, understanding and accepting. “That's good,” he told her, even through the shine of his eyes. She smiled, reaching across them once more to take his hands in her own.

“It is good,” she agreed, and he attempted a smile in reply.

“Will you ever come back home?” he asked, patting her hands again, grateful for the gesture. There was a sadness in his eyes, like he honestly expected her to tell him this was the last they would ever see of each other. Hartley had already said a permanent goodbye to one family member, she wasn't about to say it to another.

“So much you'll get sick of me,” she swore, meaning every word.

A frown appeared on his face, the kind that she knew meant he was being too clever for his own good. “Hold on; you were gone for five _years_ , and yet it's only been _days_ for us – I don't want to have to watch you grow old,” he said, genuine worry on his face. Hartley understood why the thought was unappealing.

“I promise that won't happen,” she told him, knowing the words couldn't have been more true.

“How do you know?”

She smiled, the expression secretive and kind but hiding a torrential pain that she swore would never be set free. “I guess I just do.”

Father and daughter sat in their kitchen all day, making more tea and discussing Hartley's adventures in detail. There was so much to talk about, so many suggestions of people to meet and places to go and so, so many stories to tell. And Hartley knew that even if she wasn't happy in her old life, she was happy in this one – the one where her dad was there with her, and when he wasn't, she was travelling through time and space with the very best of her friends.


	25. The Diamond Factory

“ _It's not that diamonds are a girl's best friend,_

_but it's your best friends who are your diamonds._

_It's your best friends who are supremely resilient,_

_made under pressure and of astonishing value._

_They're everlasting; they can cut glass if they need to.”_

Gina Barreca

* * *

“Come on, can't you just make an exception?”

“No.”

“I'm going to find out anyway, what does it matter if it's a few years too early?”

“Hartley, I'm not letting you read it. Be mature about the whole thing.”

“Because getting the TARDIS to hide her copy is _so_ mature.”

“I'm preserving the integrity of the future-”

The pair's immature squabbling was brought to a sudden stop when the door to the fridge was pulled open, its creak echoing throughout the room. They turned to look, surprised to see Rose bent over inside the fridge, rooting around for the milk. They'd been so wrapped up in their argument that they hadn't even heard her come in.

“What're you two bickering about now?” she asked through a sleepy yawn, one hand scrubbing at her tired eyes.

“The Doctor won't let me read the last Harry Potter book,” Hartley complained, very aware that she sounded like a petulant child complaining to her mother, but also wholly unwilling to care.

“You can read it when you've caught up with the release date,” he argued back stubbornly.

“What does that even _mean?_ I live on the TARDIS – and we don't exactly keep track of linear time.”

“Doctor, just let her read the book,” Rose said in the tone of an utterly overworked parent. “What's the harm?”

“ _What's the-_?” the Doctor balked, hackles rising in defence. “I can't just let you two go rummaging about in the works of the future. Who knows what could happen? I have a code, I have a _responsibility_ -”

“Since when has that stopped you?” Hartley mumbled, and the look the Doctor sent her in response was anything but impressed. She shot him back a sugary sweet smile that made him huff, and from across the room Rose rolled her eyes once more.

“So, where to today, Doctor?” she asked, voice light in an attempt to defuse the tension.

It seemed to work, and the Doctor's expression cleared, replaced by his usual excitement and zest for life. “It's a surprise,” he said, a wicked glint to his eyes.

“Come on, you know I don't like surprises,” Rose complained, but it was weak at best, and the Doctor only grinned.

“You'll like this one,” he promised, but Rose didn't look convinced. “Go get changed out of your jammies,” he ordered them both. Hartley did as she was told, standing to her feet and gulping down the last of her tea. “Wear something warm. Where we're going, there's going to be snow.”

“Snow?” Hartley echoed eagerly. It felt like it had been yonks since she'd last seen snow. In fact, the last time she could remember was during the winters in her time on Earth with Jack. They would bundle up after a big blizzard and go down to the park, spending hours making snowmen and throwing snowballs at one another without a care for the era's uppity sense of propriety. It had been, in a word, beautiful.

In the here and now, the Doctor gave a secretive smile. “You'll see when we get there,” he said, nodding for them to go.

The girls met at the door and wound their way through the TARDIS' intricate network of corridors, splitting off after a moment to go to their separate rooms. Hartley showered quickly, then dressed in some thermal pants and a thick sweater and jacket, shoving her feet into some boots and running a brush through her hair before hurrying back out to the control room.

The Doctor was alone, staring at the monitor in deep concentration, his glasses slipped low on his nose. Hartley was struck with the strangest sense of 'home' in that moment. Seeing the Doctor there, in his natural environment, it struck a chord within her.

She remembered a time when she hadn't thought she'd ever get back here again, a time when she'd thought for sure that she'd never again stand in the TARDIS' console room, watching the Doctor go about his day. Granted, back then, she'd longed for a Doctor who was all buzzed hair and big ears, but the point still stood.

She was only standing in the doorway staring at the Doctor (this one all spiky hair and tight suits and a mischief that was a brilliant as it was unfamiliar) silently for maybe a minute, but then Rose brushed past her with a casual, “all right, Hart?”

Shaking her head to clear it, Hartley gripped the cuffs of her jumper and gave a smile. “Bit distracted today, I s'pose,” she said with a shrug, and Rose smiled, idly toying with the zipper of her winter coat.

The Doctor bounced upright once they were both in sight, a bright smile on his handsome face. “You two ready?” he asked them eagerly.

“Come on, Doc,” Hartley prompted him. “Where've you taken us this time?”

He slipped his arms into the sleeves of his long, Janis Joplin coat, while at the same time bounding down the ramp towards the doors with all the grace of a newborn puppy.

“There's a solar system – roughly thirty-nine thousand lightyears away from yours – that gets colonised by humans in the 63rd century,” he began to explain, adjusting his collar and stopping at the doors, turning back to peer at them excitement. “The main planet, _Jukkilu_ , has two moons. The first one, named _South,_ is mostly barren. There're some small colonies there, mostly farmers and hermits. The other one, however, predictably named _North,_ is one of the most famous moons in this quadrant of the galaxy,” he babbled, still not opening the doors, saving it for the big reveal.

“Okay, I'll bite,” Hartley said, sharing an amused smile with Rose. “Why?”

“Because it holds the universe's first – and only – diamond factory!” he crowed, yanking open the door with a theatrical flourish.

A sudden blast of freezing cold air slammed into the three of them, and Hartley shut her eyes against the sting of the icy wind. “Diamond factory?” Rose asked once she'd recovered from the assault, stepping out onto the moon called North. “How can there be a diamond _factory_?”

“Yeah, don't diamonds take billions of years to form?” Hartley added, stepping out after them, letting the TARDIS doors shut behind her with a creak. They were on a hill, and the moment her feet touched the ground they sank several inches into the fluffy white snow covering the moon's surface.

The hill overlooked a massive, looming building. Hartley assumed this was the factory, but it looked nothing like one. It was all sleek and modern, made from thickened glass and shiny metal panelling. The only thing keeping it from looking utterly harmless was the tall fencing surrounding it, the wound wire reminding Hartley starkly of a prison.

“They do,” the Doctor answered Hartley's question, tucking his hands into his pockets and beginning to waddle his way through the snow, down the steep hill that led towards the looming factory. “But in this century, they've found a way to speed up the process by the power of, _well_ , a couple hundred million or so,” he explained as they walked. “They can make diamonds here in under a day.”

“But then they're not _real_ diamonds,” argued Rose from his other side, hands held out for balance as she carefully shuffled down the incline. “They're just manufactured.”

“Ah, but see, they're not,” the Doctor said brightly. “That's the brilliance of it – they _are_ real diamonds. Not a fake atom in them.”

“I don't understand,” said Hartley, teeth chattering from the cold, the boots she'd unwisely chosen doing very little to keep the chill from her toes. “How could they be real?”

“You cook something in the oven, it takes longer than it would in a microwave, right?” the Doctor said, and already she was beginning to get it. He was good at that – putting it in terms she could understand. “That's all they've done; found a way to cook up a diamond in a microwave.”

But she still wanted to know more. “How?”

The Doctor grinned. “You'll learn all about it,” he promised her as they approached a gap in the fencing, “we're about to get an all-access tour to its inner workings.”

“How d'you figure?” Rose shivered against the biting temperature.

The Doctor only held up the psychic paper, which flapped a bit in the breeze, and Rose understood immediately. The guards at the entrance were holding large, threatening guns, and Hartley cringed at the sight of them.

“Can we help you?” asked the woman who Hartley assumed to be in charge. She held the biggest weapon of them all, and her hat was a different colour to the others'.

“Yes, hello,” the Doctor greeted her brightly, like they were old friends. “I'm the Doctor, this is Rose and Hartley,” he said, gesturing to each girl in turn. The lead guard didn't so much as blink in reply, but the Doctor's grin never wavered. “I think you'll find it all here,” he continued, holding up the psychic paper for her to see.

Suspicious, the woman let go of her grip on her gun to take it from him, assessing it with critical eyes. “Investors?” she read off the paper, seeing whatever it was she needed to see. She glanced back up at them cautiously, not sure she believed them. “We weren't told of any investors coming in today.”

“Yes, well,” the Doctor replied, taking back the paper and slipping it into his pocket, “bit of a last minute decision. Head of operations gave us an open invitation, said we can come along any time to take a look at the inner workings and the merchandise,” he lied with an ease that came from centuries of experience.

The woman's eyes narrowed again. “You know Mr. Cline?” she asked sharply.

The Doctor nodded emphatically, so Hartley and Rose hurried to copy him. The woman's hands returned to her gun, gripping it tightly. Taking the initiative, Hartley stepped forwards. “Would you mind letting us through? It's awfully cold out here,” she said with her sweetest, most innocent smile.

The woman grimaced, thinking for a moment before she lifting her fingers to her ear and pressing. “Mara, are you getting this?” she asked sharply into what Hartley could only assume was a comm unit. There was a pause, then the woman barked at them to, “hold your credentials back up to the camera.”

Hurrying to obey, the Doctor held the psychic paper up to a small camera that was hooked over the edge of the fence. Everything was silent, and then the woman with the gun frowned.

“We'd really like to take a look at the merchandise,” said the Doctor, smooth and simple. “I think it's important for you to note we have _very_ deep pockets,” he added cheekily, and Hartley had to grin at the double meaning behind his words. If only she knew.

He glanced over at his companions pointedly. “Right, yes,” Rose agreed with a sharp bob of her head. “We're very rich.”

“ _Very_ rich,” Hartley added emphatically.

Another pause, then the woman nodded to someone they couldn't see. “Alright, head through, Doctor,” she said, a lot more polite than she had been before. She stepped aside, waving them through the tall gates towards the sleek, clean factory looming overhead.

A man wearing what looked like a bellhop's uniform opened the doors for them, and the moment they stepped inside the building they were enveloped by a warmth that had them all sighing with contentment.

“Welcome! You must be Ms. Daniels, Ms. Tyler and Mr. Doctor,” said the man with a large smile that was just too perfect to be anything but fake.

“Boy, word travels fast,” puffed Rose, dusting the snow from her arms.

“Just – it's just the Doctor,” their Time Lord companion corrected the bellhop with a small grimace, and the girls exchanged a hidden smirk of shared amusement.

“Right, of course,” the man said, stumbling just a little over the strange monicker, “Doctor.”

“And who might you be?” asked the Doctor brightly, reaching out with a beaming grin to take the younger man's hand, shaking it enthusiastically.

“Uh, Atkins, sir,” said the bellhop in surprise. Having somebody ask his name probably wasn't something that happened very often in his line of work.

“Atkins,” crowed the Doctor like it were his favourite name in the universe, and he was grateful for a chance to use it in conversation. “Lovely name. Like the hat,” he said, finally letting go of his hand to tap playfully at the small, red cap that sat atop Atkins' mop of inky black curls.

Atkins didn't seem to know how to respond, staring at the Doctor in sheer bemusement. Hartley figured that the type of people who visited this establishment never behaved anything like the Doctor usually did. She had a feeling they were in for something of a wild ride.

Pulling himself together, Atkins smiled. The expression was a little less perfunctory and a little more perplexed, Hartley noted with amusement. She watched as he turned and swept a hand in the direction of the door at the far end of the room.

“If you'd like to follow me, I'll take you through to Mr. Cline,” he said politely.

“Nah, none of that,” said the Doctor brashly, waving his hand as if to swat away the suggestion. “We want the grand tour – and something tells me you're just the guy we should be looking to.”

Atkins blinked in surprise. “Me?” he asked weakly. Clearly they weren't following the carefully put together script that his typical clientele stuck by.

“Yeah,” the Doctor dragged out the word, making it sound like more syllables than it really was. He reached out, clapping Atkins on the shoulder like they were the best of friends. “Come on, show us around!” he said encouragingly.

Atkins looked torn. This wasn't in his job description.

“We just want see the process; learn everything there is to learn before we talk to anyone about investing,” Hartley supplied, sensing the Doctor's goading wasn't quite doing the trick. She pasted on her sweetest smile, and the poor bellboy – who couldn't possibly have been any older than nineteen – blushed a bright pink.

“Of course,” he said once he'd recovered, clearing his throat and looking away. “Well, if you'll follow me, we can begin in the minting room.”

There really wasn't a lot to the factory that they were shown. Atkins led them through the areas accessible to the public – all of which were nothing but pretty, pointless tidbits to show the tourists.

“The actual diamonds themselves, of course, are made down in our underground facilities where the heat and pressure of the process can't do us any harm,” Atkins explained patiently.

“So, what, you've got some sort of volcano down there?” asked Rose.

“I can't go into detail about our process, but rest assured, there are tonnes upon tonnes of metal and concrete, keeping us all safe from the rather violent methods used to create these priceless little stones,” said Atkins, like some kind of television advert.

Mostly it was all just little gift shops filled with the kinds of jewellery that would cost more than Hartley was ever likely to be able to afford, and a few meeting rooms and restaurants where the diners could overlook the snowy gardens as they enjoyed their meals and waited for their customised pieces to be completed.

Hartley was a little disappointed that they couldn't see more, and she didn't expect the Doctor to settle for it, either. Atkins led them through to the main room, where jewellers and salespeople sat at desks, the whole set up looking a lot like a typical, everyday bank back on Earth.

“Now, I can leave you in one of our associates' very capable hands to overlook our collection––” Atkins began to say, still just a little bit awkward as he gestured with a white-gloved hand towards the rows of desks, most occupied while just a few were left empty and unattended.

The Doctor opened his mouth and Hartley was certain he was going to make an excuse that would allow them to slip away and explore their off-limits areas to their hearts' content. Only, the words never had a chance to leave his mouth.

There was a bang, one so loud that Hartley's ears rang with it, and then the shattering of glass that made everyone scream, followed by a loud yell in a gruff voice that made Hartley's blood run cold.

“Everybody stay still, put your hands on your head, and shut up!” the voice bellowed, the sound of it echoing throughout the large, cavernous room. Hartley whirled around to stare at the newcomers, realising with a start that the bang had been a gunshot and the shattering of glass the broken skylight in the ceiling above them.

There were three of them, all wearing black with their faces hidden by intricate masks. In their hands were large, automatic weapons. Hartley felt a wave of panic come over her, but swallowed the feeling down. There was no time for her to freak out. She had to stay focused and alert if she wanted to help get them all out of this alive.

“Just what do you think you're doing?!” demanded a short man with round glasses and a pink suit, storming up to the trio like a stern parent who'd caught his child doing something they'd been told not to.

The intruder didn't even hesitate as he slammed the butt of his weapon into the man's face, breaking his glasses and sending him to the shiny marble floor with a cry of pain and a splash of scarlet blood. Hartley gasped, already beginning to move to his side.

Before she could get anywhere a hand caught on her arm, gripping tightly and keeping her from moving. She glanced back at the Doctor, who met her eyes and calmly shook his head. Glancing back at the injured man, Hartley was relieved to see him conscious and alert.

“This is a hold-up!” shouted the masked man in the centre, the tallest of the three, voice raised over the nervous titters of the crowd. “As long as everyone keeps their mouths shut and does _exactly_ as we say, nobody's gonna get hurt. Am I clear?!”

The room went still and silent. Nobody dared answer.

“ _Am I clear_?!” he roared, and there were some scattered yelps of assent that he took to be good enough. “Everybody over there!” he ordered them sharply. Again, nobody moved a muscle, but instead of yelling he simply cocked his gun with a chilling crack, and as one everybody scurried to the end of the room he'd pointed to.

Hartley wasn't sure what to do and so turned to look at Rose and the Doctor. Rose's eyes were wide with shock, while the Doctor's were narrowed with anger. “What do we do?” Hartley asked him in a quiet whisper.

Hartley could tell the Doctor was assessing his options, eyes dark and stormy, flickering from one end of the room to the other like he were taking note of all the exits in sight.

“What he says,” he finally murmured, each of his hands gripping one of theirs as he gently herded them towards the other hostages.

Hartley realised with a roll of unwelcome nausea that that was what they were now: _hostages._

“Come on,” the Doctor said, utterly calm as he guided them over to the far wall, where the others filling the room had all congregated as ordered.

“Doctor,” whispered Rose, eyeing the three men with the guns nervously.

“It's okay,” he assured her, urging her more firmly into the group, like if he got her to the back of the crowd she might be safer.

His other hand gripped Hartley's, dragging her after them. She spied Atkins pressed against the wall, eyes wide and teary, and she pressed her lips together, trying to keep her emotion from spilling out of her in any way. The last thing they needed was for her to get so riled up that she did something utterly stupid.

“Everyone on the ground!” barked another one of the robbers (because what else could Hartley call them?). This one was the shortest, however strongly built and stocky. Quickly the group of hostages all lowered themselves to the floor, and the room went silent. Hartley was sure she would have been able to hear a pin drop.

The robbers all met across the room, guns trained on the group on the floor. It was a silent but present threat, reminding everybody not to try and be a hero. Then again, the Doctor never had been very good at doing as he was told.

“What about the guards outside? And for all its security, this place _must_ have some kind of alarm system or something?” whispered Rose, squinting at the trio of criminals warily. “So how'd these guys get in?”

“I don't know,” the Doctor whispered back. “We didn't hear any other shots fired, so the guards outside are either already dead … or somehow they have no idea these men are here.”

“How is that possible?” Hartley asked, quiet and confused. “You saw this place from the outside; it's built like a prison. There's no way they just waltzed in, especially not with guns that big.”

“I don't know,” he whispered back, eyes flickering between the three intruders. Hartley could practically hear the cogs turning away in his mind, searching for an answer, for a solution that made sense. “Maybe they teleported in,” he finally said, but that was a big 'maybe'.

“But they're just _standing_ there,” hissed Rose, staring at the three of them critically.

And she was right. All three armed robbers were hovering around a desk, muttering to one another angrily, almost like they were having some kind of argument. “They don't appear to have much of a plan,” Hartley agreed. She knew enough from watching procedural dramas during her university days to know that criminals without plans were by far the most dangerous of them all.

“What kind of people break into a place like this without a plan?” whispered Rose, a hint of suspicion on her face.

“Desperate ones,” Hartley answered her, the words almost an instinct. Rose shifted her head to frown at her, and the Doctor's brow was furrowed in thought.

“So?” asked Rose after a solid minute of silence, the only sounds filling the cavernous room the hostages' terrified sniffles and the robbers' hissed argument from across the room. One of them, the shortest, had his gun still aimed at the group of innocent humans, so nobody would dare put a toe out of line. “What're we going to do?” she whispered, eyes flickering between Hartley, the Doctor, and the trio of criminals.

The Doctor sucked in a deep breath, then exhaled sharply. “I dunno,” he told her honestly, looking uncharacteristically lost.

“Well, they said that if we do as we're told, nobody's going to get hurt,” Hartley supplied, a weak note of hope clinging to her voice.

“So we sit back and do nothing while they _rob_ the place?” Rose hissed, eyes narrowed. “We can't stand by and do nothing.”

“Well, we're not exactly swimming in options, Rose,” she whispered back, glancing behind her to where one of the hostages, an older man in a suit, was clutching a cross around his neck, eyes shut tight as he whispered a prayer to the heavens.

“Shh,” the Doctor hushed them abruptly, and they fell obediently silent. “Look,” he said softly, staring upwards with laser-like focus. Confused, Hartley and Rose slowly followed his line of sight until they reached the ceiling.

The window that one of the men had shot out had left a large hole in the ceiling, but something about it wasn't right. It took them a moment to figure out what. “The snow isn't falling through,” Hartley breathed. It was hard to see with the backdrop of white clouds, but the little flakes of snow were frozen in midair, as though somebody had hit pause on nature itself.

“I think we're in a time dilation field,” the Doctor whispered, eyes alight with the thrill of the problem set out before them.

“Time dilation field?” Rose echoed in confusion.

“Like a bubble, an area within which the time moves either faster or slower than in the space surrounding it,” the Doctor explained in a hurry. “Clearly they've rigged it to encompass the building, so everything within moves faster than the outside.”

“That's why the snow looks frozen,” Hartley realised with a nod. “Because from our point of view, it's moving so slow it's not even moving at all.”

“Exactly,” the Doctor murmured, staring at the gaping hole in the ceiling, eyeing the frozen snowflakes with a frown.

“But why?” Rose asked. “What's the point?”

“Well, for one thing, no radio waves or signals can get out of the field. Nobody in here can trip an alarm, or call for help.”

“And the guards outside are probably frozen too,” Hartley surmised with a nod, beginning to see the situation for what it was.

“The whole universe is,” the Doctor said, “relatively speaking.” His big eyes scanned the room, brilliant mind already whirring away behind them, searching for a solution, one that got everybody out of this alive and unharmed.

Finally the trio of robbers spun around, having apparently come to some sort of decision. They strode towards the group of terrified hostages, the large guns in their hands getting scarier the closer they got.

“Which one of you is the manager?” asked the tall one, the one Hartley gleaned was in charge. There was a tense silence, nobody answering. From behind his black mask, his eyes glittered with dangerous frustration. “I asked a question!” he snarled, taking a threatening step forwards, and a woman behind Hartley gave a small yelp of terror.

“He's not here!” squeaked one of the hostages, and everyone glanced over to look at the man, small and meek looking with large front teeth, seeming to tremble where he sat. “He's away on business,” he continued, tears in his eyes. He was quite clearly terrified, but being as brave as he could under the circumstances.

The tall robber's eyes hardened. “Then who's next in charge?” he snapped, voice like a razor's edge, sharp and deadly.

The same terrified little man sniffled and reluctantly admitted, “that would be me.”

One of the other robbers, the one that was mid-height, reached down and grasped the trembling man by the collar of his shirt, yanking him roughly to his feet and shoving him in the direction of the back of the room.

“Great,” said the tallest one, dark and anything but cheerful. “Then you can open the vault.”

The man in the suit gave a terrified little squeak, eyes watering heavily, stumbling when they shoved him again in the direction of the far wall.

Hartley followed their line of sight, but she saw nothing but a long stretch of wall, no vault in sight. “But there's nothing there,” Rose whispered, saying exactly what Hartley was thinking.

“Look again,” the Doctor whispered back. “There's a perception filter on it, but it's there.”

Hartley narrowed her eyes, concentrating on the bare stretch of wall. A small ache began to build behind her eyes, but she pressed on and blinked. Opening her eyes, she was met with the sight of the vault. It looked like one at a bank, large and and made of shining, glistening silver.

The small, sniffling man turned around, eyes wide with horror. “But – but I can't,” he stammered around his little sobs. “I don't know the combination,” he told them shakily.

The trio of robbers were deathly silent for one haunting moment, before the tall one lifted his gun so the barrel was aimed directly between the trembling man's eyes. “You're lying,” he said, voice like the snow frozen above them, icy and cold.

“No – I'm not, I swear!” cried the man in the suit, lower lip wobbling in terror. “Only the manager knows the combination. Nobody else is allowed!” The robber stepped closer so that the barrel of his gun was now pressed against the man's forehead. Hartley's heart was in her throat. “I'm telling the truth. I swear to you, I'm telling the truth.”

“Doctor,” Hartley hissed at her Time Lord companion, pulse thudding in her ears. “You have to do something.”

He'd been lost in thought, lost in a wave of timelines and planning, but at her words he snapped to attention, springing to his feet like a jack-in-the-box, hands shoved into his pockets. “Hi. Hello. I'm the Doctor,” he said brightly, and the tallest of the three criminals turned away from the crying worker, one of the others grabbing him by the scruff and holding tight.

“You'll sit back down if you know what's good for you, _Doctor_ ,” the tall one spat his name with condescension.

“Let's say, for argument's sake, that I _don't_ know what's good for me,” drawled the Doctor easily. “What're you gonna do?” he asked, not goading but rather utterly innocent. The tall one didn't seem to know what to say, not having expected to be challenged so blatantly. He faltered, staring back, gun aimed in their general direction, but it was more of an afterthought than anything else. “Leave the man alone,” the Doctor ordered the gunmen, leaving no room for argument. It was a command, a warning, one they'd be stupid not to listen to.

“And just who the hell are you?” hissed the tall one sharply.

“I told you,” he replied simply. “I'm the Doctor.”

“Doctor of what?” snapped the gunman.

“Everything,” he replied like it were an instinct, and immediately Hartley knew it was the wrong thing to say.

The tall one lifted his weapon so it was aimed directly between the Doctor's twin hearts. “Sit back down and shut up before I put a bullet in your chest,” he threatened darkly, but there was something to his voice that made Hartley doubt it, a hesitation, or maybe a reluctance, one she didn't fully understand.

The Doctor merely rocked back on his heels, utterly unperturbed. He cast his eyes back up to the ceiling, to the still snowflakes that were the blatant proof of the time dilation field they were all stuck in. “Time dilation field,” he said simply, and the grip the gunman had on his weapon tightened. “That's pretty advanced stuff. You can create a time dilation field but you can't get yourself into a vault?” he asked, and Hartley recognised with a frustrated huff that _now_ he was goading them. He was having _fun_.

“How do you know––?” the lead robber tried to ask, but the Doctor spoke over him.

“Oh, I'm _very_ clever,” he said easily, a pride to his voice that made Hartley roll her eyes again.

She saw the idea light up in the man's dark eyes. “Clever enough to get that vault open?” he asked slyly.

The Doctor didn't react, merely rocking on his heels again, considering. “Let the man go,” he finally spoke, voice full of a casual nonchalance that surprised them all. Nobody but Hartley and Rose could understand his demeanour. Nobody else knew that, despite appearances, he had everything under control.

“Or what?” asked the head gunman, like a child testing their limits.

“Or I won't help you,” he replied, plain and simple.

The tall man was scowling under his mask, Hartley could tell by the crinkle to his eyes. He jerked his head at one of his associates, and the one holding the innocent man let him go, shoving him none-too-gently in the direction of the rest of the hostages.

The man stumbled, but the Doctor caught him, steadying him as he trembled and gently lowering him to the ground. Hartley expected the robbers to go for the Doctor next, but instead the one in charge simply snarled, “don't move,” and turned away, stalking back to the others to converge in yet another whispered discussion.

“Are you okay?” Hartley whispered to the terrified man, who by now was trembling so violently that she could hear his teeth clacking together.

“They can't get inside the vault,” the man hissed, gripping the Doctor's lapels, staring up at him with wide, teary eyes.

“What's your name?” the Doctor asked patiently.

“Patrick,” he replied without blinking, then leaning in and repeating fervently, “ _they mustn't get into the vault_.”

“Patrick, with all due respect, it's just a few diamonds,” the Doctor whispered back, steady hands pressed to his quaking shoulders. “They're not worth your life.”

“You don't understand,” the man, now known as Patrick, hissed back, eyes wild with desperation. “Diamonds aren't the only thing in that vault.”

The Doctor's expression turned serious. “What else is there?” he asked, severe.

Patrick just about choked on his own tongue. “A weapon,” he whispered almost silently, like it were the biggest secret in the history of mankind. Like if he got caught saying it aloud, somebody would materialise and kill him on the spot.

The Doctor's eyes darkened. “A weapon?” he repeated lowly. “What kind of weapon?”

“Alright, _Doctor_ ,” the tallest gunman spat the name derisively, and Hartley knew they were out of time. She pushed herself up, gently grabbing Patrick's shaking hands and pulling him carefully down to the floor. He sat down with a groan, then dropped his head into his hands like all hope was lost. “You said you'd help, so help,” he continued sharply, jerking his gun in the Time Lord's direction.

“I'm going to need more information, first,” said the Doctor easily.

“This isn't a negotiation,” snapped the gunman.

“Isn't it?” he replied smoothly. The Doctor didn't move from where he was standing, hands tucked into his pockets, probably in an effort to look as innocent and as unthreatening as possible. “What's inside that vault that you want so much?” he asked casually, like they were discussing it over coffee.

“None of your business, that's what!” snapped one of the other men, the shortest one, an edge of unmistakeable fear in his voice.

“Shut up, Stefan,” hissed the medium-sized one.

“Ooh,” sang the Doctor, rocking on his heels once again. “Touchy.”

“It's a diamond factory,” muttered the leader in a deadpan, gun still aimed smack-bang in the centre of the Doctor's chest. “What do you _think_ we're after?”

“Well, I mean, the whole thing wasn't very well thought out, was it?” he replied. Even behind their masks, the robbers looked perplexed. “I mean, yes, you've got the time dilation field, but beyond that... No plan? You didn't even know the manager wasn't here. And now you're relying on a hostage to open the vault for you?”

“You looking to get shot?” snarled the one of medium height. The sound of his gun cocking echoed throughout the room, just as scary as any real bullet might have been. All the hostages flinched.

“By all means,” drawled the Doctor, seemingly without a care. Rose tensed from beside Hartley, but even still, they knew a bluff when they saw one. “But I'm your only chance of getting that vault open, and you know it. So killing me wouldn't be a very clever thing to do now, would it?”

The criminals all exchanged long stares, their guns aimed carelessly at their group of hostages, though none of them seemed about to pull the trigger.

“Okay,” the tall one finally said, stepping closer and moving the end of his gun downwards until the barrel was aimed between Rose's eyes. “So we can't kill you, but we can kill your little girlfriend,” he sneered as though with this move alone, he'd won.

In a sudden move that surprised all of them, the Doctor swept to the left instead of the right. This wasn't particularly life-changing, however was strange for the fact that _Hartley_ was the one the Doctor rushed to protect, rather than Rose. Confusion sprung into the robber's eyes before he changed targets, aiming at Hartley instead, taking the Doctor's bait as well as any fish.

“Don't hurt her,” the Doctor begged the head of the trio of criminals, placed in front of Hartley as though to shield her from harm.

Hartley glanced over at Rose, who looked just as stunned by the unexpected action. Since when was _Hartley_ the one the Doctor was rushing to protect? They all knew she could take care of herself, after all. Or that, if she couldn't, at the very least she couldn't be killed.

“Jackson,” sneered the leader. “Get the redhead.”

The robber of medium height strode forwards, shoving the Doctor out of the way and grabbing Hartley roughly, yanking her to her feet and away from her friends. “Ouch,” she cried at his iron-like grip around her arms, sure to leave bruises, “watch it!”

But her complaints went completely ignored.

The one called Jackson dropped his hold on his weapon. It hung lifeless over his shoulder by its strap, but then he produced a second gun, this one a smaller pistol, and held the barrel to Hartley's temple. His other arm was wrapped around her body, holding her to him tightly, giving no chance for escape.

“There,” said the leader, whose name was still unknown, a gleam of smugness to his dark, just-visible eyes. “We have your woman.”

“Well,” puffed the Doctor, “guess you've got me tied then. Either I help you break into this vault, or you kill my companion.”

“Exactly,” sneered the leader victoriously, like he were the smartest man in all the lands. Hartley didn't understand these people, didn't understand their motivations or the reasons for their actions. They didn't exactly seem like your typical criminal masterminds.

“Well,” the Doctor said again, “we'd better get on with it.”

He turned, heading over towards the vault on the far side of the room, ignoring Patrick's dull cry of dissent from behind him. Hartley desperately hoped the Doctor had a plan – one that _didn't_ end with her getting her brains blown out all over these spotless walls. This place looked too expensive to sneeze in, let alone die in.

Hartley knew the Doctor would likely be able to open the vault with the help of his sonic screwdriver – providing it wasn't a deadlock seal, she supposed – but he made no move to retrieve it. Instead he wandered over to a panel on the wall and began to toy with it, but Hartley could tell it was just a ploy to buy them more time.

“So, why d'you want the diamonds, anyhow?” he asked their captors blithely as he ripped out a small bundle of blue wires and began to randomly attach them to others wires in a pattern that Hartley would have bet on having no real purpose.

“Why does anyone want diamonds?” sneered the one named Stefan, looking at the Doctor like he were an idiot.

“Well, as I said before,” the Doctor replied, utterly at ease despite the barrel of the gun still held to Hartley's temple. The metal was cold and hard against her skin, and her heart was racing within her chest, but on the outside she remained cool. “You're far more disorganised than the usual bank robbers. Beyond the time dilation field and the big guns, you don't really have anything else going for you, do you?”

“Shut up,” snapped the leader, gun aimed at the alien in not-so-subtle threat. “Stop talking and just open the damned vault.”

“But it just doesn't make sense,” the Doctor continued, utterly heedless of the danger he was in – the danger _she_ was in – as per usual. “Surely there are easier ways to get your hands on some money. Why _this_ factory? Why _now_?”

“None of your business,” barked Stefan, but there was an unmistakable tremor of nerves to his voice. He was trying hard to hide it, but these sort of things rarely got past Hartley.

“Unless there's something in there you need – something you can't get anywhere else,” the Doctor carried on, unbothered by the threat they were under. He gave up all pretences of pretending to access the vault, turning around to face Stefan, one eyebrow cocked in question. “What is it, eh?” he asked, voice like liquid steel, strong and unyielding, yet also somehow pliable at the same time.

“Shut him up!” snapped the leader, whose name they still didn't know, and Stefan let his arm fly, knocking the Doctor clear across the face with the butt of his gun. The Doctor's head snapped to the side and Rose let out a sharp cry from behind them all, but thankfully nobody paid her any mind.

The Doctor stayed where he was for a moment, and then turned his face back towards them. Already a bruise was forming on his jaw, but Hartley knew from experience that it wouldn't stay there for long. They were alike, in that way. “Is someone making you do this?” he pressed on stubbornly, and Hartley wanted to groan aloud at his sheer, brave stupidity. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“I said _shut up_!” roared the leader, losing his cool like a soap bubble being popped. Spittle flew from his lips, and he reached out, wrenching Hartley out of Jackson's grip, one hand locked tightly around her throat, cutting off her air supply. And if that wasn't enough, he pressed his own gun to her head, another of his endless threats. “You have to the count of five to open that vault, or I'm going to blow her pretty little brains out,” he told the Doctor darkly, no word of a lie.

“Why do you want to get into the vault?” the Doctor asked, rather than react in any way to the threat. That was when Hartley really began to get nervous.

“Five,” said the leader, his gun pressed to her temple. The fingers around her throat tightened needlessly, and she automatically reached up to try and prise them off.

“I know it's not about the money, not about the diamonds, so what is it?” the Doctor pressed.

“Four,” sneered the psychotic leader. His grip tightened to the point where it was getting hard to breathe. Hartley's face began to tingle, skin going a blotchy red.

“I can't let you into that vault. But whatever's inside, it's not worth this. It just isn't,” the Doctor tried to reason with him. But Hartley could tell they were well beyond reason. They might have even been beyond saving.

“Three,” her captor said, and the sound of his voice rattled through her body as loudly as a bullet itself. She shuddered, panic building within her.

“Doctor!” Rose hissed desperately from somewhere to her right, genuine fear in her voice.

“You don't need to do this!” the Doctor begged him, slowly growing desperate. He'd lost control of the situation – it wasn't something that happened often, and that it was happening now scared Hartley more than the imminent death she was about to experience. “Talk to me, let me help you. We can find a way to fix this. You won't get into trouble!”

“Two,” the man holding her said, pressing the barrel harder against Hartley's temple. Beginning to grow lightheaded, she absentmindedly thought that the pressure was going to leave a mark on her skin.

She met the Doctor's eyes across from her. They were wide and full of desperation. She was going to die, and yes, she would wake up, but the fact of the matter was she was _still going to die._ She took a deep breath, as much as she could around the fingers clasped around her throat like a vice, savouring the ability to breathe, to see, to think _._

The Doctor's eyes were saying something, something he couldn't say out loud, but he was saying it all the same.

_I'm sorry._

She wanted to forgive him, wanted to tell him it was all right – but this could have been avoidable. It needn't have come to this. He'd put her in this position, and now instead of opening that bloody vault, he was letting her die, just on the off chance that whatever was in that vault was worth her life.

In her last moments, forgiveness wasn't something she thought about, nor was contempt. She simply thought about the cruelty and unfairness of the cold, callous universe, and how if it had been Rose in her place, that vault door would have been opened long ago.

“One––”

“Wait!”

The man with the gun pressed to her temple froze, and no boundless darkness came. It took her brain a moment to catch up – she'd been so sure she was going to die, so sure the Doctor would willingly let her perish. But instead he'd stopped them, and when her eyes locked onto his form she found him holding out the sonic screwdriver, remorse in his eyes; like he regretted letting it get this far.

“I'll open it,” he continued, resignation splayed across his familiar face. Hartley exhaled shakily around the hand gripped her throat.

“Go on, then,” snapped the one holding her captive – the one whose name she didn't even know. Across from them the robber called Stefan was grimacing, gun held in a shaky hand. He looked truly, properly scared, and Hartley wondered why that was.

The Doctor met her eyes again, and she stared back, a frown crinkling her brow. Expression giving nothing away, he turned to the vault, reluctantly holding the sonic screwdriver to the lock.

“No!” shouted the man from before – Patrick – eyes wild with panic. He stood to his feet, desperation on his face. “You can't!” he cried. “I won't let you!”

There was a bang, the sound jarring and sudden, making Hartley's ears ring painfully. For a brief moment she thought it might have only been a warning shot, and that nobody had been hurt. But then she had to watch with sharp horror as Patrick fell to the floor, a bloody wound appearing just to the right of where his heart would lay.

Rose gasped, moving from where she was and flying to Patrick's side. She pressed her hands to the wound, but Hartley knew there was little that could save him now – that is if he wasn't dead already.

The Doctor looked downright murderous. Hartley wasn't sure which of the three robbers had fired the shot, but she supposed it didn't really matter, in the end.

“You didn't have to do that!” the Doctor bellowed, fury coating his voice.

“Open the vault _right now_ or this one dies!” the leader hissed back, cold barrel of his gun pressing once more to Hartley's temple.

The Doctor glared. “Fine,” he said, the word thick with bitter abhorrence. There was the familiar buzz of the sonic, the metal of the vault glowing blue, and then the sound of sophisticated locks and mechanisms unlatching before the vault door opened with a low creak.

The leader's grip on her throat loosened slightly, his relief palpable. “Jackson, you stay out here, keep an eye on them,” he said with a jerk of his head at the hostages. “Stefan, you're with me. Bring that one with you,” he added, jerking his gun in the Doctor's direction.

The Stefan gripped the Doctor by the arm, gun pressed threateningly between his shoulder blades. The leader began to walk Hartley towards the vault, and she reluctantly went with him, glancing quickly over her shoulder to look at Rose where she sat over Patrick's still form.

There were tears in her eyes, her hands coated with thick, crimson blood. When their eyes met Rose shook her head grimly, and Hartley turned away, something close to hatred curdling in her gut.

“You go in first,” the leader ordered his second-in-command, and Stefan nodded sharply, obediently leading the Doctor into the depths of the vault. The leader waited outside as Stefan and the Doctor shuffled inside, and Hartley got the feeling that he was using them as guinea pigs, checking for any booby traps that may be lying in wait.

Nothing happened, and he finally felt safe to walk through after them, all but shoving Hartley over the raised lip of the entrance.

Her jaw dropped open as they stepped inside the vault, very nearly blinded by what she found within.

Millions upon millions of diamonds filled the cavernous vault, dumped in great, haphazard piles like some naturally occurring phenomenon. The lights above them were warm, bouncing off the glittering mounds of perfect diamonds, bright and satisfying to the eye.

But neither Stefan nor the leader seemed interested in the diamonds, passing them by without so much as a glance. They each led their hostage through the vault, sidestepping the piles of jewels as if they were nothing but an inconvenience.

They finally came to one large, towering pile of diamonds, one wider than all the rest. The leader gave Hartley a rough shove. She nearly tripped to the floor, but she was just relieved to not have him touching her any more.

Turning back to his task, he jerked his gun in the direction of the pile. “Start clearing away the diamonds,” he ordered her shortly.

Hartley was confused. “You mean, put them in a bag for you...?” she asked hesitantly.

“I mean _clear them away_ ,” he snapped. She figured he knew what he wanted, and she wasn't about to question him further. She cast a careful glance over at the Doctor, who was still being held at gunpoint by the skinny, scowling Stefan. The Doctor slowly nodded his head, and Hartley took a deep breath before moving forwards and burying her hands in the mound of sparkling jewels.

The stones were cold to the touch, coming in all manner of shapes and sizes. Some were pointy and rough against her skin, others already perfectly cut into beautiful little teardrop shapes. Still unsure what she was doing, Hartley could only do her best to brush the diamonds out of the way like leaves from her parent's yard on an autumn day.

Everything became clear, however, when a few minutes into her task her hands suddenly brushed something hard and smooth.

“I found something,” she said aloud, and there was the ominous cocking of a gun from at her back.

“Uncover it,” snapped the leader in his rough, grating voice. “Now!”

Doing as she was told, Hartley kept on brushing at the priceless jewels like they were nothing but waste until finally she unearthed a decent-sized black box.

It came to about her knees in height, with a steampunk-looking sort of mechanism on the front in lieu of a traditional lock.

“Back away from it,” the leader ordered her, and she could do nothing more than comply. She stepped back next to the Doctor who had so far remained silent, taking it all in with dark, intelligent eyes.

The leader shuffled forwards, leaning down over the mysterious box, face hidden from their view.

“Stefan,” he snapped, and his second-in-command hurriedly joined him, seeming to forget all about guarding the Doctor.

“What's going on?” Hartley whispered to the Doctor, watching the pair of criminals carefully.

“I'm _guessing_ that's the weapon Patrick told us about,” he whispered back.

“So, what are we going to do?” she hissed, hoping to heaven that he actually had a plan.

Instead of answering, the Doctor stuck his hands deep into his pockets and began to saunter forwards with all the ease of a man in total control. Hartley wondered whether it were possible to bottle that kind of confidence. “So that's a weapon, eh?” he asked the robbers with a pressing curiosity. Stefan and the leader looked up from where they were struggling to open the box, scowls on their faces. “Looks to me like a neoclassical lock mechanism,” he said easily, even as Stefan raised a gun to his face. He didn't so much as flinch. “You don't happen to have a key?”

With something of a victorious sneer the leader held up a large, dated, steampunk key.

“Ah,” said the Doctor, a sort of reluctant wince on his face.

“Stefan,” barked the leader, jerking his head towards the box. Stefan obediently moved, keeping his gun trained on their hostages even as he stepped closer to his cruel comrade. Hartley gingerly shuffled across the floor, brushing stray diamonds out of her way as she made her way over to the Doctor.

“What do we do?” she whispered once again, impatient to hear the plan. Thankfully the masked robbers were too busy struggling to open the complicated lock system to care.

“We can't let them have what's inside,” he whispered back, eyes darting quickly down to the barrel of the gun that Stefan had aimed haphazardly in their direction. Hartley had a feeling he was easily spooked, and it wouldn't take much to have the gun going off – whether accidentally or on purpose.

“What about––?” she tried to ask, but the Doctor interrupted her with a shush. Blinking in surprise, she was offended until she realised the two gunmen across from them were talking.

“He said not to leave any witnesses,” the leader was whispering, face turned away but the sound of his hushed voice carrying in the cavernous vault.

“I dunno, Fabian,” Stefan was whispering, finally giving a name to the faceless leader. “They haven't seen our faces – and besides, there's so many of them. Why can't we just take it and go?”

“We have our orders,” Fabian hissed back.

“From a man whose name we don't even know,” Stefan snapped, gun in his hand beginning to tremble, making Hartley even more uneasy.

“It's for the _cause._ ”

“I know, but have we even stopped to consider what this might––?”

“You're part of this, Stefan,” snarled Fabian, a furious edge to his voice. “We're in too far to back out now. I'll work on separating the elements of the weapon to get it ready for travel, you go out there and begin eliminating the hostages.”

“It'll cause a panic.”

“Then do it quickly.”

“Ah, if I may?” exclaimed the Doctor suddenly, loud and obnoxious. Hartley whipped around to stare at him with something close to horror. His hands were tucked casually into his pockets, and he sauntered forwards with his usually careless confidence. The two robbers turned to look at him, fury glinting in Fabian's eyes. “Whose orders are you working under, exactly?”

“None of your business,” snapped Fabian, danger in his voice.

“Since their orders are to murder us all, I'd say it probably is my business, actually,” the Doctor replied with near laughable ease, giving a casual sniff.

Fabian jerked his head at Stefan before turning his attention back to the device in the box.

“You're going to walk back outside, sit down and shut up,” said Stefan in a voice that was probably meant to be intimidating, but really just sounded weak and scared.

“And if we don't?” asked Hartley, arms crossed over her chest, a challenge in her eyes.

“I shoot you right here and now,” he snarled.

“So it's either die now or die in twenty minutes or so?” asked the Doctor.

“Is there an option C that we could consider?” added Hartley hopefully. Stefan looked dumbfounded by their casual demeanours. “Say, not dying at all, perhaps?”

Stefan hesitated, not knowing what to make of their words. Suddenly Fabian let out a loud cuss, the crassness of it making Hartley blink, even with her track record with swears in the past. “What?” asked Stefan with a gasp, attention sliding from them to Fabian, the barrel of his gun finally pointed away from their faces.

Fabian continued to cuss, panic saturating him.

“Fabian!” Stefan shouted, growing scared.

“I set something off – I dunno, some kind of fail-safe!” Fabian exclaimed, reaching up and gripping his hair as if trying to rip it from his scalp. “Crap – we're all gonna die!”

The Doctor interjected before he could get any more overwhelmed. “You need to let me look at it,” he said, calm in comparison to the robber.

Once more, Stefan's gun was aimed in their faces. “What good will that do?” snapped Fabian, the terror never leaving his face. Hartley knew then that, whatever this weapon did, it wasn't going to be pretty. And she would undoubtedly be the only survivor.

“I'm an engineer,” said the Doctor.

“You said you were a doctor!” exclaimed Stefan shrilly.

The Doctor stared back at him as if wondering how one person could be so thick. “You can be a doctor of engineering,” he said slowly.

Stefan blinked. “Can you?”

No time to let them talk any more about the various STEM fields, Fabian gripped the Doctor's coat and a thick sheen of nervous sweat clinging to his face. “Fix it!” he shouted at the Time Lord, shoving him in the direction of the crate, which was slowly beginning to emit an alarming shrieking noise.

“All right, all right,” muttered the Doctor, brushing off his coat and kneeling down by the device. Hartley waited for him to say something, but to her horror he only went silent, staring down into the steampunk looking box with a grave sort of dread. “Oh,” he finally said, voice full of an uncharacteristic trepidation.

“Oh?” echoed Hartley anxiously, voice an unnaturally high pitch. “What's oh?”

“Hartley, come here a moment?” he murmured, and neither Stefan nor Fabian put up a fight as she moved towards him, crouching down beside him.

Inside the box was a sort of metal tube with two spheres on either end. “What is it?” Hartley asked, heart racing in her chest.

“This is a naquadah reactor,” he told her solemnly. “He tried to disassemble it – but he made a mistake. Disrupted the feedback loop, caused a blockage.”

“So?”

“So it's going into overload,” he said, voice hard.

“Well, can't you stop it?” The Doctor's expression grew grim, and she had her answer. “What do we do? How big will the blast be?” she pressed, scrambling to problem solve.

“Small, for a naquadah bomb, but still big enough for concern,” he explained. “About the size of Central Park.”

“And how long?”

“Just under eight minutes.”

“Ah.”

“Well?!” shouted Fabian from behind them. “Are you fixing it?!”

The Doctor turned back around calmly. “I can't,” he said, and Fabian's eyes went hard as he let out another cuss, spinning on the spot and returning to yanking at his hair. “Look, the only way to save us all is for you to turn off the time dilation field. I have a ship, it can fit everyone in it and we can be gone just in time for this thing to explode – but we have to go _now._ ”

But neither of the men looked relieved. They exchanged harrowing glance. “We can't,” said Stefan, a cold note to his voice, like his body was there but his mind wasn't. “We have a fourth man – Rodney – he activated it from the outside.”

The Doctor's jaw clicked. “How long until it goes down – from our point of view?”

Stefan checked his watch. “Twenty-three minutes.”

The Doctor hung his head.

“Can't you reach him? Radio out, tell him to bring it down?” Hartley pressed in a panic.

“Radio waves can't penetrate a time dilation field,” the Doctor explained quietly. “We're out of sync. There's no way to contact him. Or anyone.”

“And there's no way to stop the explosion? None at all?”

He shook his head grimly. “The damage is done. There's no going back.”

“Maybe if we shut the vault door!” exclaimed Fabian suddenly. “The blast should be contained inside of it, right? I read the plans before this job – the walls are made of tungsten.”

“Tungsten?” Hartley asked, unfamiliar with the word.

“It's the strongest naturally occurring metal found on Earth,” muttered the Doctor factually. “One of the strongest on any planet, actually. It's a good idea, but it won't be enough to contain this kind of blast. These walls are too thin.”

“Right material, wrong amount?” asked Hartley, and he nodded gravely, reaching up to rub his fingertips into his eyes, struggling to find a solution. “So what, you're all just going to die? That's it? Poof? Gone?” she asked, an edge of hysteria to her voice.

“What d'you mean _you all_?” asked Fabian in a snarl. “You're here too, princess. You'll die just the same.”

Hartley didn't have time to tell him how wrong he was. She turned away, leaning to the side so she could just see out of the vault door. In the main part of the building the hostages were all cowered together, some still crying. Rose was sitting beside a crying woman, her pale hands still stained red with Patrick's blood.

She looked away, unable to stare into all the faces of the people who were about to die. There had to be a way – the Doctor _had_ to know of a way. He was just showing off. Any second now, he'd come up with a brilliant plan to save them all.

But he didn't say anything, he just sat there, head in his hands, desperately trying to think of something – but to no avail.

Hartley's eyes began to sting, and she looked away, turning her gaze to the mounds perfect, glittering diamonds that surrounded them, like sparkling towers of physical wealth.

“Diamonds!” she exclaimed abruptly, spinning back around to face the Doctor with renewed enthusiasm, hope itching in her guts.

“Yes, well spotted,” muttered Fabian bitterly. “We're going to die, but at least we'll be surrounded by something sparkly. Honestly,” he scoffed derisively, “women.”

“No, you jerk,” she bit, turning her back on him and looking to the Doctor. “We're in a diamond factory. Atkins said they make them underground – that between us and the factory are tonnes and tonnes worth of materials _designed_ to withstand this exact type of thing.”

The Doctor was perfectly still for approximately three seconds, then all at once he shot to his feet like a jack-in-the-box wound too tight. The explosion of motion made both Stefan and Fabian flinch, but neither traveller paid them any mind.

“That – that might actually work!” exclaimed the Doctor, eyes wide with shock. He whipped around, turning the full force of his stare onto the two desperate robbers behind him. “Does the dilation field include the sub-levels?” he demanded.

“Uh – yeah. I, I think so,” stammered Stefan.

The Doctor spun back around to Hartley, eyes wide with glee. Without hesitation he reached out, gripping her head in both his hands and dragging her to him, smacking his lips loudly and affectionately against her forehead. He let her go, all but bouncing where he stood.

“You, Hartley Daniels, are a genius,” he said brightly, already scurrying over to the naquadah reactor thing and shutting the lid. She didn't know how to react, just watching him. “Hart, collect their guns,” he continued in the same breath.

“Excuse me?” asked Fabian shrilly.

“It's part of the plan – we need the gunpowder in them,” insisted the Doctor.

“Why?”

“No time to explain. Hurry!”

Reluctantly both robbers handed over their guns. Hartley took them gingerly, unsure why she had to. “What now?” she asked carefully.

“Hold them both at gunpoint until I get back,” he replied, gathering the steampunk-looking box in his arms and making for the exit.

“Oi!” cried Fabian. “You said you needed the gunpowder!”

The Doctor didn't even look back, he just shouted over his shoulder, “I lied!”

Hartley gripped each gun in her hand, holding the dangerous ends in Stefan and Fabian's faces. “I guess he doesn't trust you not to double-cross us,” she suggested. She jerked the guns at them in command, and reluctantly the pair of rather pitiful criminals held up their hands in surrender. “Out,” she ordered them, and with furious, petulant glares they did as they were told, marching out into the main part of the factory, where the rest of the hostages awaited.

Everybody gasped when they saw how the tables had turned, some even cheering loudly for Hartley – although she was pretty sure Rose started that last bit.

The one called Jackson didn't seem to know what to do, eyes flickering helplessly between Hartley and his outsmarted accomplices.

“Jackson, hand Rose your gun,” Hartley ordered him in no uncertain terms. He hesitated. “Now, thank you,” she pressed intently as Rose stood to her feet and held out a hand for his weapon.

With a confused and somewhat fearful grimace, Jackson handed his gun off to Rose, who held it cautiously. Hartley nodded for her to aim it at Jackson, and she did so gingerly, hands shaking just a little.

“Come now, girls,” said Fabian, doing his best to regain control of the situation. “Think about what you're doing.”

“Where'd the Doctor go?” Rose asked Hartley, completely ignoring the fact that Fabian had even spoken.

“Downstairs,” Hartley answered her succinctly.

“Why?”

Hartley didn't want to tell her in front of everybody – these people were scared enough as it was. They didn't need to know an explosion the size of Central Park was about to occur directly beneath their feet. “No reason,” she said instead, meeting Rose's eyes across the room. Her friend got the message, nodding her head.

Fabian began to move towards the left of the room, as if edging around Hartley's field of view.

“No you don't,” she barked, adjusting the aim of her gun, keeping him in their sights. Fabian froze, grimacing as he begrudgingly held up his hands.

What would the Doctor do now, she wondered. The answer came almost instantly. He would, of course, get them talking.

“You said you were hired to do this,” she said, voice hard as the diamonds in the vault behind them. “Hired by whom?”

“ _Whom_?” Fabian echoed as he gave a threatening, shark-like grin. “Well, aren't we proper?” Hartley tightened her grip on her gun. She wasn't going to use it – but they didn't need to know that. “I bet, outside of all this, you're something real vanilla, eh? A librarian, maybe?” he goaded her. She tried not to let anything on her face give her away, glaring back at him unflinchingly. “You'd never pull that trigger.”

“Who are you working for?” she demanded again.

“You're not gonna hurt me,” said Fabian, slowly beginning to saunter towards her. Hartley's heart dropped into her feet, and she sucked in a breath of shock as he grew closer. It took everything she had not to scramble back. She had the gun. She was in control. “I bet you're scared even touching a gun, eh?” he continued to sing.

“Hart...” called Rose, nervousness in her voice.

“You'll go to prison for this,” Hartley warned Fabian, glad her voice didn't shake.

“Only if I get caught,” he grinned wickedly.

“You'll get caught,” she promised him.

“How?” he asked, pulling a playful pout. “You're not gonna shoot me. You don't have the _stomach_ for it.”

Hartley sucked in another breath. He was close now, too close for comfort, and she couldn't help but take a large step back. “You were going to shoot me,” she reminded him tersely, recalling the cold press of the barrel of this same gun when it was held to her forehead, prepared to decorate the wall with her brains.

“Yeah, but we're different, you and I,” Fabian purred. “You couldn't hurt a _fly._ ”

Hartley's eyes flickered away from him for a moment, landing on the body of Patrick. His skin was ashen and pallid, eyes staring unseeingly up at the ceiling, body laid in a pool of its own blood. An innocent man who hadn't deserved to die – gone from this world thanks to one man's callous, selfish greed. Righteous anger surged through her like a bolt of lightning, and she turned back to Fabian with a snarl.

“Wanna bet?” she sneered, voice like acid, before firing the gun.

Fabian cried out in pain just as there was a great rumble from beneath them, the floor itself trembling violently from the explosion. Everyone who had been standing wasn't anymore, and the marble floor below their feet cracked and splintered like wood.

Both guns fell from Hartley's fingers as she collapsed to the fractured marble beneath. The whole explosion only lasted roughly ten seconds, then the rumbling stopped and everything went disconcertingly silent.

Hartley looked over to Rose, meeting her eyes across the field of destruction between them. “The Doctor!” cried Rose, scrambling desperately to her feet. Hartley followed, but her mission was to find all the dropped guns, gathering back up in her arms.

Better she have them than anyone else.

Once she had them all, she turned to Fabian. He was folded over himself on the floor, gripping his leg in agony, trying in vain to stem the flood of crimson blood that bubbled up from the gunshot wound in his knee.

“I can't believe you shot me!” he cried as if it were the most inconceivable thing about the day.

Hartley was utterly unimpressed. “You deserved it,” she told him flatly, meaning every word, but he ignored her, holding his leg as he bled.

“Doctor!” shouted Rose, and Hartley spun around in time to see the Doctor sweep Rose up into a tight, exuberant embrace. “You're okay! What was that?”

“Just your typical naquadah reactor explosion,” he said with a casual flippancy only he could ever achieve. “Would've killed us if not for Hartley's quick thinking,” he added, letting go of Rose to bounce over to Hartley, sweeping her too up into a warm hug.

Still gripping three separate handguns in her hands, she did her best to squeeze him back, warmed by his attention. He pulled away, turning to survey the room.

“Everyone all right?” he asked the rest of the hostages, who nodded their heads gingerly, some still with tear tracks running down their once-immaculate faces. “Who shot Fabian?” he continued, eyeing the bleeding man on the floor with a frown.

“That'd be me,” said Hartley, not proud by any stretch, but certainly not remorseful, either. “Still, s'just a kneecap. Worse case scenario; he needs a cane from now on.”

“Not sure they let you have canes in prison,” mused the Doctor. “Could be seen as a weapon.”

Fabian glared up at them with hatred that left the Doctor unaffected. He stepped closer, kneeling down on the cracked marble beside the bleeding criminal.

“Who were you working for?” he asked, voice low but carrying in the cavernous room. “Who was behind this? Come on, do the right thing. Tell me who did this.” Fabian said nothing, just glared like _they_ were the bad guys here, not him. “I'll let you in on a little secret, Fabian,” he continued, leaning in closer for the criminal to hear.

What he said next was whispered, too quiet for anyone but the two of them to hear. Hartley strained her ears, but she caught none of it. When the Doctor pulled back, Fabian's face was drawn into something that wasn't quite fury and wasn't quite horror, but rather a mix in between.

“Feel like telling me now?” asked the Doctor calmly.

Fabian paused, swallowed thickly, then nodded his head.

* * *

The moment the police got there, the three (four, including the one loitering on the outside, responsible for the time dilation field) criminals were taken into custody and all the hostages were seen to by medics and officers. The Doctor, however, flashed his psychic-paper and got the three of them out of there before anyone could say anything about taking them in for a statement.

The snow was just as cold on the walk back to the TARDIS as it had been before, but Hartley found she liked the icy temperature, leaning down to collect balls of the fresh, crunchy snow in her hands. It was soothing in a sensory sort of way, and she did it the entire way up to the TARDIS.

“So they were working under the orders of something called 'Torchwood?” Rose was asking the Doctor, confused. “Why does that name sound so familiar?”

“Name of that house – that one in Scotland in 1879, with Queen Victoria and the werewolf? Remember?” asked the Doctor, and Rose nodded. Hartley knew this to be something that happened only a few days before she'd been thrown back into their lives, but Rose had told her the story during one of their late-night talks. It sounded like one of the more crazy adventures, that much was certain.

“Do you think there's a connection?” asked Rose carefully.

“Nah,” he shrugged as he pulled out his key, sliding it into the lock and pushing open the door to his brilliant ship. “Probably just a coincidence.”

“You don't believe in coincidences,” Hartley called out critically, slipping into the TARDIS after Rose, kicking the excess snow off her shoes before shutting the door after herself. “You say they're hogwash.”

“Do I?” he asked innocently.

“All the time,” agreed Rose.

“Huh,” he hummed, leaving it at that.

The girls met eyes across the console, both silently agreeing not to push the matter. The Doctor would talk when he was ready. “What'd you say to him?” Hartley asked suddenly, and the Doctor looked up just as the TARDIS began to tremble and wheeze as he took them back into the vortex.

“Say to who?” he asked innocently. Hartley wondered whether he were really clueless, or just playing dumb.

“Fabian,” she pressed. “You whisper something to him, and suddenly he spills his guts.”

“Oh, that,” he said, giving a theatrical little twirl as he piloted his ship. “I just told him that whoever had sent him to do this was setting him up for failure.”

Hartley and Rose were only more confused. “What d'you mean?” asked Rose. “How's that?”

“Well, that naquadah reactor was already failing, and the instructions they'd given him to dismantle it, well – they were really more of a recipe on how to make a bomb,” he shrugged.

“I don't get it,” muttered Hartley, hopping up onto the jump seat, the springs squeaking under her added weight. “Why would Torchwood – whatever it is – just send four men on a suicide mission like that? What's the point?”

“Dunno,” said the Doctor flippantly. “But it's over now. And that's what matters.”

They settled into an uneasy silence. The Doctor did that a lot, Hartley found. The moment something was done, it was in the past, no longer relevant. She disagreed; the past was what made the future worth it. To pretend it didn't exist was to rob yourself of what was to come; made it pointless and dry. The past gave everything you did now value.

“Up for some dinner, Hart?” asked Rose abruptly.

“Yeah,” she agreed, realising suddenly how hungry she was. “Where d'you wanna go?”

“Thought we'd stay in; you can cook.”

“Oh I can, can I?” Hartley asked dryly, amusement curling at her lips. Rose beamed back, a flash of pink tongue poking through pearly white teeth. “All right,” Hartley relented, realising that it didn't actually take very much to sway her when it came to the people she loved. “I wanna shower first, though. Meet you in the kitchen in twenty?”

“Make it thirty?”

“Deal.”

Rose grinned and disappeared, leaving Hartley and the Doctor in silence. Hartley sighed, standing to her feet and stretching until her back gave a satisfying pop.

“You hungry, Doc?” she asked, looking over to where he was halfheartedly piloting the TARDIS.

“Eh, not really,” he replied.

“I can make your favourite,” she offered.

“Apple crumble for dinner?” he countered, raising a skeptical brow.

“For dessert, maybe, if you stop sulking,” she laughed.

“I'm not sulking.”

She cocked her head to the side, eyes sweeping over his familiar form. “Are you going to tell me what's wrong, or am I going to have to withhold apple crumble until you do?”

The Doctor pursed his lips, chewing on his words carefully before answering. “I wasn't actually going to let them shoot you,” he eventually told her, and she blinked in surprise. “I could see it in your eyes, when he held the gun to your head,” he continued all at once, like if he didn't say it now he never would. “You thought I was going to let you die.”

And it was true, in those moments she had understood and accepted that she was going to have to die. She hadn't liked it, but fighting it would have been a pointless waste of her time. Even now, him staring at her with big, imploring eyes, some part of her still believed he would have let her die.

“But you stopped them,” she said, but even to her own ears it sounded like she were trying to convince herself.

“But you didn't think I would.”

She hesitated, glancing away to gather herself before looking back and saying honestly, “no.”

“Why?”

It was a fair enough question – although its answer was far more complicated. “I dunno,” she admitted with a listless shrug. “Self-esteem, I guess.”

“Self-esteem?”

She really didn't want to talk about this right now. Couldn't he see that? “I'm really hungry, Doc,” she said, the words more a plea than a statement. “Can the psychoanalysis wait for another day? A day that doesn't involve nearly getting blown to pieces by a naquadah bomb – whatever naquadah is, anyway...”

“It's an extremely rare, super-dense mineral that can be used to greatly amplify energy––”

“Naquadah is dangerous. Gotcha,” she smiled wryly, and the Doctor cracked a hint of a smile in response. “And you're coming to dinner, mister,” she ordered him quickly. “I'll even make my special lasagna.”

“What makes it so special, exactly?” he asked critically.

“Love,” she replied without missing a beat. His expression twisted in a mix of skepticism and amusement. “And also jalapeños,” she confessed.

“Oh, all right,” he sighed like she were asking just slightly too much of him. “Go on,” he waved her away. “I'll come when I can smell it cooking.”

Rolling her eyes, Hartley turned towards the hall that would lead to her bedroom. She paused in the doorway, casting a look back. “Hey, Doc?” she called, making him look up from his monitor expectantly. “Thanks for not letting me die today,” she said, voice shaking a tiny bit with vulnerability. “It really … it meant a lot.”

He smiled, warm and sincere. “Always, Hart,” he swore, a power behind the promise that she couldn't fully comprehend before he turned back to his work, leaving her to walk back to her room, trying to figure out why her pulse was still thundering so loudly in her ears.


	26. Army of Ghosts & Doomsday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad you guys liked the last chapter, and the fact that some of you watch Stargate too just made my day! (Little teaser for you – there's another Stargate-themed original chapter coming up later down the line. I think you'll like that one too. A rather well known character even gets a cameo!) 
> 
> A warning – this one is very long, and for me, very emotional. I hope you guys are sitting comfortably. See you at the bottom!

“ _In one aspect, yes, I believe in ghosts, but we create them._

 _We haunt ourselves_.”

Laurie Halse Anderson

“ _Being brave isn't the absence of fear._

 _Being brave is having that fear but finding a way through it._ ”

Bear Grylls

* * *

Hartley loved shopping.

Maybe it wasn't the _best_ hobby in the world, but she had little time for anything else while travelling with her friends. Thankfully, Rose liked it too, and with two of them shooting him puppy-dog eyes it was relatively easy to convince the Doctor to stop at various shopping hotspots across the universe, letting them off to browse the markets full of aliens selling their wares.

More than anything, Hartley liked to buy nicknacks. She liked having something small from everywhere she went, put on display in her room to reminded her of each place she'd visited. Her shelves were slowly beginning to gain decoration, colourful pieces of meteor and various jars of caramelised fruit lining her room.

She didn't think much of it when they stopped at a little asteroid full of markets and the Doctor sent she and Rose off on their own to wander. She didn't for a moment consider that maybe it was the end of her life as she knew it – but then again, why would she?

“Don't go too far,” the Doctor told them halfheartedly, fishing out a tiny white stick from his pocket and tossing it into the air. Hartley's reflexes were quick, and she snatched it from the air between them. “Found that under the console. It's a few decades old, but it should still work. Just don't go crazy with it,” he said, but the two girls had already stopped listening, waving back distractedly as they turned and headed off into the market.

“Let me know if you see any bath-bombs,” Hartley told Rose as they walked, smiling politely at the various aliens they encountered along the way. “I've run out and taking a bath without them is pointless.”

“Yeah, and you keep an eye out for something I can get mum. The Doctor said we could stop by and visit after this – which is good 'cause I'm running out of clean clothes – and I don't wanna show up empty handed. You know how she gets,” Rose responded, pausing at a small stall selling something that looked like honey. The cyclops behind the table offered them two little sticks coated in the stuff, and they both took one, tasting them without hesitation. “It's good,” Rose nodded, smiling kindly at the alien before quietly moving on.

“What do you think of this?” Hartley asked, picking up a blue silk scarf and draping it over her shoulders. “Does it make me look like I belong in the upper-middle class?” she joked, and Rose giggled, nodding her head before something caught her eye.

“One sec,” she said, bounding over to a stall to the left.

“Wait!” Hartley called out. “Should I get it or not?!”

Rose didn't answer, her eyes on a colourful sign hanging from one of the stalls. “You ain't buyin', then stop tryin',” the alien behind the table snapped rather rudely, and Hartley was quick to unwrap the scarf from around her neck, folding it gently and placing it back on the tabletop with a polite smile. The alien – a humanoid person who appeared to be some kind of cyborg, judging by the metal half of their body – snorted unkindly and waved her off.

Looking around, Hartley lost sight of Rose for a minute. She pushed herself up onto her toes, struggling to see past the thickening crowd until finally a group of ridiculously tall aliens passed, revealing her friend standing by a tiny stall off in a corner, her bright blue jumper like a beacon against the muted colours of the asteroid.

“Hey, Blue,” she said cheekily, popping up next to Rose and absentmindedly looking over the wares displayed on the table.

“Thinking I'll get this for mum,” Rose told her conversationally, holding a little metal device up into the light. “He says it can predict the weather,” she added, and the green-skinned alien behind the table snorted his agreement.

“I'm sure she'll love it,” Hartley assured her, leaning down and picking up a small dome full of glitter.

“Paperweight,” the alien informed her in a gravelly voice, like he'd been smoking heavily since birth, and she nodded interestedly as she gently put it back down.

Rose smiled, satisfied with her decision as she pulled the currency stick from Hartley's pocket, handing it over with a grin.

“You alright?” the blonde asked warily as she began to lead her away, heading for what was hopefully a food pavilion. “You look a bit peaky.”

“Do I?” Hartley asked, reaching up to touch her face, noting that her cheeks were a bit cold. There was an odd sort of feeling in her gut, like her body was trying to tell her something, but she had no clue what it was. Rose grabbed her arm, pulling her to a stop and making the aliens travelling behind them exclaim in loud irritation. “I think I'm tired,” she said with a shrug. “Didn't get much sleep.”

“Maybe we can find a tonic or something at one of these stalls,” Rose suggested. “Something to perk you up.”

“I'm gonna have to pass on that one,” she replied, leaning her weight against the towering wall of asteroid mud lining the corridor of stalls. “I'll just have some tea when we get to your mum's; fix me right up.”

“If you're sure..?” Rose sounded concerned, her blonde hair lit up like a halo in the purple lights held above the walkway.

“Come on,” Hartley said instead, nodding in the direction of the idle TARDIS before hooking their arms together and leading the way.

Once thrust into life on the TARDIS, all she'd had was the Doctor, who was at first cold and cruel to her, then they met Rose and she remembered what it was like to actually have a friend. She'd had Jack for longer – over four years – but now he was gone too, and she was left with a new Doctor, one she was still only just getting to know.

She thought suddenly that if she didn't have Rose, then she might have gone genuinely insane.

Before Hartley could voice these somewhat sappy musings, the Doctor reappeared, ducking into the alcove with a messy hunk of scuffed metal and coloured wires held in his hand. “Are we really just going to stand around hugging each other all day?” he asked impatiently, taking note of their arms around one another.

Hartley looked up at Rose in exasperation, pleased to see the expression mirrored perfectly in her friend's eyes.

“Found what I came here for,” he announced, waving his new object in their faces with a satisfied grin. “Wanna get going? Might as well drop that laundry off to your mum, the shirt you're wearing is starting to smell like asteroid dust.”

“Sweet-talker,” Hartley teased wryly.

“Yeah, yeah,” the Doctor waved her off, turning and beginning to weave his way back towards the TARDIS.

“Sure you're okay?” Rose confirmed carefully as they set out after the Doctor, casting the other girl an assessing look.

“Fine,” Hartley promised, stubbornly ignoring the strange weight in her gut that told her everything might _not_ be okay. Time stopped for no one, and they were certainly no exception.

* * *

“Mum, it's us!” Rose called happily, letting herself into their flat at the Estate, full backpack balanced on her shoulders. “We're back!”

“Oh, I don't know why you bother with that phone. You never use it!” Jackie complained even through the massive grin on her face, bursting with happiness at seeing her daughter again.

“Shut up, come here!” Rose laughed while Hartley hung back with the Doctor.

Mother and daughter embraced tightly, swaying as they hugged while Hartley watched with a wistful smile. The Doctor grew impatient, attempting to slide past the pair, only for Jackie to notice and pounce on him like a tiger eager either for play or a meal – which one it was, however, was impossible to tell.

“Oh no, you don't. Come here!” Jackie crooned, kissing the poor bloke soundly on the mouth before pulling back and giving him a great big hug.

The Time Lord pulled back with a grimace of disgust, scrubbing at his mouth with his cuff. Hartley giggled, and he took the time to send a displeased scowl over his shoulder at her. It lacked any real heat and only served to make her grin wider.

“You too, gorgeous,” Jackie beamed, and Hartley happily fell into a mother's embrace, trying not to think about how much she wished her own mother could be even half as warm. “You look well fed,” Jackie declared happily, squeezing her once more before pulling away, leaving Hartley bewildered and self-conscious. What did _that_ mean?

From the lounge, Rose was chuckling. “I've got loads of washing for you,” she announced, once they'd all filtered into the room, handing over her overflowing bag of laundry. “And I got you this,” she added, pulling the knick-knack from her pocket, presenting it to her mum with a grin. “It's from the market on this asteroid bazaar, we've only just been! It's made of, er, what's it called?”

“Bazoolium,” the Doctor answered from behind her, halfheartedly flicking through a magazine.

“Bazoolium,” she nodded, and Hartley slipped past, taking a seat on the armrest of the lounge and snuggling deeper into her jumper. Jackie's heat must have been out. “When it gets cold it means it's going to rain. When it's hot, it's going to be sunny. You can use it to tell the weather!”

“I've got a surprise for you,” her mother declared, unfazed by Rose's gift.

“Oh, I get her Bazoolium, she doesn't even say thanks,” the blonde traveller murmured to her companions, noticeably sour, and the pair of them smirked at one another over the characteristic response from Jackie.

“Guess who's coming to visit? You're just in time,” she told her daughter excitedly, and Hartley snorted at her dismissal. Her attention was quickly snatched by the Doctor, however, who was frowning down at a gossip magazine like it was the most interesting read in all the galaxy.

“Do you really care _that_ much that,” she paused, taking a beat to read whatever was on the trashy cover, “Paris Hilton got a DUI?”

“I like to keep up with current events,” he sniffed defensively.

“You're a time traveller,” she reminded him dryly. “What's _current_ to you, anyway?”

He didn't answer other than another dramatic sniff as he pettily returned his attention to the magazine. She laughed at the childish behaviour, turning to face the mother and daughter who were still bantering across from them.

“It's your granddad,” Jackie was saying with a bright smile, practically giddy as she spoke. “Granddad Prentice. He's on his way any minute. Right, cup of tea!” she said, spinning around and heading for the kitchen without a care in the world.

“Cool, meeting the granddad,” Hartley commented distractedly, taking a seat on the arm of the couch and reaching for the remote.

There was a long, pregnant pause where Rose didn't answer, so Hartley looked away from the blank TV screen to note her friend's look of shock. Suddenly wary, Hartley stood back to her feet, watching on with caution. “She's gone mad,” Rose was murmuring, staring after her mother in bewilderment.

“Tell me something new,” the Doctor said dryly, and despite something quite obviously being wrong, Hartley couldn't help but bark out a single syllable of laughter.

“Granddad Prentice, that's her dad. But he died, like, ten years ago,” Rose explained hollowly, and slowly but surely the mirth in the Doctor's expression drained away. “Oh, my _God_. She's _lost_ it. Mum? What you just said about granddad...” she began, following her mum into the kitchen.

“Any second now,” Jackie said blithely, utterly oblivious to Rose's concern.

“What's happening?” the Doctor sounded just as bewildered as Rose, turning his head as he spoke to Hartley, one eye trained on Jackie, who was grinning without a care.

“No idea. But I get the feeling that it's nothing good,” she murmured back without drawing attention from the pair of talking blondes.

“But he passed away,” Rose was saying patiently. “His heart gave out. Do you remember that?” she asked gently, like she were speaking to a child who just didn't understand.

“Of course I do,” Jackie replied, indignant, like Rose were the one who wasn't talking sense.

“Then how can he come back?”

“Why don't you ask him yourself?” Jackie countered before looking down at her watch with an excited gasp. “Ten past. Here he comes.”

It was ethereal and humanoid in shape, a walking shadow in the vague shape of a person. Hartley wanted to reach out and touch it, see if it held any form, but something about it made her uneasy, made her want to stay away, afraid of what might happen should she get too close.

“Here we are, then,” Jackie said brightly, chirpy as could be. “Dad, say hello to Rose,” she said conversationally, as if she wasn't speaking to some kind of creepy, shadowed ghost standing in the middle of her kitchen. “Ain't she grown?”

“What the...” the Doctor trailed off, staring at the figure for one long, drawn out moment before abruptly turning and booking it out of the flat. He opened the door with such force it banged against the wall with a crash.

Rose ran out after him, with Jackie close behind. Hartley remained in the flat. She waited in the kitchen, keeping an eye on the 'ghost' until it faded. She wasn't quite sure what to make of it, but she felt like the Doctor had forgotten to stick to his own method.

Step one: try talking to the thing. It usually worked.

“Can you speak?” she asked it, her voice coming out unsteady. She felt kind of foolish, talking to it like it could understand her. But she'd seen all sorts of things before, things that by all rights shouldn't have been able to speak at all. She knew better than to – as cliché as it was – judge a book by its cover. “Where did you come from?” she continued, confidence returning. “Are you alien?”

It gave no answer, but she hadn't really expected it to. A beat passed, and then just as it had appeared it began to fade from existence, almost evaporating into the air, until finally it disappeared completely, like it had never been there in the first place. She remained where she was, eyeing the place it had vanished for a long while. Once she was more confident it wasn't going to reappear, she turned and edged from the room, brow pulled into a bewildered frown.

She headed into the lounge and back over to the TV, reclaiming the remote from where she'd tossed it before, staring at the blank screen for a moment before blinking back to herself and clicking it to life.

The stations were full of all these 'ghosts', every channel seemed almost dedicated to the things. The uneasy feeling crept back into her gut, and Hartley sat back against the couch, watching a random news station as it replayed an 'interview' with one of the things. It was making her feel sick.

The dead were dead, and maybe it was hypocritical of her (it almost definitely _was_ ) but she believed they should stay that way.

A couple minutes of mindless television later, the Doctor reappeared in the room, already slipping his clever specs onto the bridge of his nose as he crouched in front of the telly, snatching the remote from Hartley's hand without so much as a word. She didn't protest, still trying to process the fact that not only had 'ghosts' appeared throughout the world, but that mankind had apparently said 'yup, this makes sense' and _gone with it_.

Jackie and Rose came in after him, gently shutting the door behind them and settling into spots on the couch behind Hartley. The Doctor didn't even acknowledge them, flicking through the channels like a man on a mission.

“ _On today's Ghostwatch, claims that some of the ghosts are starting to talk, and there seems to be a regular formation gathering around Westminster Bridge. It's almost like a military display-_ ”

“What the _hell's_ going on?” the Doctor demanded aloud, roughly hitting the button to change the channel and not really expecting an answer. No matter which station he landed on, they were talking about the ghosts. It made Hartley wonder – was the human's trusting, gullible nature being used against them? Was their sentimentality somehow being used as a weapon? The very idea made her feel ill.

The Doctor silenced the TV, having had just about enough of hearing about the ghosts.

“When did it start?” he asked Jackie, rubbing at his eyes from underneath his glasses. They'd barely even gotten there and already he seemed done with it all. Hartley wondered if it ever got old; saving the human race.

“Well, first of all, Peggy heard this noise in the cellar, so she goes down-” Jackie began eagerly.

“No, I mean worldwide,” the Doctor stopped her before she could give him the entire rundown of her stupid serial show, a sour, exasperated sort of look on his face. Hartley understood the frustration but didn't approve of the biting tone.

“Oh,” Jackie blinked, “that was about two months ago. Just happened. Woke up one morning, and there they all were. Ghosts, everywhere.” She shrugged her shoulders calmly. “We all ran round screaming and that – whole planet was panicking. No sign of _you two_ , thank you very much,” she added rather snidely in their direction, and Hartley's eyebrows rose to her hairline at the inclusion. Jackie seemed to think more of her than was really deserved. She was just like Rose, a human along for the ride. “Then it sort of sank in,” Jackie continued, oblivious. “It took us time to realise that...we're _lucky._ ”

The Doctor's expression made it clear he disapproved. Hartley was inclined to agree.

“What makes you think it's granddad?” Rose asked her mother gently, reaching out to link their hands, squeezing tentatively.

“It just feels like him,” Jackie told her, a small, wistful smile sitting on her lips. “There's that smell, those old cigarettes. Can't you smell it?”

Rose's eyes were sad. “I wish I could, mum, but I can't.”

“You've got to make an effort. You've got to _want_ it, sweetheart.”

She said strongly, and Hartley looked away. To her, the worst part was that Jackie couldn't even hear how _sick_ that sounded.

“The more you want it, the stronger it gets,” the Doctor said grimly, and Hartley shuddered at how wrong it all was.

“Sort of, yeah,” Jackie admitted with a shrug.

“But that doesn't make it _real_ , Jackie,” Hartley told her gently, meeting her eyes. Jackie's gaze was glassy, a kind of hurt in their depths, like their revulsion over the fact was offensive. Like they were hurting her with their skepticism.

“It's like a psychic link,” the Doctor interjected, his expression bleak. Hartley was glad for the interruption. “Of course you want your old dad to be alive, but you're _wishing_ him into existence. The ghosts are using that to pull themselves in.”

“You're only feeding into it,” Hartley added with a sympathetic sigh, beginning to understand, a sinking feeling twisting her insides.

“You're _spoiling_ it!” Jackie lashed out, her eyes glistening. Hartley could tell she didn't want to listen to them, even though she knew it was probably in her best interest to do so. Hartley knew what it was like to not want to believe something, even when you knew it was the truth.

“I'm sorry, Jackie, but there's no smell, there's no cigarettes,” the Doctor told her darkly. “Just a memory.”

“But if they're not ghosts, what are they then?” Jackie countered, like this were a sound argument. “They're _human_! You can see them. They _look_ human.”

“She's got a point,” Rose allowed. “I mean, they're all sort of blurred, but they're definitely people.”

“Maybe not,” the Doctor mused. “They're pressing themselves into the surface of the world. But a footprint doesn't look like a boot.” He leapt to his feet so quickly that it made Hartley rear back in fear of being accidentally smacked by one of his overexcited limbs. “Turns out, I have just the thing we need,” he exclaimed, clamouring back through the flat towards the front door.

“Where're you going?” Jackie called in bewilderment, not as desensitised to his erratic behaviour as the other two were.

“TARDIS!” he yelled back over his shoulder dismissively, the sound of the door slamming after him echoing throughout the smaller flat.

Rose whirled around to glance at Hartley, who could only roll her eyes at his predictable behaviour. “He all right?” Jackie asked the pair, staring after the Time Lord with raised eyebrows.

“It's an off day when that _doesn't_ happen,” Hartley told her with a small smile, leaning back against Rose's legs for a moment as she considered her own words. “Still, to be safe, I'd better go supervise; make sure he's not about to accidentally blow up the whole Powell Estate,” she said, climbing to her feet and patting Rose's knees with an affectionate smile. “You stay, chat with your mum. You know where we're parked.”

The two blondes were already lost to their murmurings by the time she made it to the door. Rose was beginning to enquire more about the ghosts – too wired into the Doctor's investigative ways to be able to concentrate on anything else – and Hartley smiled at the familiar routine.

Outside the block of flats Hartley plucked the key from around her neck, taking a moment to rub her thumb across its cool metal surface before bringing it up and sliding it into the lock, pushing open the TARDIS door and stepping into the console room.

“Doc?” she called out when she didn't immediately see him, and though he gave no reply, she spotted him a beat later. He was digging around in the storage underneath the grating of the console room floor. “Doc,” she said again, just a little louder.

“Hm?” he hummed distractedly, the sound of metal scraping against metal filling the room as he shuffled his miscellaneous gadgets around, searching for something in particular.

“So, how much trouble are we in?” she began, walking up the ramp and resting against the railing, watching as he rummaged.

He didn't look up, attention focused on his task even as he answered her. “It really depends on how large of a threat these 'ghosts' are, doesn't it?” He paused, finally tilting his head up to fix her with a brief chocolate stare. “What do _you_ think they are?” he asked, momentarily distracted from his task.

“Me?” she asked, blinking in surprise.

Cocking an eyebrow, his eyes sarcastically swept the otherwise empty room, and it was so _him_ that it made her laugh, thinking about how ridiculous the Time Lord really could be.

She sobered after a moment, considering the question properly. “Well, they aren't ghosts,” she finally said, and the Doctor gave a sound that wasn't quite a laugh, but also not quite a scoff.

“ _I_ could have told you that,” he told her with a roll of his eyes, and she chuckled, pressing back against the railing, the metal cool even through the thick material of her clothes. “Go on then,” he prompted her when she didn't elaborate. “What do you think they are?”

“Obviously it's alien,” she said in a matter-of-fact kind of voice. “I mean, what other explanation is there, beyond the supernatural?”

“There _is_ no supernatural,” he corrected her with a grimace, like the very mere suggestion of it was ridiculous. “ _Everything_ is alien.”

“Huh,” she murmured, not having considered that. Maybe all mythology was real, maybe it was all truth, only it didn't come from Earth or from Heaven, it really came from the distant stars above. It was certainly food for thought.

“But if you didn't know that,” the Doctor continued easily, a metal thud echoing around the control room as he carelessly tossed a large hunk of metal over his shoulder, “would you?”

“Would I what?” she asked, not following.

“Believe in ghosts?”

“Oh. Well, there were the Gelth,” she said thoughtfully. “But that was different.”

“Gelth have nothing to do with this,” he agreed, holding up a handful of dusty crystals to the light, squinting, then shaking his head and crouching back down to continue digging. “But that was a fun day, wasn't it?” he said cheerfully. “Charles Dickens. What a great guy.”

“Doc, we almost died,” she reminded him wryly.

“And the way you fell all over the man like he were some kind of rock god,” he continued on without acknowledging her words, something she might almost describe as a snicker in his voice.

“He was _Charles Dickens_ ,” she argued defensively. “Literary genius of the age! He wrote _Oliver Twist, A Tale of Two Cities!_ Not to mention _A Christmas Carol,_ for which _we_ were in its moment of inspiration! You've read his work – how could you _not_ treat him like royalty. The man is pure talent. I'm flooded with inspiration at the mere memory-”

“I get it,” the Doctor interjected before she could really get going, and he was _definitely_ laughing this time, “you're a fangirl.” She gave a yelp of indignation at the crass term, but he only grinned wider, and she thought to herself that if she was the reason he was smiling, then maybe she didn't mind that it was at her expense. “Remind me to never take you to meet Shakespeare,” he added in a mutter, and she shot up with an excited gasp.

Behind her the doors burst open and Rose traipsed up the ramp, completely diverting the attention. Hartley wouldn't let the Shakespeare subject drop, however. Once the whole 'ghost' thing had been dealt with, she'd be meeting him, even if she had to drag the Doctor there by the ear.

“According to the paper, they've elected a ghost as MP for Leeds,” Rose announced with a snort of amusement. “Now don't tell me you're going to sit back and do nothing.”

The Doctor was silent for a moment, then he popped up from where he'd been crouched below the console floor, a backpack secured over his shoulders and a piece of piping held in his hand.

“Who you gonna call?” he cried goofily.

“Ghostbusters!” Rose laughed uproariously.

“I ain't afraid of no ghosts,” he replied, Rose and Hartley giggling up a storm as he raced from the TARDIS with all the speed of an overexcited bunny. “When's the next shift?” he was asking Jackie, and Hartley was quick to follow him back out of the TARDIS and onto the grass where he was beginning to set up some important cone-shaped devices in a perfect triangle.

“Quarter to – but don't go causing trouble,” Jackie warned him sternly. “What's that lot do?” she asked, gesturing to his work with a grimace of distaste.

“Triangulates their point of origin,” he replied in a hurry, words practically melting together, he spoke so fast.

“I don't suppose it's the Gelth?” Rose piped up, recalling their time with Charles Dickens just as Hartley had before.

“Hartley just asked the same thing,” he told her over his shoulder, and Hartley nudged Rose gently in acknowledgement. “But no, they were just coming through one little rift. This lot are transposing themselves over the whole planet. Like tracing paper.”

“You're always doing this!” Jackie complained hotly. “Reducing it to science!”

Even Hartley had to agree with her on that one; if there was _one_ thing she disliked about the Doctor, it was that he refused to believe in magic. Maybe he was right, and everything the supernatural really was just alien – but there was still a tiny, stubborn part of her that refused to stop believing that magic was real.

She heard once that science was just the language used to understand miracles. She liked to believe that to be true.

“Why can't it be real?” Jackie demanded furiously. “Just think of it, though. All the people we've lost. Our families coming back home. Don't you think it's beautiful?”

“I think it's horrific,” the Doctor argued, the sincerity shining on his face. “Rose, give us a hand?” he requested, urging her back inside the TARDIS. This left Hartley and Jackie standing out in the rare English sun, the older blonde woman staring after the alien sadly.

“ _In one aspect, yes, I believe in ghosts, but we create them. We haunt ourselves_.”

Jackie turned to look at the other traveller, expression twisted in confusion. “What?” she asked, blinking uncomprehendingly.

“It's just a quote that came to mind,” Hartley told her gently, suddenly feeling rather embarrassed about her habit for sprouting literature quotes at random. The Doctor and Rose were used to it by now, however Jackie didn't understand how her brain worked, not like the others did. “From _Wintergirls,_ by Laurie Halse Anderson,” she explained with a helpless shrug.

“Never heard of her,” Jackie shrugged back.

_Who_ _didn't know_ _Wintergirls_? Hartley thought to herself, blinking at the older woman in wonder before shaking her head to clear it and speaking. “Come on,” she moved along, waving Jackie into the TARDIS. She stepped inside after the younger girl, shutting the door quietly behind her.

“If it goes into the blue, activate the deep scan on the left,” the Doctor was saying to Rose, and Jackie watched on in silence, a thoughtful look across her face. Hartley wondered if it was fascinating to her, seeing what life was like aboard the TARDIS. Wondered if she sat up at night, staring out into the starry sky and wondering desperately where in it her daughter was, what she was doing, and whether she was happy?

Hartley knew _she_ had, when she was the one stranded on Earth for all those years with Jack, she'd stared up into the starry night sky and just _wondered._

“Hang on a minute, I know,” Rose said with a carefree grin, jolting Hartley back to the present. “Push _that_ one.”

“Close,” the Doctor winced.

“That one?”

“Now you've just killed us.”

“Er, that one?”

“Yeah! Now, what've we got? Two minutes to go! Rose, stick on those controls; Hart, you're with me.”

Surprised but pleased to be given a station, Hartley darted from the room after the enthusiastic Doctor.

She stepped out into the sun, watching as the Doctor danced around the triangle of cones like an elf performing a rain dance. “Hold this here,” he instructed her, pointing to the cone on the far left. “But when it activates, jump back or it'll shock you!”

“And what happens if it shocks me?”

“You'll die,” he replied honestly.

Hartley flinched, but she'd rather know the facts than go in blind. Death for her was becoming commonplace, and besides, she would readily volunteer to do the risky job if it meant keeping the others safe.

“Got it,” she nodded, jumping onto her assigned task, telling herself to be brave. What was a little death to someone who couldn't actually _stay_ dead? Did it even really count as dying?

The Doctor hurried to finish calibrating his pack, fiddling with the buttons as the seconds ticked by, each moment bringing them closer to the ghost shift.

“Ready?” he finally asked, and she nodded quickly, swallowing her fear. “Here we go!” he shouted to Rose as the ghost shift began, the looming, blurry, humanoid figure appearing in the middle of the Doctor's trap. Hartley leapt back, escaping being struck by only a matter of inches, toppling ungracefully to the ground, blinking up at the sky in surprise. She was relieved, however, to see deep blue stretching out before her rather than the boundless, inky blackness of death.

“The scanner's working!” Rose yelled through the TARDIS doors, and Hartley breathed in deeply, enjoying the fact that she still _could_ , before scrambling to her feet, laying eyes on the figure in the centre of the trap. “It says delta one six!” Rose's voice floated from within the TARDIS.

“Come on then, you beauty!” the Doctor shouted, manic in his excitement.

The shadow writhed as electricity seemed to attach itself to it, and deep down, Hartley might have even pitied it.

“Don't like that much, do you?” the Doctor goaded it, watching as it thrashed where it stood. “Who are you? Where are you coming from?” he demanded, but predictably the figure remained silent. It leapt at him, attempting to either attack or escape, but succeeding with neither. “That's more like it!” the Doctor was nothing if not giddy at its struggling. “Not so friendly now, are you?”

The Doctor fiddled with his device some more, keeping a strict eye on the figure for as long as it remained until finally it disappeared, the electricity that was flowing around the coned off area falling dead, evaporating into nothing.

Hartley turned towards the Doctor, unsure how he'd look, but he was grinning widely, practically bouncing where he stood. “Hart, gather those!” he ordered her quickly, gesturing wildly to the cones then turning and legging it back into the TARDIS.

“Please clean up after my mess again, Hartley,” she muttered to herself sarcastically, slightly bitter but also happy for the distraction against her own hard-to-ignore thoughts. “Sure, Doc, no problem.”

“Those ghosts have been forced into existence from one specific point, and I can track down the source,” the Doctor was explaining enthusiastically as she walked back into the ship, dropping the cones in the corner for the Doctor to put away later. “Allons-y!” he proclaimed exuberantly, yanking strongly on the correct lever and dematerialising the TARDIS with a beautiful groan. “I like that,” he continued giddily, grinning at the pair of them broadly. “ _Allons-y._ I should say allons-y more often. Allons-y. Watch out, Rose Tyler. _Allons-y._ Come along, Hartley Daniels, _allons-y_!” Hartley threw back her head in another laugh, endlessly amused by his antics. The Doctor grinned proudly. “And then, it would be really brilliant if I met someone called Alonso, because then I could say, 'allons-y, Alonso', every time!” He stopped rather abruptly upon realising their blonde companion wasn't joining in on the fun. “You're staring at me.”

There was a beat, and Hartley cocked an eyebrow at her curiously.

“My mum's still on board,” she finally whispered to them, and the look of horror on the poor bloke's face was everything Hartley wanted to see. She stifled a cackle beneath her hand, resting her weight against the coral to her left and grinning widely to herself. She turned to look at Jackie, who was sat in the far corner of the TARDIS, looking utterly unimpressed.

“If we end up on Mars, I'm going to kill you,” she vowed darkly, and Hartley had to admit, that was something she'd pay to see go down.

The Doctor looked lost for words. “My bad,” he muttered rather sourly, reaching up to scratch at his sideburns, grimacing in Jackie's direction. “Hart, help her down, will you?” he asked, turning around and refocusing his attention on the console, his giddy mood dropping like a mask.

“I'm not an invalid,” Jackie murmured with equal sourness, refusing the hand Hartley held out, climbing down all on her own, then gasping when the room shook violently as they landed.

“It's supposed to do that,” Hartley assured her, and the older woman gave a scowl that told her she didn't like it, not at all.

She supposed it was somewhat of an acquired taste.

“Where are we?” Rose was asking as Hartley saddled up beside them, Jackie following behind her begrudgingly.

“Canary Wharf,” the Doctor revealed, as he tapped away at the console. “Oh well, there goes the advantage of surprise,” he said suddenly, glancing up at the monitor and eyeing the small platoon of soldiers set up outside the TARDIS doors. “Still, cuts to the chase. Stay in here, look after Jackie.”

“I'm not looking after my mum!” Rose cried, indignant.

“I was talking to Hartley,” the Doctor looked like he desperately wanted to roll his eyes. Hartley wasn't sure she felt much better by the correction. “Besides, _you_ brought her.”

“I was kidnapped!” Jackie argued resentfully.

Before the Time Lord could step from his ship, Rose dove in front of him, blocking the doors with a rare look of fear splashed across her face. “Doctor, they've got guns,” she murmured quietly, concern lingering in her eyes. Hartley knew she was scared for him. Perhaps she sensed, as Hartley did, that there was more going on here than what met the eye.

“And I haven't,” he replied without pause, grasping his companion tenderly by the waist and gently moving her to the side. “Which makes _me_ the better person, don't you think? They can shoot me dead, but the moral high ground is _mine._ ”

It was quite possibly the worst argument in the history of arguments, but Hartley said nothing, knowing the Doctor wouldn't listen. She could only watch with a worried frown as the Doctor stepped out into their new location, utterly calm even with a dozen or so guns aimed directly at his head.

Hartley moved over and leant against the door, peeking out as she heard the clacking of high heels against concrete, a woman sauntering into the room like she owned the place – which Hartley conceded was actually a possibility. Rose and Jackie also took the opportunity to peer out through the gap in the doors, remaining hidden but keeping a close eye on everything.

“Oh! Oh, how marvellous. Oh, very good. Superb. Happy day!” the woman was saying, her tone saccharine to Hartley's ears, a plastic smile on her face.

A round of applause filled the warehouse they were stationed in. Hartley and Rose exchanged looks of sheer bewilderment, but then she had to smother a snort of sour amusement, knowing the Doctor's face was probably priceless.

“Er, thanks. Nice to meet you,” he said awkwardly, and Hartley could imagine how uncomfortable he felt. “I'm the Doctor.”

“Oh, I should _say._ Hurray!” the woman started another round of out-of-place applause, her lackeys seeming to following out of sheer obligation.

“You – you've heard of me, then?” the Doctor asked stiltedly.

“Well, of course we have,” she responded brightly, as though it was ridiculous to think anybody had ever _not_ heard of the Doctor. “And I have to say, if it wasn't for you, none of us would be here. The Doctor and the TARDIS.”

There was more applause, like the acronym had triggered something in the soldiers, an ingrained compulsion to cheer. Hartley frowned, nothing about the situation making any sense.

“And you are?” the Doctor asked carefully, dumbfounded by the strange reaction.

“Oh, plenty of time for that,” she said, and Hartley rolled her eyes, relaxing back further against the inside wall of the TARDIS, listening carefully. “But of course, it's more than just _you_ , isn't it?” she added giddily, and Hartley wouldn't have been surprised if the woman began hopping up and down in her excitement.

“Pardon?”

“Where is she?” the woman asked eagerly. “Where's the Heart? We know you never go anywhere without her,” she added with a sort of giggle, like this were an inside joke they shared.

Now Hartley was the one who was dumbfounded. She choked on her own saliva, eyes shooting wide open in shock. Rose was staring at her now, equally as surprised, but she couldn't look away from the scene happening outside.

“Sorry?” the Doctor sounded just as astonished.

“Oh, come on.” Hartley would have heard the sneer in the woman's voice, had she not been able to see it for herself, and her pulse began to race, fear filling her. Who knew what they wanted from her? “We're just _dying_ to meet her,” the lady leered, reminding her very much of a carnivore having cornered its next meal.

Everything was silent for one long, drawn out moment, during which Hartley was sure her own heart was going to beat out of her chest. What were they meant to do? What was _she_ meant to do? Finally, the Doctor made an executive decision and called back into the TARDIS in a steady, even voice, “Hart, could you come out here and join me?!”

She met the eyes of Rose and Jackie, the latter looking more than out of her depth. Rose's eyes were wide, fear within them, making Hartley's guts twist. She might not have been able to die permanently, but that didn't mean she was impervious to damage. Or to pain.

A protectiveness flaring within her, Hartley leaned closer into Rose and hissed, “do _not_ leave the TARDIS, Rose. No matter what you see or hear, _stay in the TARDIS_.” Whoever these people were, they didn't just want to have a cup of tea and a chat, and they'd have to go through her to get their greedy little hands on Rose.

Rose herself looked bewildered by the whispered order, but Hartley didn't get a chance to elaborate. She knew time was short, so she reminded herself once again that it wasn't possible for them to actually _kill_ her – permanently, anyway. She squared her shoulders, lifted her head and stepped around Rose and Jackie, pushing open the door and stepping out into the painfully bright lights of the unfamiliar warehouse.

She blinked, laying eyes on all the people with guns aimed at them, and the beaming face of that plastic woman, who immediately started another round of insincere applause at the sight of her.

Grimacing, Hartley shifted to the left, pressing her side against the Doctor's, searching for a comfort he rarely gave. This time, however, in a move surprising nobody more than her, he pressed his palm gently to the small of her back, and she practically sagged with relief at the innocent touch.

“Heart – I can't tell you what an honour it is to meet you,” the unnamed woman told her graciously, the smile on her face too large to be entirely real. “And you're even more _gorgeous_ in person!” she added sweetly, the saccharine quality making Hartley's teeth ache.

“Um,” Hartley stammered, not knowing what to say. She blinked at all the people around them, feeling awfully like a small, vulnerable animal facing off against a large, threatening hunting party. She had a feeling the analogy wasn't as farfetched as it probably seemed. “Thanks?” she finally muttered. It sounded more like a question, but they all embraced it like it was the new gospel, beaming at her like she'd said the most profound thing they'd ever heard.

“Lovely, then,” said the woman brightly, before the expression dropped into something slightly more serious. “However, according to the records, the two of you don't like to travel alone,” she spoke slowly, peering over their shoulders like she might spot someone hiding behind them. “The Doctor, his Heart and their companion,” she smiled, and the strange wording made Hartley's stomach twist. “That's a pattern, isn't it? There's no point hiding anything. Not from us,” the way she said it was vicious, a threat. “So, where is she?” she finished pointedly, making it abundantly clear that it _wasn't_ a request. The guns around them shifted slightly, forcing Hartley to remember they were there.

There was a pregnant pause, and Hartley glanced up at the Doctor, waiting for him to make a move. She would follow his lead. She was _always_ follow his lead. “Yes. Sorry. Good point,” he suddenly laughed loudly, the sound unexpected and jarring, making Hartley jump. “She's just a bit shy, that's all.”

His hand left the small of her back, and he reached behind them into the TARDIS. Hartley's breath caught in fear, before suddenly Jackie was tugged out into the warehouse with them, the ship's door clicking shut with a note of terrifying finality.

“But here she is, Rose Tyler,” he announced brightly, and Jackie blinked in shock, taking a moment to pick up on the sudden improv that was happening around her. “Hmm. She's not the best I've ever had. Bit too blonde. Not too steady on her pins. A lot of that. And just last week, she stared into the heart of the Time Vortex and aged fifty-seven years,” the Doctor sniffed indelicately. “But she'll do.”

“I'm forty,” Jackie cut in with a scowl.

“Deluded. Bless,” he said quickly. “I'll have to trade her in. Do you need anyone? She's very good at tea. Well, I say very good, I mean not bad. Well, I say not bad. Anyway...lead on. _Allons-y._ But not too fast. Her ankle's going.”

He babbled when they were in danger, which was something she usually found comforting, but this time, with so many guns aimed at her head, she only felt more on edge. Jackie looked about ready to sock him for his comments on her age, but decided against it as they were forcefully led from the room.

The suffocating silence that followed gave Hartley the hysterical urge to laugh, but she bit down on the inside of her cheek to drive it off, forcing the feeling to slowly fade away. The Doctor seemed to sense her trouble, and his hand returned to her back, pressing firmly, the weight more reassuring than anything he'd done so far, the pressure grounding her in the moment.

She might not have been able to die, but the Doctor? Rose? Jackie? They were as susceptible to death as anyone else, and she couldn't protect them all at once.

“It was only a matter of time until you found us, and at _last_ you've made it,” the woman in charge said boastfully, beaming at them falsely. “I'd like to welcome you, Doctor. Welcome to Torchwood,” she announced proudly as they pushed their way into yet another warehouse, this one far larger than the previous one. Chills broke out across Hartley's skin at the proclamation, and they were definitely not the good kind.

“That's a Jathar Sunglider,” the Doctor exclaimed, noticing the alien tech speckled throughout the warehouse immediately. He was pointing to a large craft of some kind, its chrome shell glinting in the stark overhead lights.

“Came down to Earth off the Shetland Islands ten years ago,” the mysterious woman revealed.

“What, did it crash?”

“No, we shot it down,” she replied, a sickening pride in her voice.

Hartley had to swallow back bile. Torchwood, whatever the hell it was, was making her feel more physically sick with every passing word out of their mouths.

“It violated our airspace,” she exclaimed heartlessly. “Then we stripped it bare. The weapon that destroyed the Sycorax on Christmas Day? That was us.” She beamed like this was something to be proud of. Hartley, though usually never one for unnecessary violence, wanted to slap the smug expression right off her stupid, plastic face. “Now, if you'd like to come with me,” she said sweetly, waving them through. “The Torchwood Institute has a motto. _If it's alien, it's ours_. Anything that comes from the sky, we strip it down and we use it for the good of the British Empire.”

“For the good of the what?” Jackie asked bewilderedly.

“The British Empire.”

“There _isn't_ a British Empire.”

“Not yet,” she replied smugly, and Hartley frowned so hard her brow ached. “Now, if you wouldn't mind,” she continued blithely. A soldier appeared to the right, placing a very large gun in her perfectly manicured hands. “Do you recognise this, Doctor?” she asked happily.

“That's a particle gun,” he murmured, a hidden glint of horror in his eyes. Hartley wondered what a particle gun was, but decided very quickly that she probably didn't want to know.

“Good, isn't it? Took us eight years to get it to work.”

“It's the twenty first century. You _can't_ have particle guns,” he argued.

“We must defend our border against the alien. Thank you, Sebastian, isn't it?”

“Yes, Ma'am,” the soldier nodded.

“Thank you, Sebastian. I think it's very important to know everyone by name. Torchwood is a very modern organisation. People skills – that's what it's all about these days. I'm a people person,” she chirped, voice sickly.

Hartley clenched her hands into fists, her nails biting into the flesh of her palms. How long had it been since she'd hit something? She had suddenly never missed Jack and their daily training sessions more.

“What was your name?” the Doctor was asking a beat later, and she pulled herself back to the conversation at hand, sternly pushing the pain over missing Jack from her mind.

“Yvonne. Yvonne Hartman.”

The Doctor paused to pick up a large black device that Hartley couldn't identify. All she knew was that it had probably been acquired through less-than-peaceful means. She looked away, focusing on a smudge on the wall across from her, unable to stomach looking at the devices for any longer, knowing someone innocent had probably died to get it.

“Ah, yes. Now, we're rather fond of these. The Magna-Clamp. Found in a spaceship buried at the base of Mount Snowdon. Attach this to an object and it cancels the mass. I could use it to lift two tonnes of weight with a single hand. That's an imperial ton, by the way. Torchwood refuses to go metric,” Yvonne rambled on, but Hartley couldn't have possibly been any less interested.

“I could do with that to carry the shopping,” Jackie perked up.

“All these devices are for Torchwood's benefit, not the general public's,” Yvonne talked down to her snidely, and Jackie looked like she suddenly shared Hartley's sentiments about wanting to clock the woman in her stupid, painted face.

“So, what about these ghosts?” the Doctor barrelled on, mind not stopping for a moment. Hartley wondered if it ever did.

“Ah yes, the ghosts. They're, er, what you might call a side effect,” she said blithely.

“Of what?” he demanded quickly.

“All in good time, Doctor. There is an itinerary, trust me,” Yvonne sneered.

Hartley looked up as a truck drove passed, and grit her teeth together in anger as she saw the TARDIS perched up on top. The thought of the ship being under these people's control, this corrupt corporation holding the TARDIS against her will, doing who knew _what_ to her in an attempt to gain entry, made her feel sick yet again.

“Oi! Where're you taking that?” Jackie demanded harshly, sounding just about as furious as Hartley felt.

“If it's _alien_ , it's _ours_ ,” Yvonne repeated smugly.

“You'll never get inside it,” the Doctor replied, perfectly calm. Hartley wondered how he could stay so unflustered by everything happening around them. Yvonne only smiled like she knew something they didn't, the expression infuriating her more.

Hartley stared after the ship sadly, until suddenly the doors split open and Rose's gorgeous face peered out, serious worry in her hazel eyes.

Rose's main focus was on the Doctor. Something passed between them, as it usually did, until finally Rose's eyes darted to her. ' _Stay_ ', Hartley mouthed to her sternly, before she smiled gently, hoping to reassure her. Rose's eyes glistened before she disappeared just as quickly as she'd appeared, but Hartley had a feeling the younger girl wouldn't heed her very serious advice.

“All those times I've been on Earth, I've never heard of you,” the Doctor said, hands tucked casually into his pockets as he walked, letting himself be led through the Torchwood facility. Hartley never strayed more than a step from his side. She felt safer with them next to each other.

“But of course not. You're the enemy,” Yvonne chuckled like he'd made some sort of joke. Nobody else laughed. “You're actually named in the Torchwood Foundation Charter of 1879 as an enemy of the Crown,” she continued cheerfully.

“1879,” the Doctor repeated slowly. “That was called Torchwood, that house in Scotland,” he recalled.

“That's right,” she praised him like she had any right to do so. “Where you encountered Queen Victoria and the werewolf.” Hartley hadn't been there, it was the adventure just before she'd been thrust back into TARDIS life. Rose had told her everything, and she had mentioned something about being exiled, but Hartley hadn't taken it seriously. Apparently their actions that day had more of an impact then they ever could have guessed.

“I think they make half of it up,” Jackie murmured offhandedly, though she was ignored by all but Hartley, who tossed her a wide-eyed glance, begging her to keep quiet. The last thing they needed was for these these psychopaths to figure out she wasn't the real Rose Tyler.

“Her Majesty created the Torchwood Institute with the express intention of keeping Britain great, and fighting the alien horde,” she added with a small grimace of disgust. She snapped back into chirpy tour-guide mode instantly though, turning to Hartley with a blinding smile. “Of course, there was no mention of _you_ made by the Queen in that era, Heart,” she said conversationally. “No, we came to know of you through decades and _decades_ of observation and study.”

Hartley was stunned, but she covered it as well as she could, clearing her throat and reaching up to adjust the collar of her simple button down. “Is that so?” she murmured, aiming for blasé.

“Of course,” Yvonne said as though it were obvious. “One can't study the Doctor and not come across record of his Heart. You're always following so close behind, aren't you? Much like an obedient pet.”

Without a spare thought for what she was doing, Hartley took a step forwards, mouth opening to let the taller woman have it. Before she could get so much as a word out, the guns cocked around them. Yvonne didn't so much as flinch, the saccharine smile never once vanishing from her face.

“But if we're the enemy,” the Doctor interrupted loudly, reaching out and grasping tightly onto Hartley's wrist, yanking her back into his side, a silent command to stand down. She did as she was told, frowning at Yvonne sourly, watching her every move. “Does that mean that we're prisoners?” he asked conversationally, like they were discussing tea flavours or the stock market.

“Oh yes,” Yvonne smiled venomously, swiping her card over the keypad and watching as the large double doors slid open, revealing a large, spacious room. “But we'll make you perfectly comfortable. And there is _so_ much you can teach us – starting with _this_ ,” she said happily, leading them through to the lab beyond.

The Doctor raised his eyebrows as he laid eyes on the sphere, and Hartley grimaced. The Doctor was still holding onto her wrist, more of an afterthought now, and she shook him off so she could cross her arms over her chest, eyeing the thing above them with uncertainty.

It was large and floating, perfectly smooth and shiny all around, hovering in mid air without emitting so much as a sound.

“Now, what do you make of that?” Yvonne asked them with an air of arrogance, as though the sphere were something she owned, something to show off at parties.

Hartley stared up at the sphere, thinking that there was a sense of _wrongness_ that the thing gave off. It was _not_ supposed to be there. It was somehow wicked, like it went against the laws of nature itself, and she could barely even stand the sight of it. It made her immediately want to turn the other way.

“You must be the Doctor,” a scientist off to the left scurried up to them eagerly. “Rajesh Singh,” he introduced himself, holding out a hand that trembled with nerves. Hartley supposed she understood, the Doctor could be incredibly intimidating when he wanted to be, but now that she knew him so well, she couldn't imagine ever being as afraid of him as these people were. “It's an honour, sir,” the scientist added, thick with reverence.

The Doctor said absolutely nothing, completely ignoring the poor bloke, who deflated at the disregard. He noticed Hartley looking and perked up again, arm snapping out with such speed she thought it might break.

“That makes you the Heart,” he said as though she might not already know, eyes wide and tone full of undeserved admiration. “It's a pleasure – more than that – it's a _privilege_ to meet you.”

Hartley felt uncomfortable acknowledging the words, but she felt bad enough that she shook his hand anyway, noting that it was clammy with sweat and still trembling. She was completely blindsided by the reception she was receiving. What must she do in the future to be treated like a...like a _legend_? What must she _be_ for everyone to look at her like she was some kind of _celebrity_? Surely she can't have done anything too special, after all, she was just _Hartley._

“What is that thing?” Jackie was asking from behind them, and Hartley was glad to pull her hand from Rajesh's, crossing her arms over her simple white shirt and glancing up at the sphere with renewed distaste. “What's _wrong_ with it?”

“What makes you think there's something wrong with it?” Rajesh jumped in like a true scientist, clipboard held in a white-knuckled grip.

“I don't know. It just feels weird.”

“Well, the sphere has that effect on everyone. Makes you want to run and hide, like it's forbidden,” Yvonne spoke up, though that look of pride remained in her eyes as she stared up at it keenly. Everything about this woman made Hartley feel sick. She was more afraid of her than of the sphere.

“We tried analysing it using every device imaginable,” Rajesh said quickly.

The Doctor abruptly produced a pair of 3D glasses, sliding them confidently onto his nose – and while he gained some odd looks for it, nobody dared question it aloud. A few people turned to Hartley as though expecting her to explain, but she wouldn't have even if she _had_ known the answer, instead looking pointedly away and up at the sphere despite the way it made her stomach turn.

“But according to our instruments, the sphere doesn't exist. It weighs nothing, it doesn't age. No heat, no radiation, and has no atomic mass,” the scientist continued in a voice filled with wonder and awe. She supposed, from a scientific standpoint, it was probably rather fascinating. But that meant nothing to her when it just made her feel so _wrong_.

“Well, Doctor?” Yvonne pressed when the Doctor said nothing, staring at him as he stared at the sphere, so desperate to hear what he had to say.

“This is a Void Ship,” he finally told them, and Rajesh practically salivated at the new information.

“And what is that?” she prompted eagerly.

“Well, it's _impossible_ for starters. I always thought it was just a theory,” he admitted, sliding off the 3D glasses and tucking them back in his pocket, “but it's a vessel designed to exist outside time and space, travelling through the Void.”

“And what's the Void?” Rajesh jumped on the unknown term like a stray dog, hungry for its next meal.

“The space between dimensions,” the Doctor began to explain, taking a seat on the steps leading up to the sphere, the others crowding around him like toddlers at story time. “There's all sorts of realities around us, different dimensions, billions of parallel universes all stacked up against each other. The Void is the space in between, containing absolutely nothing. Imagine that. _Nothing._ No light, no dark, no up, no down, no life, no time. Without end. My people called it the Void. The Eternals call it the Howling. But some people call it Hell.”

The speech was terrifying to Hartley, affecting her more than anybody else in the room. She was the only person who could possibly know exactly what he was talking about – and she didn't even have to imagine it. What he was talking about – that was what it was like to die, what it was like to be _killed;_ waiting in that black, timeless hell for her body to reanimate, or whatever the hell it was it did to bring her back.

“But someone built the sphere,” Rajesh interjected with a thoughtful frown. “What _for_? Why go there?”

“To explore? To escape? You could sit inside that thing and eternity would pass you by. The Big Bang, end of the Universe, start of the next, wouldn't even touch the sides. You'd exist outside the whole of creation,” the Doctor told them, and his gaze moved over to Hartley, taking in the glint of empathetic horror in her eyes.

He frowned, seeming to sense where her thoughts lay. She attempted a smile, but couldn't quite manage it.

“You see, we were right,” Yvonne was practically purring with satisfaction. “There _is_ something inside it.”

“Oh, yes,” the Doctor confirmed grimly.

“So how do we get in there?”

“We _don't_!” he snapped, and Hartley was glad he'd done so. She didn't know what was inside the sphere, but she was almost certain she didn't want to find out. It was one mystery she was content to see never get solved. “We send that thing _back_ into Hell. How did it get here in the first place?”

“Well, that's how it all started. The sphere came through into this world, and the ghosts followed in its wake.”

“Show me,” the Doctor ordered, turning to leave without hesitation.

Hartley was quick to follow, not planning to leave the Doctor alone for a moment, lest somebody attack one of them, leaving either unprotected.

“I think I'm going to need your help, Heart,” Yvonne appeared beside her, her steely eyes focused intently on the Doctor's back as he independently led the way towards the lift.

“Excuse me?” Hartley asked, blinking in surprise at the strange sentence presented to her.

“Well, according to our records, you're about all there is between the Doctor and the people around him. A kind of buffer … or translator, if you will,” Yvonne told her with that saccharine smile in place, only serving to confuse Hartley further. “I trust you'll be able to keep him in check?” she said like it were a perfectly acceptable favour she was asking of a friend.

“You can trust me to do no such thing,” Hartley responded curtly, but Yvonne took it in stride, smiling again, the expression edged with poison.

“You can sound as tough as you like,” she said, voice layered with infuriating condescension, “but they call you the _Heart_ for a reason.”

“Because it's my _name_ ,” she snapped back, her tone clipped. Yvonne only smiled wider, looking for all the world like a shark displaying its many, deadly teeth.

They stepped into the lift, Jackie saddling up beside Hartley, arms crossed over her chest and a look of steely resolve on her face. Hartley wanted to ask if she was alright, but wasn't about to do so in front of Yvonne or the guards, so she settled for nudging her to gain her attention, then sending her a small smile that she hoped gave her some small degree of comfort.

The lift doors opened with a ding and the guards began to herd her and Jackie to the right, while Yvonne took the Doctor off to the left.

Acting on instinct, Hartley's hand snapped out to grab ahold of the Doctor's jacket, making the guards pause as they realised she was preventing anyone from moving. They looked at one another in uncertainty.

The Doctor met her eyes, a knowing look in his own. “It's okay, Hart,” he assured her gently, reaching down to grasp the hand that was holding onto him. His skin was smooth and warm, lightly calloused from all his tinkering. He seldom touched her, preferring to keep a respectable distance between them – Hartley could only guess why.

It was strange to have him initiate contact, as he'd done so much in the last hour, and she swallowed as she gripped him back. She wasn't scared for herself – they could kill her, but that didn't matter. Who knew what they'd do to the Doctor if they got the jump on him? Who knew what sort of experiments they might try to conduct? How painful or invasive they might be? He could regenerate, yes, but he could also die, and the thought of never seeing him again was almost too much to bear.

She very nearly refused to let him go, but there was a reassuring look in his old eyes, promising her that it was fine. She hated when he made promises they both knew he couldn't keep. His chocolate brown stare bore into her own cobalt blue gaze, telling her to _let_ _go, it will be okay._

She grimaced but eventually did as she was told, letting him go and stepping away. The Doctor nodded his thanks, then he was tugged from view, disappearing around the corner. Anxiety twisted in her stomach, but she took a deep breath, reminding herself that the Doctor could take care of himself, and reluctantly allowed the guards to lead her and Jackie off to the right and into what she could only assume to be Yvonne's office.

“I'm going, I'm going,” Jackie mumbled irritatedly, when the guards pushed her forwards, forcing her to hurry up. The two men looked like they could care less, grunting and turning away, leaving them alone in the lavish office. “Suppose she's okay?” she murmured to Hartley in an attempt to fill the silence. It didn't take a genius to figure out who she meant.

“I'm sure she's absolutely fine,” Hartley told her, swallowing her own concern and giving a smile that probably wouldn't help, but the effort was appreciated anyway. “Rose is strong. Besides, we've been in far worse situations before,” she added reassuringly. “This is nothing compared to the time we met Satan.”

Jackie looked over at her sharply from where she was perched at the wall, and Hartley got the feeling she'd accidentally said too much. In hindsight, there were probably some adventures Rose kept from her mother on purpose. Hartley couldn't say she blamed her.

“All these things you see, everything you do; don't you ever get scared?” Jackie asked quietly, a deep contemplation in her voice, one Hartley had never heard from her before.

She smiled, but the expression was wry. “I'm scared right now,” she admitted, but Jackie didn't seem to believe her.

“You don't seem it,” she muttered, eyes on her feet.

“ _Being brave isn't the absence of fear. Being brave is having that fear but finding a way through it,_ ” Hartley recited gently.

“Who said that then, Aristotle?” Jackie asked dryly.

Hartley smiled. “Bear Grylls.”

Even through the haze of confusion and concern, the comment was enough to make Jackie smile, and Hartley felt proud that she'd been able to achieve that much.

“It's scary sometimes, I'll admit,” Hartley told her once the mood had darkened once again. “But the things we see … the things we do and worlds we save and fun we have, it's all so _worth_ it.”

Jackie's lips twisted in disagreement. “If you say so,” she murmured. Hartley knew she wasn't going to be able to convince her, so she fell silent, trying not to think too hard about where the Doctor had gone and what he was doing – or having done _to_ him. “Hold on a minute,” Jackie said suddenly, leaning against the window and peering down at the world outside. “We really _are_ in Canary Wharf. Must be. This building, it's Canary Wharf.”

“Well, that _is_ the public name for it. But to those in the know, it's Torchwood,” Yvonne reappeared in the room, the Doctor trailing after her, hands tucked casually into his pockets, looking certainly no worse for wear.

  
Hartley met his eyes, a question in her own, and he nodded his head to confirm he really was all right.

“So, you find the breach, probe it, the sphere comes through six hundred feet above London, _bam_!” the Doctor began to rant, continuing on from whatever he'd just been shown, and Hartley settled back against the wall, prepared for the long haul. “It leaves a hole in the fabric of reality. And that hole, you think, oh, shall we leave it alone? Shall we back off? Shall we play it safe? Nah, you think – let's make it _bigger_!” he barrelled on loudly, and Yvonne looked dangerously close to rolling her eyes.

“It's a massive source of energy,” she said defensively, only serving to irritate Hartley further. “If we can harness that power, we need never depend on the Middle East again. Britain will become truly independent.” She glanced down at her watch quickly, standing straighter as she took note of the time. “Look, you can see for yourself. Next ghost shift's in two minutes.”

“Cancel it.” The Doctor's words were not a request.

“I don't think so,” she laughed breezily, strolling past him into the main room where Torchwood's employees were beginning to move quickly, rushing around to the room to prepare for the ghost shift.

“I'm warning you, cancel it!” his order was thundered, a panicked fury lighting up his face.

“Doctor,” Hartley said imploringly, resting a hand on his shoulder, shifting her eyes between him and Yvonne, worried for a brief moment that he might do something he'd regret – the venom in his gaze so intense. He stood suddenly still, mouth pressed into a line in an attempt to keep calm.

“Oh, and it's _exactly_ as the legends would have it!” Yvonne sounded absolutely thrilled. “The Doctor, lording it over us. Assuming alien authority over the Rights of Man. And his _Heart_ , always there to keep him in check. Tell me, what's it like to live your life constantly cleaning up after this alien's mess?” she asked Hartley derisively, that ugly sneer on her painted face.

Neither time traveller knew what to make of the comment. Hartley felt personally invaded. Uncomfortable, she lifted her hand from the Doctor's arm, crossing her own over her chest and scowling as he hissed out a sharp breath of frustration. He fished his sonic from his jacket pocket and ducked behind the sheet of glass that separated Yvonne's office from the rest of the room.

“Let me show you,” he snapped impatiently. “Sphere comes through-” he aimed the screwdriver at the glass, and like a spiderweb the glass cracked, the sound reminding her of ice on a frozen lake. “But when it made the hole, it cracked the world around it. The entire surface of this dimension splintered. And that's how the ghosts get through. That's how they get everywhere. They're bleeding through the fault lines. Walking from their world, across the Void, and into yours, with the human race hoping and wishing and helping them along. But too many ghosts, and-” he lightly tapped the glass, and it shattered into a million pieces, crashing to the ground with a piercing sound that made most of the room flinch, including Hartley herself.

“Well, in that case, we'll have to be more careful,” Yvonne was wholly unimpressed by the display. “Positions! Ghost Shift in one minute,” she called to the rest of her staff, some of whom were looking a little more wary about the whole thing now that they'd heard directly from the Doctor himself.

“Ms Hartman, I am asking you, _please_ don't do it,” the Doctor was willing to stoop to begging, so Hartley knew he had to be desperate. She didn't want to think about what might happen to the Earth should they not listen.

“We have done this a thousand times,” Yvonne snapped agitatedly, impatience beginning to show.

“Then stop at a thousand!”

“We're in control of the ghosts,” she argued stubbornly. “The levers can open the breach, but equally, they can close it!”

There was a long, pregnant pause, and Hartley stared at the woman, wondering how the hell she could be so careless, so _stupid_? The thought that these sort of people were the ones in charge of the fate of the human race was a terrifying one. 'Power-hungry and careless' got you further in this world than 'kind and understanding', apparently.

“Okay,” the Doctor shrugged suddenly, eerily calm. He strolled back into the office, fetching a swivel chair and rolling it into the middle of the main room, plopping down on it with a sort of vague smile. Hartley wanted to roll her eyes at his dramatics, but she was honestly far more used to it than she'd have liked to be. He was pulling the oldest trick in the book, but knowing the Doctor, Hartley's money was on it working.

“Sorry?” Yvonne was stunned by his abrupt change of tune.

“Never mind. As you were,” he told her casually.

“What, is that it?” she challenged sharply.

“No, fair enough. Said my bit. Don't mind me,” he shrugged again. “Any chance of a cup of tea? Hartley, would you be a dear?”

“In your dreams,” Hartley murmured in response, falling into their easy banter despite their perilous circumstance. The Doctor grinned back at her, looking wholly unconcerned, but she knew him well enough by now to recognise the steely glint to his eyes. He was anxious, not to mention _angry._

“What's happening?” Yvonne snapped suddenly, turning to stare at Hartley with beady, nervous eyes. “What's he saying?”

She wasn't sure why it was suddenly her that had to play translator, but she also knew nobody else was actually capable of doing it. “He's _saying_ that if you wanna fuck up so irreversibly that you end civilisation as we know it, all because you're a bloody stubborn _fool,_ then that's your prerogative, and he's done caring.”

“Exactly,” the Doctor agreed with a sharp bob of his head. “Only my version had less cursing,” he added offhandedly.

“Sorry, when I'm angry my mouth gets away from me,” she told him offhandedly.

“Happens to the best of us,” he nodded, still the picture of serenity. Looking at him, anyone else wouldn't have a single idea what was going on inside his head, even Hartley wasn't privy to it, but she out of everyone was the most qualified to make a guess.

“Ghost shift in twenty seconds,” one of the many workers announced, and Hartley glanced away from the Doctor, over at the woman who'd spoken. Her eyes were firmly focused on the computer screen before her.

“You can't stop us, Doctor,” Yvonne said, sounding almost smug, but there was a note of uncertainty lingering beneath. Hartley knew then that the Doctor had already won.

“No, absolutely not,” he shrugged calmly, knowing this just as well. “Pull up a chair, Rose,” he said brightly to Jackie, who scowled back at him, unimpressed. “You too, Hart. Come and watch the fireworks.”

“Ghost Shift in ten seconds. Nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two-”

“Stop the shift. I said stop!” Yvonne called, and just as suddenly, everything began to power down.

There was a beat, then the Doctor said, “thank you,” and the sincerity coating the words was genuine.

Yvonne's lips were pulled into a tight scowl. “I suppose it makes sense to get as much intelligence as possible,” she said darkly, clinging to the last scrap of control she had, the scrap that was beginning to slip from her grasp like sand through her fingers. “But the programme will recommence, as soon as you've explained everything.”

“I'm glad to be of help,” he nodded curtly, and she frowned.

“And someone clear up this glass,” she snapped to her workers. “They did warn me, Doctor. They said you like to make a mess,” she added with a disdainful sneer.

The Doctor didn't react, only moving to roll the chair back into the office before sitting back down on it again, legs thrown up onto the desk casually. Hartley leaned back against the wall beside Jackie, who was handling the hustle and bustle of the situation quite well for someone who'd never done anything like it before.

“So these ghosts, whatever they are, did they build the sphere?” Yvonne asked with an air of impatience, sitting down behind her desk and fixing the Doctor with a searching look, perfectly manicured hands folded on the tabletop in front of her.

“Must have,” he nodded with a sniff. “Aimed it at this dimension like a cannon ball.”

“Yvonne?” a voice said from the woman's computer, and her attention moved to the screen. “I think you should see this. We've got a visitor. We don't know who she is, but funnily enough, she arrived at the same time as the Doctor.”

Yvonne smirked like something about the situation was amusing, and spun the computer around so the Doctor and his companions could see the screen. “She one of yours?” Yvonne asked knowingly, revealing Rajesh sitting with Rose back down in the lab. Hartley ground her teeth, although she really should have known Rose wouldn't do as she was told and remain locked in the safety of the TARDIS.

“Never seen her before in my life,” the Doctor shrugged, and if Hartley hadn't known otherwise, she might have even believed it. He was so good at lying, sometimes it was scary.

“Good. Then we can have her shot,” Yvonne unflinchingly called his bluff. From beside Hartley, Jackie sucked in a sharp breath of panic.

“Oh, all right then,” the Doctor rolled his eyes as he dropped the act. “It was worth a try. _That's_ Rose Tyler,” he revealed, standing to his feet grumpily. Hartley wondered if a pout was going to follow.

“Sorry,” Rose mumbled, lifting a hand to awkwardly wave at the camera. “Hello.”

“Well, if that's Rose Tyler, who's she?” Yvonne demanded, pointing at Jackie accusingly.

“I'm her mother,” she cried defensively.

“Oh, you travel with her mother?”

“He _kidnapped_ me!”

“Please, when Torchwood comes to write my complete history, don't tell people I travelled through time and space with her mother,” the Doctor requested, a wince on his face as he imagined that particular piece of information getting passed around. Hartley managed a small grin at the thought.

“Charming,” Jackie grumbled sourly.

“I've got a reputation to uphold,” he replied defensively.

Out of nowhere, Hartley wondered what Jack would say if he were there. The thought made her sad, but she didn't have time to wallow in it, as from the other room the machines all whirred to life, the sound loud through the space made by the shattered glass window.

“Excuse me?” Yvonne exclaimed furiously, rearing back in shock and rushing from the room. “Everyone? I thought I said _stop_ the ghost shift,” she barked, but none of the workers so much as flinched. Beginning to grow concerned, the Doctor followed her out, Hartley on his heels. “Who started the programme? But I _ordered_ you to stop! Who's doing that?” She was beginning to grow hysterical, finally losing that last shred of composure she seemed to hold in such high esteem. “Right, step away from the monitors, everyone. Gareth, Addy, _stop_ what you're doing, right _now._ Matt, step away from your desk. That's an _order_! Stop the levers! Andrew!”

One of the other scientists ran towards the levers, which were slowly beginning to move, automatically starting the Ghost Shift. Hartley felt her pulse beat in her ears and shifted closer to Jackie, who was staring at the scene with wide eyes.

“What's she doing?” the Doctor asked, approaching a pretty woman on the left. He leaned down, observing her as she worked, seemingly deaf to everything around her.

“Addy, step away from the desk. Listen to me. Step _away_ from the desk!” Yvonne shouted desperately in her employee's ear, but there was no sign of a reaction.

“She can't hear you,” the Doctor replied grimly. “They're overriding the system. We're going into Ghost Shift.” There was a beat, and Hartley could practically see the cogs in his mind spinning away, brain racing to try and solve the problem before him. She knew he'd come to some sort of regrettable conclusion by the downward tilt of his mouth and the flicker of pain in his eyes. “It's the ear piece,” he told them, fishing out his screwdriver. “It's controlling them. I've seen this before.”

He paused, turning to look at Hartley, guilt shining in his gaze.

She wasn't sure what he meant, but the look in his eyes reminded her of something, and with a gasp she suddenly recalled the alternate universe they'd all gone to, the one where Rose's dad had been alive and Mickey had remained to be with his living grandmother and save the world from … the _Cybermen._

“Oh God,” she blurted, nausea crashing over her like a wave as she physically recoiled, stepping away from the people, eyes burning with grief. The things surrounding them weren't _people_ anymore. They were already long dead. And there was absolutely nothing they could do.

Occasionally, at times such as these, Hartley wished her 'gift' was contagious. She wished it were possible to transfer her ability to the innocent victims around her, reviving them, giving them another opportunity at life. But it was impossible, and besides, her condition wasn't one she would wish on anyone. Ever.

“Sorry. I'm so sorry,” the Doctor was saying, voice thick with remorse. He held his screwdriver out ready, and there was an ancient pain in his eyes, one Hartley herself could only just begin to understand. She supposed she'd learn … in time.

She turned away, refusing to watch what was about to happen. She heard screams as the workers died, but she didn't allow herself to wallow in her regret, didn't allow herself to wonder if maybe, just maybe, they'd have been able to save them. Would it have been possible, or was it just wishful thinking? Again she was forced to shove her emotions aside, swallowing thickly and turning back to the conversation, keeping herself from looking at the bodies sprawled lifelessly over the desks, knowing if she did, she'd break apart without hope of being put back together.

“What happened? What did you just do?” Yvonne demanded shrilly, panic saturating her voice.

“They're dead,” the Doctor replied emotionlessly, refusing to allow himself to feel. He was so good at compartmentalising, it was something Hartley was only just beginning to learn how to do.

“You killed them,” Jackie gasped, utterly horrified. Hartley knew what she was thinking, knew she was wondering if _this_ was the man she'd let her daughter run off with. If _this_ was what Rose was involved in. Hartley wished she could comfort her somehow, but in that moment she could barely even comfort herself.

“Oh, someone else did that long before I got here,” the Doctor said tonelessly, the absence of emotion betraying his fear.

“But you _killed_ them!” she cried.

“Jackie, I haven't got time for this,” he snapped impatiently, racing over to the other desk and frantically tapping away at the computer, attention already diverted to the problem at hand.

“He-he just-” Jackie was stammering, unable to properly form a sentence, but Hartley understood, stepping closer and placing a comforting hand on her arm.

“There was absolutely _nothing_ he could have done, Jackie,” she promised her quietly, the sincerity in her eyes abundant. “If there was, he would have done it,” she assured her, knowing this to be, above all else, true.

“But they're _dead_ -”

“They're not suffering,” she corrected soothingly.

“What? _He_ _put them out of their misery_?” Jackie demanded, the words riddled with disgust.

Lump in her throat, Hartley struggled to respond. “I'm sorry,” was all she could say, and Jackie turned away with a grimace, eyes glistening with tears, processing her words, trying to come to peace with them. It was something she could only achieve on her own, and so Hartley backed off, dropped her hands and turning back to the Doctor, who was frantically tapping away at the keyboard before him.

“What are those earpieces?” Yvonne was demanding from him, hovering over the dead woman and eyeing the earpiece with suspicion.

“Don't,” was all he said, curt and distracted by his task.

“But they're standard comms devices. How does it control them?”

“Trust me, leave them alone.”

“But what are they?”

Hartley glanced over in time to see Yvonne grasping onto one of the devices. She leapt forward with a shouted, “don't!” but it was too late. She tore the device from the ear, a long rope of slimy grey matter coming with it, dangling from it grotesquely. “Ugh!” she gagged, dropping the device to the floor with a clatter. “Oh, _God_! It goes inside their brain!”

“What about the Ghost Shift?” the Doctor snapped – no time to coddle the sensitive humans. Hartley was used to this attitude, but Yvonne looked vaguely scandalised by the brusque treatment.

“Ninety percent there and still running. Can't you stop it?”

“They're still controlling it. They've hijacked the system.”

“Who's they?”

“Your worst nightmare,” Hartley told her with dark sincerity, and Yvonne looked vaguely terrified before the Doctor was speaking again, distracting them all.

“It might be a remote transmitter but it's got to be close by. I can trace it. Jackie, stay here! Hart, keep an eye on things. You know what to do in the worst case scenario,” he barked even as he ran from the room, Yvonne following closely behind.

“What does that mean?” Jackie asked her tensely, glancing over at the remaining workers, all of which were struggling to put a halt to the Ghost Shift. “'Worst case scenario', what's that mean?” she demanded.

“It means that I protect you at all costs,” Hartley replied shortly.

“How're _you_ gonna protect _me_?” Jackie asked doubtfully, taking in her short height and doughy frame. She barely looked capable of fighting a chicken, let alone a Cyberman.

“You don't wanna know,” she responded, trying not to think about how much getting killed again was going to hurt. She didn't blame the Doctor for suggesting it. It hadn't been said callously, or with any kind of carelessness. It had been said out of blatant necessity.

She shot Jackie an unconvincing smile before spinning around and heading for the levers where the workers were still struggling to hold them back.

She may not have been the strongest person around, but they needed all the help they could get, so she placed her hands over theirs and yanked, desperately trying to pull it back and keep the Shift from beginning – even though she knew it was, essentially, pointless.

These weren't just _any_ old big bad; these were the _Cybermen._ Hartley shuddered to think of exactly what they were capable of. She knew she'd gotten but a glimpse in Pete's world. She had a feeling she was about to find out what they could _really_ do.

“What's happening?!” Jackie demanded sharply, and Hartley glanced back to catch the terrified look on her face, clearly unused to being so directly in the line of fire. “Hartley, what's going on?!”

“Stay back, Jackie!” Hartley warned her, turning back to trying to stop the levers from moving.

“Get away from the machines!” The Doctor's voice suddenly filled the room, and Hartley immediately did exactly what she was told. Stepping away and holding her hands up in surrender while subtly moving so she was placed in front of Jackie. The robotic groaning of metal met her ears, and a troop of Cybermen marched after him into the room. Hartley's heart froze, her throat closing with fear. “Do what they say. Don't fight them!” the Doctor urged them desperately.

The metal monsters fired anyway, shooting all the remaining workers in sight, and unfortunately Hartley fit the bill.

The shot stung where it hit her in the shoulder, the pain ricocheting through every atom of her being. With a muffled curse she dropped to the ground, dead.

* * *

Hartley awoke, as always, with a violent gasp.

Her eyes flew open, and she shot up into a sitting position as she sucked in as much air as she could, her previously frozen airways getting used to working once again. She clutched at her shoulder, where she still felt the phantom of an ache from where she'd been hit by the Cyberman's weapon.

“Hartley?!” Jackie's terrified and bewildered voice shouted from across the room, and Hartley spun around to stare at the others, blinking away the layer of dust coating her eyes and focusing on the Cybermen filling the room.

“ _You were deleted_ ,” one of the Cybermen said in its robotic voice. “ _Explain,_ ” it demanded of her, weapon nozzle aimed threateningly in her direction.

“Just a bit of a side effect from an incident with the Bad Wolf,” the Doctor appeared by her side, speaking casually as he bent down to gently but firmly grasp her arms, steadily helping her stand to her feet. “Nothing to be concerned about,” he added, as though they were capable of such a thing. He ducked down, catching her blurry gaze, checking she was okay.

She attempted a smile, nodding her head weakly, but he didn't look convinced – which was fair, considering she was lying.

“ _Explain_ ,” the Cyberleader ordered again in its crackling, emotionless voice.

“ _Units in Sphere chamber are opening visual link_ ,” a new Cyberman told it from the doorway, and Hartley was relieved when the attention turned away from her. The Doctor was quick to lead her into the office, keeping a hand on her arm as though worried she might at any moment keel over, dead once again. It would have hardly been out of character.

“Miss much?” she asked him under her breath, reaching up again to rub at her still aching shoulder.

“Just the invasion of the entire planet,” he responded just as quietly, letting her go once he was sure she could stand on her own. He left a patch of heat where his hand had been, and the ache from her shoulder spread to her chest. She stepped closer to Jackie, who was staring at her with wide eyes that shone with disbelief.

“Hart, you were _dead_ ,” she hissed to her daughter's friend, looking about ready to drop to her knees out of shock.

“I'll explain later,” Hartley murmured to her quietly, taking the place to the right and reaching down to squeeze the older woman's hand, hoping desperately there would _be_ a later in which she could explain.

The laptop resting on the desk suddenly burst to life, displaying the viewpoint of the Cybermen. Everything was still and silent for one long, drawn out moment, and Hartley wondered what they were waiting for until a truly _heinous_ sight rolled into view.

“No,” the Doctor breathed, and Hartley's first instinct was to glance up at him warily, taking in the look of horror on his face. He was staring at the Dalek like it were a ghost – which, to him, she supposed it was. Hartley's hands began to shake, and she curled them around the hem of her scruffy jumper, gripping tightly to try and stave off the insanity.

Why couldn't the Daleks ever just _die_?

They listened to the Cybermen and the Dalek talk to each other in their robotic voices, but Hartley struggled to pay attention, focused on the Doctor and his look of pure dismay. She couldn't imagine what he was feeling, the horror and dread that was filling him. She could barely fathom the memories the sight of them was bringing up, echoes of a war not long since past, rattling around inside that big brain of his.

The urge to comfort him was strong, and she reached out with a still-shaking hand, gently pressing her palm against one of his wiry shoulder blades. Her hand looked so small splayed against his back, pale against the brown pinstripe material of his beloved suit.

He was frozen under her touch – though that was probably just because of the Dalek on the screen before them – and Hartley swallowed around the ball of emotion gathering in her throat, dragging her thumb over his covered skin, a soothing sort of motion, one born of comfort and care. He remained solid, not trembling or quaking, merely standing, staring at the Dalek with horror and a mounting sense of rage that Hartley could feel pouring from him like water bursting through holes in a poorly constructed dam.

“Rose said about the Daleks – she was terrified of them,” Jackie spoke suddenly, leaning around Hartley to murmur with the Doctor. “What have they done to her, Doctor? Is she dead?” she asked, eyes wet with fear.

“Phone,” the Doctor demanded, abruptly standing up straight, and Hartley's hand dropped from its place on his back.

“What?”

“Phone!” he hissed again, and with a start she fished out her phone, handing it to the Doctor with shaky hands.

Hartley looked down over his shoulder, watching as he pressed the correct button, the device calling Rose's phone. There was a long, drawn out minute where Hartley was sure Jackie was holding her breath – because she was too – and then the call finally connected and the older blonde sagged with visible relief.

“She's answered. She's alive,” the Doctor sounded equally relieved, and Hartley wondered what he might have done had Rose not been okay. She wasn't sure she'd ever glimpsed the Oncoming Storm. She'd heard about it, heard tales of the Doctor's capacity for rage and fury, but she'd never seen it herself. She wondered briefly if she ever would, only to realise that, if anything happened to Rose, she wouldn't be wondering long.

The point was moot anyhow, because nothing would _ever_ happen to Rose Tyler. Not while Hartley Daniels was still breathing.

“Why haven't they killed her?” the Doctor pondered aloud, bringing her from her hurricane of darker thoughts.

“Well, don't complain!” Jackie barked defensively.

“They must need her for something,” he muttered, frowning thoughtfully before whirling around to fix Hartley with a heavy stare. “Hartley, can you get down there?”

She hesitated. “Theoretically, yes,” she answered, although she had a feeling the Doctor already knew this.

“You can't send Hart down, she'll die too!” Jackie exclaimed loudly, a protective flare to her voice. Hartley imagined that must be what it was like to have a mother who cared actually about you beyond what you could do for her image.

But the Doctor wasn't listening. “You can get down there and get to her,” he said with a renewed sense of hope.

“Yeah, and die about thirty times on the way down,” Hartley argued, falling back on logic as a way to cope. She'd do it for Rose in a heartbeat, but it just wasn't a smart move. The Doctor may have been too blinded by desperation to see it, but she certainly wasn't. “How long will that take, counting all the time it takes for me to revive? And what exactly am I meant to do when I get there? Annoy the Daleks to death?!”

Hartley watched as the hope disappeared, the fog of panic lifting long enough for the Doctor to see what a bad plan it was. Before either could say anything more, however, the Cybermen surrounding them burst to life once again. Hartley flinched, having almost forgotten they were there.

“ _Quarantine the Sphere chamber. Start emergency upgrading. Begin with these personnel_.”

The Cyberman lackeys grabbed Jackie and Yvonne, and the same cold, metal arms curled around Hartley, squeezing tightly, pushing the air from her lungs with a puff.

“ _Not that one_ ,” the Cyberleader said as the others began to scream, and with a start of surprise Hartley realised they were talking about her. “ _That one is not compatible_.”

Her heart sank as she was roughly released, pushed to the ground like a piece of trash. She hit the floor with a gasp, pain radiating up her arms. She looked up only to watch with a sense of mounting guilt as Jackie and Yvonne were forcibly dragged away. “You can take me! I know things!” she yelled stupidly, thinking that _maybe_ if she could convince them to take her too, she could save them somehow. There had to be a way. There was always a way.

“ _You will remain with the male_ ,” the Cyberleader said flatly, and she climbed off the floor, staring after the other women in despair, feeling as if the air had been sucked from the room. She could barely breathe.

“No, you can't do this! We surrendered! We surrendered!” Yvonne was hollering desperately. But her cries fell on deaf, literally nonexistent, ears.

“ _This one. His increased adrenaline suggests that he has vital Dalek information_ ,” said the Cyberleader, referring to the Doctor. Hartley slid back into place beside him, reaching up to grasp at his arm through the material of his suit jacket, letting the feel of him under her hand ground her.

“Stop them! I don't want to go!” Jackie was screaming to the Doctor, who Hartley had never seen look more guilty.

He was stricken, torn as he stared wordlessly at Jackie, his helplessness clawing at her consciousness like a rabid animal, demanding to be heard. She could feel it as well as if it were her own. Her empathy flared, and she felt herself begin to crumble under the weight of his remorse.

“You _promised_ me! You gave me your _word_!” Jackie cried hysterically, desperately throwing her weight around in an attempt to get free, but it was to no avail. She was so scared, so terrified, it made Hartley's eyes burn with grief.

“Jackie, you'll be okay!” she shouted as loudly as she could, struggling to be heard over all the other sounds filling the room, the cry tearing at her throat with its force. “You and Rose will be okay!” she yelled after her with the kind of conviction only an empath could conjure.

She knew she had no business making any such promises, but if there was one thing she believed in, it was the Doctor. He would find a way, as he always did, and she herself would do everything in her power to pull the plan through and save their friends – their family.

“ _The prisoners are to be seated_ ,” the Cyberleader droned, grasping the Doctor's shoulders and pushing, sending the Time Lord down onto the seat at the window. It turned to Hartley, prepared to do the same, but she quickly copied the movement before it could, seating herself at the window, swallowing back the emotions gripping her insides like a knot.

The thing turned away, stepping back to the door and beginning to speak with one of the other Cybermen in their drab, robotic tones.

“Is this what I do?” the Doctor asked the Hartley under his breath, watching as she turned away from the scene and instead looked out the window, hoping to find a peaceful distraction. Only, the city below her was dripping with chaos, fires raging down every other street, explosions levelling buildings to dust. It was like something from the beginning of every dystopian novel she'd ever read. “Kidnap people's mothers only to get them killed by armies of Cybermen?”

“That's far too specific to actually be a recurring problem,” she attempted lighthearted, but it fell utterly flat, her voice hoarse with grief. The Doctor didn't laugh, and her mouth twisted into an even deeper frown. His emotions were thick in her system, she felt like they might choke her. “This isn't your fault,” she told him around the pressure at her throat, glancing away from the burning city below and up at him, taking in the guilt slowly eating away at the warmth in his eyes.

“It's nice of you to try to make me feel better,” he said without meeting her stare, watching the Cybermen warily, as though waiting for one of them to snap and start shooting. What would she do if he got shot? He'd regenerate again, surely. The thought made her panic – she'd only just gotten used to _this_ Doctor, what would happen if he changed again? What if this time it was someone who hated her even more than his last face had?

“There's nothing else I'm good at,” she murmured in reply, but it felt distant, like somebody else was the one speaking, and she was but a spectator to the whole conversation.

“That's not true,” the Doctor said, finally removing his stare from the Cybermen, only to hang his head in something like defeat. “You emanate light, Hartley,” he told her, voice tired but still filled with a shining sincerity. The strength of his words made her heart swell, and her breath hitched as she stared over at him, listening intently. “Sometimes I think people need you more than they will ever need me,” he murmured, introspective.

She glanced down to see his eyes tightly shut, and wondered what was going through his head. It was, without a doubt, the nicest thing he'd ever said to her, and like an idiot, she grew emotional, looking upwards to try and control her wet eyes, lest the Doctor find her weeping like a child.

She was prevented from answering – thankfully, because she had no idea how to reply to such a rare, genuine compliment from the one person it meant the most from – by the appearance of the Cyberleader, who stomped back into the room with those ominous, mechanical whirrs. “ _You are proof_ ,” it said to the Doctor robotically, and the Time Lord took a moment to run his hands over his face in emotional exhaustion before his eyelids fluttered open and he stared back at the abomination blankly.

“Of what?” he asked it, almost as toneless as his enemy.

“ _That emotions destroy you_.”

The Doctor gave a sort of smirk, a hint of bitterness and something like self-loathing making an appearance. “Yeah, I am,” he said, voice thick with hate. Whether for himself or them, Hartley wasn't certain. She knew it was strong, and somewhere in the back of her mind registered the fear that one day he might very well drown in it.

There was a disturbance from the main room and his eyebrows raised, a hint of a smirk on his lips.

“Mind you, I quite like hope. Hope's a good emotion. And here it comes.”

Hartley was more than confused, but the sudden sly, victorious grin on the Doctor's face made the very same emotion – hope – swell within her.

“ _Here who comes_?” the Cyberman demanded.

The group of strangely familiar commandos popped into existence, guns firing before they'd even fully materialised, taking out the remaining Cybermen in the room. Their metal bodies dropped lifelessly to the floor, no longer a threat, and Hartley felt like she could finally breathe again.

Her smile remained as the leader of the group removed his mask, revealing a shockingly familiar face. “Doctor?” their saviour grinned widely, revealing glistening white teeth. “Good to see you again.”

“Jake?” the Doctor asked in disbelief.

“The Cybermen came through from one world to another, and so did we,” he revealed with a beam. His eyes slid over to Hartley, who had stood to her feet, smiling at all of them with gratitude. “Looking good, Hartley,” he said charmingly.

“Better believe it, hotshot,” she replied coyly – she really had spent too much time with Jack for his ways not to rub off on her at least a _little_ – and the Doctor looked torn between hitting something and bursting into hysterical laughter. He recovered quickly, fishing out that same pair of 3D glasses and slipping them on his face, staring at the group of warriors for a moment.

“Awaiting orders, Sir,” one of the commandos said, standing ramrod straight, looking about ready to salute.

“Defend this room,” Jake instructed the soldiers clearly. “Chrissie, monitor communications. Kill one CyberLeader and they just download into another. Move!”

At the command they all sprung into action, slipping smoothly from the room, their weapons held at the ready.

“You can't just, just _hop_ from one world to another,” the Doctor was still having a hard time processing the miracle they'd been handed. Personally, Hartley didn't like to look a gift horse in the mouth. “You _can't,_ ” he squawked.

“We just did. With these,” Jake replied, tossing a smallish, yellow medallion to the Time Lord, who caught it in deft hands, then stared down at it in bewilderment. Hartley leaned over his shoulder to get a better look, eyeing the device curiously.

“ _That's_ what brought you here?” she asked doubtfully. It looked like something you found at the discount store.

“Yes ma'am,” Jake replied with a nod. She wasn't sure she liked the title, but she wasn't about to dispute it after he'd just saved their lives.

“But that's _impossible_ ,” the Doctor said, eyeing the device critically. “You can't have this sort of technology,” he hissed, as though the very existence of it was shattering his entire belief system.

“We've got our own version of Torchwood. They developed it,” Jake explained, surprisingly patient considering the circumstances. “Do you want to come and see?” he asked, a cheeky grin spreading across his youthful face.

“No!” the Doctor cried, but Jake didn't stop to listen, and with a press of the button they were gone, leaving Hartley standing in the middle of an empty, broken Torchwood, once again completely and utterly alone.

She knew they would _probably_ be back – but still, being abandoned in the middle of a Cyberman/Dalek invasion wasn't very high on her bucket list. She swallowed, moving back over to the office and sitting in the empty swivel chair, taking the opportunity to ponder her predicament.

She considered her options. She could go try and find Jackie and Yvonne, but not only did she not know where they were, but getting there wouldn't exactly be a picnic in the park – the whole building was crawling with dangerous adversaries. She could find Rose, but again, getting there was problematic.

Standing back up to her feet, she wandered over a collapsed Cyberman and cautiously kicked it. It didn't seem to react, so she was sure it was definitely dead – if you could say the thing had ever really been _alive_ in the first place.

Before she had too long to ponder the complexities of Cyberman philosophy, the Doctor reappeared with a flash, and Hartley jumped, glancing over to where he, Jake and Pete all stood in the centre of the room, blinking at their new surroundings before they realised where they were and that time was short, rushing in her direction.

“Pete,” she smiled up at him kindly. “Good to see you!”

“Hart, right?” Pete looked like he wasn't sure he had the right name, but she just smiled broadly, assuring him he did.

“Yes, yes,” the Doctor muttered impatiently, hurrying over to the phone sitting on the desk, pulling it closer to him and already beginning to dial. He began to speak with whoever was on the other end, but her attention was on Pete.

“Here to save your family, huh?” she asked sweetly, but Pete only grimaced as if she'd said something unsavoury.

“Not even slightly,” he told her curtly, but she just cocked her head, unperturbed by his sharp words. He was emitting an aura of worry, so despite his denial, she knew he was there to do the right thing by his family – even if they weren't _technically_ his family. The Doctor hung up the phone with a bang and Hartley flinched at the abrupt sound.

“Jacqueline Andrea Suzette Tyler,” he announced to Pete, who only scowled.

“She's _not_ my wife,” Pete told the Doctor darkly, but Hartley recognised a rebuff when she saw one.

“I was at the wedding. You got her name wrong,” the Doctor practically bounced on the spot, beaming away brightly, unconcerned by his scowling expression. “Now then, Jakey boy,” he continued on without pause, darting past and plucking the large weapon he held from his hands, “if I can open up the bonding chamber on this thing, it'll work on polycarbite.”

“What's polycarbite?” Jake asked confusedly.

“Skin of a Dalek!” the Doctor announced cheerfully, his mood apparently uplifted by their helpful intervention, and Jake blinked in surprise. “Now, none of you happen to have a white flag on you, by any chance?” he asked brightly, attention half consumed by his tinkering on the weapon, resting it against the table and waving his sonic over the panels. “It was a long shot,” he murmured to himself when none of them answered. “I'll just have to improvise.”

“What's the plan, Doctor?” Pete asked, losing patience quickly with the Time Lord's happy-go-lucky demeanour.

“I'm going to surrender,” he revealed buoyantly, grinning at the man toothily. “Well, both of us are,” he added, making a lazy gesture in Hartley's direction. The companion's eyes went comically round in surprise.

“Is that so?” she asked once she'd recovered.

The Doctor glanced up from the gun he was working on to meet her stare, a hint of mischief in his eyes. “Not scared, are you?” he asked, his tone was ever-so-slightly teasing.

“Never,” she replied with a wide smirk, realising in that moment that she really _wasn't_.

At first she'd been scared, faced with possibilities spread out before her – death, enslavement of the human race and eternal torture as a Cyberman – as options in her future. Now though, standing in the thick of it with the Doctor by her side, it was exactly where she was meant to be. She thrived on it, in a strange, unexpected sort of way.

In the beginning it had all been fun and exciting, running from monsters with the Doctor. Somewhere along the way, however, she'd begun to _crave_ it. She'd begun to desire the thrill of the chase, the detective work that it took to do it. She'd started to thirst for the adrenaline the danger always brought.

She never wanted to be without it. And maybe that was just the 'Doctor' in her speaking, because it was impossibly to live this life with him and not have him rub off in some way.

“Good,” he told her, grinning back giddily, unaware of her internal contemplation. “Tape a sheet of paper to that, will you?” he asked hurriedly, slipping back into clever mode and thrusting a small plastic stick in her direction.

She got to work, doing as she was told with no hint of hesitation.

“Now, that _should_ do the trick,” the Time Lord was telling Jake, tossing the heavy gun back into his arms and dusting his hands off on his jacket. He moved to the computer, beginning to type something in at incredible speeds. “See this here?” he asked, pointing to the schematics he'd brought up on the screen. “This is where you wait. You'll be joined by some Cybermen should it all go to plan, so don't kill them, they'll be there to help – for now, anyway. Go there now and wait for my signal.”

“What will the signal be?” Jake asked quickly, even as the Doctor turned and started walking out of the room.

“It'll be impossible to miss!” he called back, glancing over his shoulder at his companion. “With me, Hartley!” he yelled, and she was quick to leap from her chair and race towards him, taking a small detour along the way to pop herself up on her toes and press a pecking kiss to Pete Tyler's cheek.

“You'll do the right thing,” she assured him, shooting the bewildered man a knowing little grin before racing after the Doctor. This was all happening, he was _there_ for a reason. Hartley had the feeling that, when it came to it, it was going to be down to him. “So all we have to do now is convince the Cybermen to form an alliance with us,” she said to the Doctor as they ran, racing through the halls towards where the Doctor knew the Cybermen would be waiting. “Piece of cake.”

“You seem cheerful,” he commented, pausing to peek around a corner before darting out into the next hall, continuing to run. It was all very _Mission Impossible_.

“I just have a good feeling about this whole thing,” she replied quietly, feet nearly silent on the floor as they ran. She hadn't before, but with the appearance of Pete and his team, her hope was suddenly skyrocketing. They could do this; they could survive.

“Middle of a Cyberman/Dalek invasion and you've got a good feeling?” the Doctor asked dubiously.

“I think we're gonna be okay,” she replied with genuine feeling.

If the Doctor was surprised by her declaration, he said nothing, merely coming to a halt and holding out an arm to stop her as well. She bumped into it and it pulled her to a stop. She froze, holding her breath to be safe. “You've got to let me do all the talking,” he whispered to her, and she could tell by the unmistakeable sound of robotic machinery that the Cybermen were only just around the corner. “Don't speak unless spoken to.”

“Gotcha,” she nodded, and he appraised her for one long beat, during which she couldn't possibly imagine what he was thinking, before fixing a grin on his face. She couldn't tell whether it was real or fake, but she supposed it didn't really matter in the end. He thrust his hand and the 'white flag' he was holding, out into the corridor.

“Sorry. No white flag,” he said brightly, stepping out fully, allowing the Cybermen to see him. Hartley didn't hesitate, stepping out after him, a deceptively calm expression resting on her soft, sloping features. “I only had a sheet of A4. Same difference,” he sniffed.

“ _Do you surrender_?” the Cyberman droned.

“I surrender unto you – a _very_ good idea,” the Doctor grinned, the expression inappropriately cheeky.

“ _Explain_.”

“We both want the Daleks dead,” he began, a burning passion mixed with an ancient hatred seeping from his pores. She felt it as clear as she'd ever felt anything, and the strength of it made her flinch. He sincerely wanted the Daleks gone, but more than that, he wanted them to _burn._ They were probably the only creatures in the universe he wanted to see _suffer._ “I propose an alliance,” he suggested, hands shoved deep into his pockets, looking perfectly at ease. “For as long as it takes to rid the Earth of the Daleks.”

The closest Cyberman was silent for a long minute, and with all their weapons still aimed at them Hartley found it awfully hard to feel confident. They didn't exactly have what she'd call the upper hand.

“ _No_ ,” it said abruptly, the Cybermen behind it lifting their arms too, preparing to fire.

“I can give you more,” the Doctor called quickly, hands shooting out placatingly. The Cybermen hesitated. “Ever heard of the Heart?”

Hartley's head shot up and she wheeled around to stare at the Doctor in shock. Was he seriously going to offer her up as _collateral_? How would that even work? Neither of them knew her significance, was he really just playing on a _hunch_? Without asking her if it was okay?

Well, that last part was to be expected – this was still the _Doctor_ they were talking about.

“ _Travels with the Doctor, also known as the 'Heart of the Storm',_ ” the Cyberman said factually, like it was reading the definition from an encyclopaedia. “ _Its worth is incalculable, obtaining the Heart is tactically critical._ ”

_That_ was news to Hartley, and she swallowed around the lump in her throat, suddenly rethinking her stance on not being afraid. Why exactly was her 'worth incalculable'? What did that even mean? Why was it necessary to say? Not to mention, 'Heart of the Storm'? That was a new one.

“There you go then,” the Doctor said as though he had any authority to be handing out promises like that. Hartley wasn't stupid enough to argue, squaring her shoulders and forcing her features into something of a confident expression. “She's yours – but first, you help us.”

The Cybermen were quiet, the silence dragging on for so long, Hartley absently wondered if they'd actually powered down. Finally, the one who seemed to be in charge said, “ _agreed_ ,” and the Doctor was quick to launch into his plans.

Three _long_ minutes later, they all split up. Hartley was still reeling from the Doctor's words as they travelled away, the heavy stomps of the Cybermen's footsteps slowly disappearing into nothing.

“What the _hell_?” she hissed the moment they were alone, punching him in the arm so hard that her knuckles cracked audibly under the force.

He reared back, exclaiming out in pain and clutching the spot she'd hit. “What was Jack feeding you in the nineteenth century? Steroids?” he asked, pouting at her sulkily.

“Offering me up like that?” she asked harshly as they made their way through the halls. “You don't get to just use me as collateral without asking, you arse!”

“I needed something to sweeten the deal. Besides, this proves they don't know your face, so they have no idea you're the one I promised them,” he told her, still pouting and rubbing his arm. “And there's no need for name-calling.”

“Stop pouting, you look ridiculous,” she muttered, and he rolled his eyes, speeding up as he led the way through the corridors. “How'd you know it would work?” she asked, finding that she actually wasn't that angry. If anything, she was kind of impressed. She also knew he'd never _actually_ give her over to the Cybermen. They were friends – really good friends, these days – and after all this time she knew she was worth more to him than that.

“Shot in the dark,” he shrugged nonchalantly.

“That should be the name of your autobiography,” she told him playfully, and he whirled around, the quip taking him by surprise. “Come along, then, Spacewalker,” she said, nudging him to move faster. “We've got a Rose to save.”

“How is it that you manage to keep surprising me, Hartley Daniels?” he asked in a tone of unabashed wonderment, speeding up at the mention of Rose.

She grinned back only to come to a rearing stop when they made it to the Sphere chamber, spotting the four Daleks placed around the room. She'd been face to face with Daleks before – it wasn't exactly her first rodeo. Still, goosebumps of fear climbed up the skin of her arms and along the back of her neck. Swallowing around her very real terror, she turned to the Doctor to see him gesturing for her to wait.

“Because if these are going to be my last words, then you're going to listen. I met the Emperor, and I took the Time Vortex and I poured it into his head and turned him into dust,” Rose's voice bled out from the centre of the room, and the Doctor was quick to shove his 3D glasses back onto his face. “Do you get that? The God of all Daleks, and I destroyed him. Ha!”

“ _You will be exterminated_!”

“Oh now, hold on!” the Doctor intervened, bringing the attention to the pair of them. Every human and Dalek in he room spun around to look in their direction, Rose and – to Hartley's great surprise – Mickey breaking into massive smiles of sheer relief at the sight of them. “Wait a minute.”

“ _Alert, alert. You are the Doctor_.”

“ _Scans identify the female as the Heart.”_

“ _Sensors report they are unarmed_.”

“That's me. Always,” the Doctor strolled casually into the room, hands tucked deep into his pockets.

“ _Then you are powerless_.”

“Not me. Never,” the Doctor grinned, slipping around one of the Daleks and stopping beside Rose and Mickey. Hartley followed, glaring at the Daleks as she passed. “How are you?” he asked Rose carefully, eyes flickering up and down her form, checking for damage.

“Oh, same old, you know,” she shrugged with a bright smile.

“Good,” he nodded before turning to Mickey. “And Mickity McMickey. Nice to see you!” 

“And you, boss,” he replied with a smile, reaching up to bump fists with the grinning alien.

“Mickey, it's so wonderful to see you again,” Hartley jumped in, pushing past the Doctor and throwing her arms around the younger boy without hesitation. She squeezed him tight, not realising how much she'd missed his goofball presence until that moment. “How are you, are you good?” she asked quickly, pulling back and eyeing him carefully.

“All good,” he confirmed around an amused smirk. “Eating my veggies and everything, mum.”

She snorted at the gentle dig, stepping away and reaching out to grasp Rose's hand, silently telling her how glad she was to see her in one piece. Rose smiled back, squeezing back reassuringly.

“ _Social interaction will cease_!” the black Dalek screeched robotically, and the four of them turned to stare at it. “ _How did you survive the Time War_?” it continued forcefully, swivelling around to face the Doctor, its eyestalk peering directly into the Time Lord's face.

“By fighting on the front line,” he replied, that untroubled grin from before disappearing behind a cloud of reminiscent despair. “I was there at the fall of Arcadia. Someday I might even come to terms with that.” Suddenly the dark expression cleared, replaced by bright, bitter amusement. “But you lot ran away!”

“ _We had to survive,_ ” the black Dalek droned.

“The last four Daleks in existence. So what's so special about you?” the Doctor mused.

“Doctor, they've got _names_ ,” Rose murmured to him, eyes flickering warily between the two adversaries. “I mean, Daleks don't have names, do they? One of them said they-”

  
“ _I am Dalek Thay_.”

“ _Dalek Sek_.”

“ _Dalek Jast._ ”

“ _Dalek Caan_.”

There was a beat. “The Cult of Skaro,” the Doctor murmured in surprise. “So that's it! At last,” he began to stroll through the Daleks as though they were nothing more than harmless lawn ornaments. “I thought you were just a legend.”

“Who are they?” Rose asked him quickly, keeping one eye on them, waiting for the inevitable attack.

“A secret order above and beyond the Emperor himself. Their job was to imagine, think as the enemy thinks. Even dared to have names,” he told her conversationally. “All to find new ways of _killing_ ,” he added bitterly, taking a moment to scowl at the Cult.

“But that thing, they said it was yours. I mean, Time Lord's. They built it,” Mickey interjected, gesturing to the Ark that sat in the centre of the room. Hartley looked over too, noting its presence with a disdainful grimace. “What does it do?”

“I don't know,” the last remaining Time Lord shrugged helplessly. “Never seen it before.”

“But it's Time Lord,” Mickey argued, as though this meant he should know.

“Both sides had secrets,” he said darkly, turning away from Rose to face the black Dalek. “What is it?” he demanded from it sharply. “What have you done?”

“ _Time Lord science will restore Dalek supremacy_.”

“What does that mean? What _sort_ of Time Lord science? What do you mean?”

“They said one touch from a time traveller will wake it up,” Rose revealed softly.

“Technology using the one thing a Dalek can't do. Touch. Sealed inside your casing. Not feeling anything ever, from birth to death, locked inside a cold metal cage. Completely alone.” For one brief moment, Hartley thought she might have detected a stab of real _pity_ in his emotions, but it was gone just as fast. “That explains your voice. No wonder you scream.”

She couldn't help but feel a wave of pity herself, staring at the creature, wondering if, were she locked in the same metal cage her entire life, might she have ended up the same way? But there was more to it than that, wasn't there? They were _created_ to hate. They were _genetically designed_ to kill. They knew no other way...but that certainly didn't make it okay.

“ _The Doctor will open the Ark_!” the Dalek shrieked.

“The Doctor will not,” he snickered, casually stepping away from the monstrous creature, strolling across the room.

“ _You have no way of resisting_.”

“Well, you got me there. Although there is always this,” he said easily, holding up his sonic with a proud little smile.

“ _A sonic probe_?”

“That's screwdriver,” the Doctor corrected indignantly, as though personally offended by the mistake.

“ _It is harmless_.”

“Oh, yes,” the Doctor agreed proudly. “Harmless is just the word. That's why I like it. Doesn't kill, doesn't wound, doesn't maim. But I'll tell you what it does do. It is _very_ good at opening doors.”

The buzz of the sonic filled the room and then in a sudden explosion the door to the laboratory blew in, their reinforcements spilling into the room like water through a floodgate, guns blazing, shots being fired from every direction.

“Rose, get out!” the Doctor ordered loudly, ducking out of the way of an energy blast. “Hart, stay with her!”

It was what she would have done anyway, orders or not, so with pleasure she clung to her friend, dragging her out of the battle and towards the doors. Her only priority was her safety.

“Wait, Hart – Mickey!” Rose shouted over the bangs of the firing weapons. Hartley paused outside the doors, turning back around to try and locate Mickey in the thick of the battle. “Mickey, come on!” Rose screamed, and Hartley realised, as she saw Mickey hurrying towards them, that there was absolutely nothing she could do. He'd touched the Ark – evident by the glowing handprint now fading against the chrome casing.

There was no time to worry about what this meant, they were too busy running for their lives as they let the two races battle it out behind them.

“I just fell, I didn't mean it!” Mickey was yelling as they legged it up the hallway, the sounds of the fight growing distant. He was so worried the Doctor would be angry, his guilt and anxiety palpable to Hartley.

“Mickey, without us, they'd have opened it by force,” the Doctor explained as they ran. “To do that, they'd have blown up the sun. You've done us a favour.” Without breaking stride, he reached over to smack a loud, exaggerated kiss on the top of Mickey's shaved head. “Now, _run_!”

Hartley glanced back, making sure everyone was with them. She reached down to grab Rose's hand, clutching it tightly, shooting her a smile when she looked over. She felt the relief strong in her veins. She'd had friends before, sometimes more than she knew what to do with, but she'd never had one like Rose, one she connected with on a level she could call familial.

Maybe it was all the life and death situations that they were thrust into that bonded them so closely, or maybe they were just kindred spirits. Either way, she didn't know what she'd do with Rose Tyler by her side.

The Doctor suddenly froze, throwing out an arm and stopping the others from moving forwards. Two Cybermen stood up ahead, their backs towards the four of them. The group remained unnoticed, but there was someone beyond them, someone begging for her life in a shrill, familiar voice.

Pete was the first one to act, shooting down the pair of Cybermen without a moment's hesitation, saving Jackie's life in the process.

Hartley could do nothing but watch as the two soulmates were reunited. She'd had boyfriends before, but never had she had anything like Jackie and Pete Tyler had. She wondered if she'd _ever_ have that...but then, who could it possibly be with? She was going to live for who knew _how_ long; she couldn't die – who could _possibly_ meet that sort of criteria? If they didn't, she was doomed to a heartbreak that would last an eternity.

It wasn't a particularly appealing concept, she had to admit.

“We need to make a quick stop!” the Doctor called once the sweet moment was over and done with, the pair of reunited lovers' hands held tightly together, like they intended to never to let go again. “Right here!” he yelled, coming to an abrupt stop outside the warehouse doors. “Hartley, you're up!”

“Sorry?” she asked, not prepared to be so suddenly called to duty.

“You're the only one who can't die,” he explained impatiently, cracking open the doors and hurriedly waving her through. The noise of the frontline of the war swept over them in a wave, making them wince with its power. “It won't matter if you get hit by a stray blast – now go through and get those Magna-Clamps!” he told her, and although she didn't like the plan, she had to admit it was the best one they had, and that it made sense.

Why risk putting a regular human – or Time Lord – in danger, when she could do the same job with none of the risk?

“If I get shot I'm gonna skin you alive,” she hissed back, but the Doctor did no more than impatiently wave her through.

She kept low, slipping across the floor of the warehouse to where the Magna-Clamps sat harmless in a crate. A blast flew so close to her head that she felt the heat brush her scalp. With a yelp she hugged the floor, taking a deep, steadying breath to calm herself.

She could definitely recover from an exploded brain, _right_?

“Hartley!” the Doctor prompted her in a hiss, and she whirled around to glare at him for rushing her. “No time,” he mouthed, urging her along faster. Begrudgingly she admitted he was right, so she pulled on her big-girl pants and charged forwards, grasping ahold of the Magna-Clamps and yanking them free of their container, spinning around and legging it back to the doors.

She'd almost reached them when a stray bullet from one of the soldier's guns brushed her upper right arm.

“Mother-” she began loudly, grip slackening of its own accord. She dropped the Magna-Clamp and although it fell to the floor the sound was swallowed by the gunfire. She dropped to her knees, glancing down at her arm which could have been on fire and would have still hurt less. She bit her tongue to keep in a pained whimper, checking the damage.

“It's just a graze, Hartley,” the Doctor appeared over her, picking up the dropped clamp and wrapping one arm around her, urging her forwards. “Come on, we've got to see what it's doing. We've got to go back up!” he urged, forcing her to move. Hartley held her injured arm tight to her body, trying not to jostle it more than necessary. “Come on!” the Doctor exclaimed to the group the moment they burst back into the corridor. “All of you – top floor!”

“That's forty five floors up!” Jackie scoffed. “Believe me, I've done them all.”

“We could always take the lift,” a blessed voice spoke from behind them, and the Doctor grinned to a point that almost looked manic, doubling back around and darting into the lift, impatiently waiting for everyone to climb on before jamming his finger on the button and feeling the metal box slowly begin to move upwards.

“You okay, Hart?” Rose asked once they'd recovered from their sprint, reaching over and peering at the split in the material of her button-up, blood soaking the area around it.

“Doc's right, s'only a graze,” she murmured, shrugging only to wince when it hurt to do so. “I'll live,” she added dryly.

“How long will that one take to heal?” she asked.

“Couple hours,” the Doctor was the one to answer, foot tapping restlessly against the floor as the lift continued to rise, travelling higher and higher up the Torchwood building.

The doors opened with a ding, and the Doctor barrelled out into Yvonne's office, dropping the Magna-Clamps on the floor and charging towards the window. Hartley followed him, everybody else crowding around. Hartley knew whatever she saw would haunt her nightmares, but she couldn't look away.

Hundreds upon thousands of Daleks invaded the sky, all pouring out from the Genesis Ark. They looked terrifying, shining like fire in the light from the sun, causing nothing but death and destruction across the entire city. She felt ill, watching all those innocent people burn.

“Time Lord science,” the Doctor breathed, kicking himself for not realising sooner. “It's bigger on the inside.”

“Did the Time Lords put those Daleks in there? What for?” Mickey asked, baffled. It was the right question to ask, certainly one that needed an answer.

“It's a prison ship,” the Doctor explain, voice grim.

“How many Daleks?”

“Millions.”

Rose and the others turned away as Pete started talking, leaving Hartley and the Doctor at the window, staring out at the horror that was unfolding before them. “Please tell me you have a plan,” she whispered to the Doctor. He didn't look away from the Daleks, gaze steady and resolute.

“I have a plan,” he replied.

“Am I going to like it?” she asked hopefully.

“Not even slightly.”

There was a sudden wave of grief, one so powerful and so absolute, she flinched away from it. The Doctor spotted her reaction and slowly turned to look at her, the agony he was feeling mirrored clearly in his eyes, like windows into a storm of pain.

Confused and scared, Hartley stared back, a sense of mounting panic climbing up her oesophagus like bile. Her fingertips began to shake as she realised something was seriously and terribly wrong. Something bad was coming, and if it scared the Doctor this much, she was loathe to find out what it was.

“It's safe as long as the Doctor closes the breach,” Pete was saying from behind them, but Hartley didn't look away from the Doctor. Her eyes bore into his like she might magically discover the ability of telepathy, just so she could understand what was happening inside the Doctor's impenetrable head. “Doctor?” Pete prompted him, impatient.

Like a door being closed, the swirl of emotion abruptly disappeared. He spun around with abundant energy, sliding the 3D glasses back onto his nose as he moved.

“Oh, I'm ready,” he announced. “I've got the equipment right here. Thank you, Torchwood!” he exclaimed, bouncing like Tigger over to one of the computers, beginning to type away. “Slam it down and close off both universes.”

“ _Reboot systems_ ,” the computer droned.

“But we can't just leave! What about the Daleks? And the Cybermen?” Rose was arguing, utterly ignorant to the severity of their situation. Something was going to happen, and it was going to be bad. Feeling vaguely shellshocked by the weight of knowledge only she held. Hartley turned so she was facing the others, eyeing them all, wondering if they were safe – because surely they weren't.

She had a feeling that to win this, someone was going to have to lose it. She was terrified about who that was going to be.

“They're part of the problem, and that makes them part of the solution,” the Doctor chirped happily, acting for all the world like absolutely nothing was wrong. Hartley knew otherwise. “Well?” he asked brightly, stopping to look at them all, his eyes hidden behind the coloured lenses of his eccentric choice of eyewear. “Isn't anyone going to ask what is it with the glasses?”

“What is it with the glasses?” Rose indulged him with a fond laugh.

“I can _see_ , that's what! Because we've got two separate worlds, but in between the two separate worlds, we've got the Void. That's where the Daleks were hiding. And the Cybermen travelled through the Void to get here. And you lot, one world to another, via the Void. Oh, I like that. Via the Void,” he grinned, expression toothy and wide and almost completely perfect; perfect enough that even Rose bought it. But not Hartley. “Look,” he said cheerfully.

He handed the glasses to Rose, who took them with a smile.

“I've been through it. Do you see?” he asked, waving around in front of the lenses.

“What is it?” she asked, giggling as she peered at him. Hartley could only watch on in nervous, stony silence.

“Void stuff,” the Doctor answered her brightly.

“Like, er, background radiation!”

“That's it. Look at the others,” he said, and Rose spun around, peering at the other people in the room. “And the only one who hasn't been through the Void, your mother. First time she's looked normal in her life.”

“Oi,” Jackie cried indignantly, but Hartley caught the hint of a smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

“But the Daleks lived inside the Void!” he cried giddily. “They're bristling with it. Cybermen, all of them. I just open the Void and reverse. The Void stuff gets sucked back inside.”

“Pulling them all in!” Rose cheered.

“Pulling them all in!”

It made sense now, everything that had ever been through the Void was going to get sucked back in. The problem was that _they'd_ been through the Void, they had the stuff on them, too. What was going to keep them safe? What was to stop them being sent along with them into Hell?

“Sorry, what's the Void?” Mickey spoke up.

“The dead space. Some people call it Hell,” the Doctor answered lightly.

“So you're sending the Daleks and Cybermen to Hell,” Mickey looked begrudgingly impressed, turning to Jake with a grin. “Man, I told you he was good.”

Rose beamed too, her eyes automatically searching out Hartley's, only to find that she didn't look happy, in fact she wasn't smiling at all. A deep sadness lingered in her cobalt blue gaze, a sadness that chilled Rose to the core.

“But it's like you said,” she said suddenly, and Hartley knew she'd finally caught on, too. “We've all got Void stuff. Me too, because we went to that parallel world. We're all contaminated. We'll get pulled in.”

The Doctor paused for a beat, as though gathering the courage to reply. “That's why you've got to go,” he finally said, deceptively calm. The pain he felt reared its head, and Hartley inhaled sharply at both the force of it and the realisation of what he was saying.

“Excuse me?” she asked without thought, stepping closer to Rose out of instinct, feeling the need to physically shield her, like the words themselves were a threat.

“ _Reboot in two minutes_ ,” the computer droned again, and Hartley knew it was coming to the moment, the moment that would determine whether they saved all of mankind, or failed and let the world burn.  


“Back to Pete's world. Hey, we should call it that. Pete's World,” he said blithely before abruptly sobering. “I'm opening the Void, but only on this side.”

“Hartley too?” Rose asked, eyes wild and pained as she turned to look at her friend.

“No,” he said sombrely. “There's only one medallion, and...”

“I'm expendable,” Hartley realised with a start, her heart seeming to drop into her gut like it had turned to stone. She brought a hand up to hover over the organ, as if pressing her palm there might in some way lessen the pain.

“No,” said the Doctor firmly, casting her a look layered with stern disapproval. She swallowed, looking away. He didn't elaborate, but she knew there wasn't time and couldn't hold it against him. There would be time to talk – later.

“We can only send you,” he said to Rose, who looked vaguely like somebody had punched her in the stomach. “You'll be safe on that side,” he assured her, as if that was something she was actually worried about.

“And then you close it, for good?” Pete confirmed anxiously.

“The breach itself is soaked in Void stuff. In the end, it'll close itself. And that's it. Kaput!” he told Pete with a shrug, like his own words weren't eating him up inside. Hartley could feel it; every pulse of pain and guilt, like a record playing on a loop. He was trying so hard to convince himself that he was okay, but he wasn't. None of them were, least of all her.

“But you stay on this side?” Rose asked, carefully emotionless.

“But you two will get pulled in,” Mickey said, seeing the obvious flaw in the plan as he glanced between Hartley and the Doctor with a confused frown.

“That's why I got these,” the Doctor announced, hefting up one of the Magna-Clamps pointedly. “We'll just have to hold on tight. I've been doing it all my life, and Hartley's a quick study,” he grinned, but the expression was so obviously fake, constructed in an attempt to hide his pain. Rose turned to look at her, betrayal leaking from her pores, and Hartley suddenly felt like somebody had punched _her_ in the stomach.

“I'm supposed to go,” the blonde said slowly, like it were a puzzle she were struggling to solve.

“Yup,” the Doctor nodded.

“To another world, and then it gets sealed off.”

“Yeah.”

“Forever.” The Doctor nodded, turning away under the pretence of checking the systems, but Hartley knew it was because he just couldn't bear to look at her anymore. “That's not going to happen,” Rose finally said around a loud, hysterical laugh.

The building trembled violently beneath their feet as the massacre outside grew more brutal. “We haven't got time to argue. The plan works. We're going. You too. All of us,” Pete snapped, assuming command and starting to walk away.

“No, I'm not leaving here,” Rose said stubbornly.

“I'm not going without her!” Jackie argued, latching onto her daughter's arm.

“Oh, my God. We're _going_!” Pete hissed, growing exasperated.

“I've had twenty years without you, so _button_ it!” Jackie snarled in his face. “I'm _not_ leaving her.”

“You've got to,” Rose said softly, knowing she'd made her decision.

“Well, that's tough,” her mother snapped in reply.

“Mum...”

“ _Reboot in one minute_.”

“I've had a life with you for nineteen years, but then I met the Doctor, and all the things I've seen him do for me, for you, for all of us,” Rose began to say. The Doctor stopped typing, pulling a medallion from his pocket and quietly walking up behind Rose.

Tears came to Hartley's eyes and she grit her teeth against the onslaught of emotion; grief, anger, frustration, sorrow and pain all melting together into one big explosion of feeling. She wasn't sure which emotions were hers and which were the Doctor's, all she knew was that it was overwhelming, and she could do nothing more than stare at Rose, soaking her in, silently preparing herself for the reality that she might never see her again.

Hartley let the Doctor approach Rose, however, without saying anything. She knew that this wasn't her battle – her battle was a minute from now, once the hole opened and threatened to drag them all into Hell. Besides, this was what was best for Rose, nothing else mattered, as long as she was safe – even if 'safe' meant a different universe altogether, one where she couldn't visit or reach in any way.

“For the whole stupid planet and every planet out there,” Rose was still saying passionately, oblivious to the Doctor's approach. “He does it alone, mum. He and Harts, but not anymore, because now they've got me-”

Rose disappeared with a flash and a desperate yell, and the Doctor looked shellshocked for a long second before pulling himself together and spinning around, once more beginning to type away at the computer.

It had all happened so quickly that Hartley felt like her entire universe had been yanked out from underneath her. Two traitorous tears spilled down over her cheeks as she stared at the suddenly empty room. She wiped at them frustratedly. “Was there another option?” she asked the Doctor thickly.

“No,” he replied, voice nearly breaking over the single word answer.

Hartley inhaled, filling her body with air and savouring it before wiping at her eyes a final time and snapping into work-mode. “What can I do?” she asked, and he pointed to the Magna-Clamps wordlessly.

She got the message, setting about attaching the clamps to the walls, tapping the little red button to make sure they stayed on its surface. It was a difficult task with only one good arm, but she made do, knowing they didn't have time for her to screw up. The next few moments passed in heavy silence that Hartley barely processed. Everything seemed harsh and cold all of a sudden; the lights too bright, the metal against her hands too hard.

Then, with a loud yelp, Rose reappeared in the room, hand held down on one of those tacky yellow medallions.

“Rose!” Hartley yelled as she finished fastening the last clamp to the wall. Rose laughed, the sound borderline hysterical as the Doctor raced up to her.

“Dammit, Rose,” he cried, frustrated that she wouldn't do as he said. But did she ever? “Once the breach collapses, that's it. You will never be able to see her again. Your own _mother_!” he reminded her sharply.

Rose tilted her chin up defiantly. “I made my choice a long time ago, and I'm never going to leave you,” she said passionately.

The Doctor stared back in shock, barely able to believe what she was saying. Hartley watched on with wonder, taking in the love in each of their gazes, love that she doubted would ever be spoken aloud.

It was something that went unspoken in the TARDIS, this thing between Rose and the Doctor, a sort of thing that Hartley couldn't have described if she'd tried. They had a connection, they were bonded in such a way that Hartley could barely understand. It made her ache with loneliness sometimes, but mostly she was just happy that they were happy.

“So what can I do to help?” Rose asked him, so familiarly stubborn.

“ _Systems rebooted. Open access_.”

“Those coordinates over there, set them all at six,” the Doctor barked quickly, making his decision immediately, “and Hartley, finish securing the last clamp! Both of you, hurry up!”

The two girls got to work, hurriedly completing their tasks. Hartley's mind was a storm, swirling around like a tornado. She just had to make sure that Rose wouldn't get sucked in. Not even a full minute and it would be over, and Rose would be safe. They would _all_ be safe. How difficult could it possibly be? “We've got Cybermen on the way up,” Rose announced.

“How many floors down?” the Doctor asked in a rush.

“Just one.”

“We need to go quickly, then,” Hartley shouted bqck, making sure they could both hear.

“ _Levers operational_.”

“That's more like it. Bit of a smile. Look at us; the old team,” Rose said, a grin on her face as she noticed the Doctor smiling.

“The Golden Trio; the Three Musketeers; Destiny's Child,” the Doctor beamed like a lunatic, but Hartley loved it. It was almost enough to convince her that everything was going to work out fine. She leant into Rose's side as she watched him, amusement dancing in her eyes, laughter tickling her throat.

“Who's Beyonce?” Rose asked him curiously.

“Oh, I'm _definitely_ Beyonce,” he assured them cheekily.

Rose and Hartley laughed, the sound happy and unrestrained. Hartley knew then that everything would be alright. Because they were together again, so how could it not be?

“You gonna be okay with that arm?” Rose asked Hartley quickly, eyeing her bleeding arm with concern.

“It's already healing,” she assured her, though a splinter of doubt appeared in her head. Would it matter? It was still causing her a great deal of pain, but she could fight through it though, she was sure.

“Both of you, when it starts, hold on tight!” the Doctor shouted to them. “Shouldn't be too bad for us, but the Daleks and the Cybermen are steeped in Void stuff. Are you ready?”

Rose peeked out the back window, spying the Daleks hovering outside, poised to strike. “So are they!” she yelled back, getting into position.

“Let's do it!” he nodded, and Hartley looked at Rose, who smiled, and as one the two friends began to push the lever into the right position. It wasn't easy, the lever was heavy and stubborn, but after a long moment of pushing they managed to get it online, both of them leaping over to the clamp, holding on for dear life.

A bright light appeared on the wall as the breach opened up, and in the next instant Daleks began to fly in from outside, through the glass windows and into the room, sucked back into the Void through the breach. It began to pull at the travellers too, like gravity had changed loyalties, their feet pulled towards the breach, threatening to suck them into the Void along with their enemies.

“The breach is open!” the Doctor declared giddily. “Into the Void! Ha!”

Hartley gripped the Magna-Clamp tighter. The entirety of her body was pressed up against Rose's as they fought to keep their grip. Daleks and Cybermen flew past them, some just barely missing hitting them front on. She wasn't sure how long it would last, and the wind blowing into her eyes was making them sting, but she held on, knowing it was _almost_ over, they were _almost_ safe.

“ _Offline_ ,” the computer's robotic voice chimed, and Hartley's insides turned to lead.

“Don't let go!” Hartley begged Rose, but her friend knew the risk she was taking, and was ready to take it, even if Hartley wasn't. “Let me do it!” she shrieked at her over the near deafening roar of the open breach and the tortured screams of the defeated enemy.

But Rose didn't listen, stubbornly pushing her way across, getting her hands on the lever and moving herself away from the Magna-Clamp.

“Rose, _please_!” Hartley pleaded with her, but despite all her attempts, Rose still let go, attaching herself to the lever and securing it back into place.

“ _Online and locked_.”

The suction got stronger, the Cybermen and Daleks flying into the Void at such a fast speed they were nearly impossible to see, just blurs of chrome colouring. “Rose, hold on! Hold on!” the Doctor was screaming from his place across the room.

“Rose, grab my hand!” Hartley begged her, hooking one arm around the clamp and holding the other out to Rose. “I can't lose you!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, but the words were lost in the deafening roar of the Void.

Rose reached out to take her hand, but before they could connect, Hartley felt her arm, the injured one hooked onto the clamp, begin to give way. She suddenly found herself presented with the most horrific choice she would ever have to face; herself or Rose.

It was a choice Hartley didn't want to have to make, a choice nobody should have _ever_ been forced to make – between their best friend and themselves. She screamed for Rose to hold on again, eyes burning from a mixture of the unforgiving wind and her tears of panic.

When it came down to it Hartley was _human_ , and she was _scared_ , and she made a decision she wished she hadn't, and she retracted her hand – just to get a better grip on the clamp – but she took too long, and then there was nothing to do nothing but cry out in heartbroken despair as Rose was pulled towards the Void.

For one heart-stopping moment she thought she'd just sent Rose to Hell. She thought she'd just condemned her best friend to a life of that inky, never-ending blankness that she herself was so desperately afraid of.

Then, in a flash of dazzling hope, Pete materialised, catching Rose in his arms and looking up to meet Hartley's eyes before slamming his hand down on the button and disappearing back to his own world, taking Rose Tyler with him – forever.


	27. Closure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I've been away for a minute, but now I'm back with another onslaught of chapters. I hope you enjoy, and again, just reminding you that this whole story is already posted to completion on FF.net if you're too impatient to wait for it all to be put up here. You'll find me on there as "Sonny13".
> 
> Enjoy!

**CLOSURE**

“ _Everyone can master a grief but he that has it.”_

William Shakespeare

* * *

Hartley was stunned, shattered, _devastated._

Her vision was blurry with tears and her throat felt swollen, making it hard to breathe. Her entire body was numb with shock, barely able to process that Rose was lost to them.

She'd failed, she couldn't believe that she'd _actually_ failed. She'd been so convinced, so sure she would be able to stop Rose from falling into the breach. She should have done more – surely there had been some sort of rope, something she could have tied around her, tethering her to this universe. Or maybe she could have locked her in a room with no windows, that way she'd have been stuck in there, with no way out. She could have shut her in the TARDIS, because there was no way the ship would let Rose go for something as silly as a tiny breach in the fabric of the universe.

Why was she only having this influx of ideas _now_? Where were these brilliant plans five minutes ago, when they might have actually made a difference?

“Hartley.”

Nothing but the Doctor's voice would have been able to break through her haze of grief in that moment. At the sound of it she looked up from the floor, realising the Doctor himself was stood before her, an echo of sorrow etched into his expression. She barely even registered it through her own haze of guilt-ridden despondency.

“Let go,” he murmured gently, reaching out. His fingertips brushed her hands, which were curled around the Magna-Clamp so tightly that she was beginning to lose circulation to her fingers.

“It's my fault,” she gasped out, the sound barely making it around the lump of emotion in her throat. “I thought...I really thought I could––” she cut off with a small sob that rattled through her very skeleton, watching through blurry eyes as the Doctor worked patiently on uncurling her white-knuckled grip from the handle.

“It's okay,” he murmured, the words surprising her more than anything in the universe possibly could. “Hey,” he muttered, attempting to get her to look at him, and she sniffled rather pathetically as she looked away from the floor, staring up at him wetly. “It's okay,” he repeated slowly, ensuring she heard him.

“I don't understand,” Hartley murmured weakly, more than confused by his calm, quiet demeanour. “You're – you're not mad at me?” she sniffled again, reaching up to brush at the tears threatening to spill from her eyes.

“Why would I be mad at you?” he asked her gently, frowning like the question had genuinely confused him.

She didn't know how to answer, didn't know what she could possibly say. She was expecting anger, maybe resentment and blame, but instead when she looked up into his face she saw nothing but pure, unadulterated acceptance.

He wasn't mad; devastated, yes, but not mad.

“Come on,” he said softly, folding an arm around her shoulders and gently angling her in the direction of the lift. His steps were slow and steady, hers shaky and unsure. Hartley leaned into his touch, feeling the warm, reassuring presence of his body pressed against hers, strong and unwavering and _there_ ; just what she needed.

The walk back to the TARDIS was done in silence, no sound filling the air other than Hartley's occasional sniffles and the squeak of their shoes on the linoleum floor.

The TARDIS stood tall and proud, right where the Torchwood personnel had left it in the middle of their warehouse. Hartley turned her head into the Doctor's chest as they passed the bodies left behind by the battle, broken, lifeless heaps scattered across the concrete floor like nothing but someone's forgotten litter.

“Should we give them a proper burial?” she whispered from where her face was pressed into the Doctor's pinstripe jacket. It didn't feel right to leave them scattered there, without any of the dignity they deserved.

“No,” the Doctor murmured back, squeezing her tighter and speeding up, like he didn't want her around the corpses for any longer than she absolutely had to be – which was sweet, however unnecessary. She herself was a corpse more often than was preferable, so it wasn't as if they made her uncomfortable. “UNIT will be along soon enough,” he added quietly, like if he were to speak any louder the rope they were balancing on might snap, the tense hold they had on their emotions might weaken, and they would plunge into a pit they would never be able to climb out of. “They'll do the right thing,” he whispered.

  
In that case, she just felt guilty. Was there more she could have done to save these people? Was there something she could have done differently, something that might have changed the course of their history? She'd never know, and she thought that was maybe the worst part of it all.

He let her go, removing his hand and gently prying her off of him as he slid his key into the lock of the TARDIS, pushing open the door and nodding for her to go through first. She couldn't bring herself to turn and look at Torchwood one final time, so she grit her teeth and stepped inside the ship, welcomed by a humming in her mind that immediately gave her a sense of _home_.

She pulled off her bloody button-up shirt as she wandered up the ramp, leaving her in her plain white tank top as she bundled the material up, crushing it between her hands just for something to occupy her fingers.

The Doctor began to press buttons on the console, but with absolutely none of his usual enthusiasm. The TARDIS juddered around them as it dematerialised, the Doctor sending them into the vortex, probably with the intention of giving them time to grieve.

Grieve; not a word she wanted to use, but the right one nonetheless.

Once the trembling had stopped, the Doctor walked away from the console, heading for the door that led out into the endless hallways of the spaceship. “Are you coming?” he called back to Hartley, who was still standing in the middle of the room. She remained shellshocked, a ringing in her ears that made her head ache.

She didn't know where he was leading her but she followed him anyway, just as she always would.

He wound his way through the TARDIS halls, and Hartley held her scrunched up jumper in one hand, her other reaching out to run her fingers along the coral walls as she walked. She felt connected to the TARDIS in a way she couldn't explain, felt it hum in her mind like a never-ending, ever-changing song that comforted her, always.

She wondered if it was like that for everyone who travelled with the Doctor.

She'd have to ask Rose.

With a stab of horror she realised the thought that had absently crossed her mind. She felt a gag coming on, but swallowed it down with a grunt. How easy it was to forget. It wasn't fair. How could the universe be so cruel? After everything they'd done to keep it safe?

The Doctor turned through a doorway off to the right, and she followed him through, stepping into the kitchen, the lights above her dimming slightly the moment she winced at how bright they were. That was the TARDIS, always taking care of her.

The Doctor said nothing, wandering over to the far cupboard and beginning to root around inside. Hartley still felt numb, like the circulation to her entire body had been cut off, and she was walking around without any feeling in her limbs.

She absently took a seat at the table, drawing her bundled up shirt into her stomach and holding it there as though it might suddenly grow arms to hug her back.

There was a series of clangs from the bench area, but Hartley didn't have it in her to look up and see what it was.

A long couple of hours later – or possibly mere minutes; in her state, it was impossible to tell – the Doctor reappeared in her line of vision, holding out a steaming drink held in her favourite mug. She let go of her jumper and took ahold of the mug, cupping her hands around it and bringing it to her lips.

The liquid inside was scolding hot, so much so she was sure it caused some kind of injury to her mouth, but she didn't care, desperate to feel something –– anything –– and enjoying the burn as it travelled through her body.

The Doctor said nothing, sipping his own drink silently. The only sound between them for a long time was the quiet, natural hum of the TARDIS.

Hartley blinked down into her own mug once all the liquid was gone, surprised by its emptiness. She hadn't realised she'd finished it, and now that she thought back on it, she couldn't even remember exactly what she'd drunk. Was it tea? Coffee? Hot chocolate? All she knew was that it had been hot. She took a long few moments to gather her thoughts before gently placing the piece of yellow ceramic back onto the table, returning her grip to her scrunched up shirt, the scratch of the material familiar under her fingertips.

“You tried your hardest,” the Doctor finally told her, speaking slowly and gently, like she were an easily spooked animal. Any other day, it might have offended her. Today, however, it was necessary.

“Not hard enough, apparently,” she replied hollowly, squeezing her ruined shirt tightly like a stress ball. It wasn't nearly as satisfying as hitting something, and she wondered if the Doctor would mind her sneaking off to the TARDIS' gym. “I wish she were here,” she murmured, deciding that, as much as she'd love to run and hide and slam her fists into a punching bag until she could no longer feel her fingers, the Doctor needed someone. The worst thing for the Doctor was to be alone. On that, everybody agreed. “I'm sorry,” she told him, sincerity wobbling in her voice.

“I'm not.”

She looked up in shock, unable to comprehend what he'd just said. “Pardon?” she asked, her brain feeling thick with confusion.

“Rose belongs with her family,” he said slowly and with a grimace fixed in place, like speaking the words aloud physically pained him, despite how true he believed them to be. “No matter how much I––” he cut himself off sharply, looking away, an agony in his eyes that hurt Hartley to witness. He exhaled loudly, the sound full of frustration. “No matter how much we wish she were here, she belongs _there_. We did the right thing.”

“We didn't _do_ anything,” she argued. The words usually would have had more of a bite, but she was too physically and emotionally drained. She felt as if the life itself had been sucked from her soul, like Rose had taken it with her when she'd left. “In the end, her choice was overlooked, and she got separated from us – forever.”

“She's _safe._ She'll forget about us. She'll learn to be happy again,” the Doctor countered, looking like, for a moment, he might have even believed it.

Hartley didn't agree. Happiness wasn't something you should have had to _learn_. She'd had _years_ without them on Earth, years of boring, suburban, linear time, and she'd never once forgotten, she'd never once been _truly_ happy. Once you got a taste for this life, it never really left you. If you let it, the need to get it back would consume you, like it had Sarah Jane, like it had her and Jack.

Hartley didn't want that to happen to Rose, and the only thing she could think of to stop it was _closure._

“We need to say goodbye,” she told him suddenly, a flare of intensity overtaking her system, tingling just under her skin. “For all our sakes, we _need_ to say goodbye.”

He immediately began to argue. “It's impossible, Hartley––”

“You said it yourself, the last little cracks are still sealing themselves, right?” she asked, leaning forwards and grasping his hand. Both their palms were warm from their drinks, and his skin under hers was comforting in a way she wasn't used to. She squeezed gently as she tried to convey her point, tried to make him understand that this wasn't just a suggestion – this was something that _needed_ to happen. “It's not much, and I know we can't go through completely, but maybe a phone call, or a hologram? A projection or, or _something._..” she trailed off, growing a little desperate.

The Doctor's eyes lit up, but his mouth was still fixed into a downwards frown. “I'd need an almost _unattainable_ amount of power,” he murmured, and she could see his mind whirring away from behind his sad, sad eyes.

“Like what?” she asked impatiently, still gripping onto his hand tightly, imploring and desperate. “All of time and space, Doc,” she reminded him, her voice full of a renewed sense of hope. “You name it, we'll go get it.”

There was a way, there _had_ to be a way. Surely the universe wasn't so cruel as to not let them at least say goodbye. Hartley needed to make sure Rose was okay, wanted her to know she was _loved_ and _missed_. And, maybe it was a little selfish, but she needed to know Rose wasn't angry with her for not saving her. She needed to be forgiven if she had any hope of forgiving herself.

“Well, there's one thing...” the Doctor suddenly murmured, his hands twitching from underneath hers.

“Yes?” she prompted him eagerly.

His lips were twisted down in thought. “A supernova would probably do the trick.”

“There we go,” she said, breathless. “Big wide universe at our disposal,” she continued, voice still raw from the day's events, “surely we'll be able to find a single dying star.”

The Doctor's expression was blank for one very long beat, then his face split into a painfully large grin, one that lit up his entire face, like fireworks in his eyes, before it dulled back down to that mere glint that she found so familiar.

“We'd better get to work, then, Hartley Daniels,” he told her cheerfully. He took a brief moment to move his hand, positioning them so she wasn't holding his limp fingers, but rather he was clutching her back, a warm, rare action of affection that had her pulse racing. Her eyes gleamed with sadness, but she managed a smile for the Time Lord who grinned back, leaping to his feet and bouncing from the room in a way that _almost_ seemed sincere.

She knew she'd be no help, she barely even knew what a supernova _was_ , let alone how to rig one to power a projection through universes, so she let the Doctor work in peace. Instead she wandered out of the kitchen towards her room, longing to curl up under her thick blankets and lose herself in the steady thumping of her music.

She was a hall away from the familiar soft mahogany wood of her own door when she was brought to a shattering halt.

The door stood tall between columns of towering coral; soft wood coated in baby pink paint, a glistening silver nameplate reading _Rose_ in royal, feminine font.

The loss of Rose hit her again, like a punch to the gut it slammed into her. Air rushed from her mouth, rendering her breathless. With a trembling hand, she reached up, brushing her fingers against the nameplate, touching the shining metal like it might somehow connect her to her lost friend.

Hartley was torn – to go inside and face the guilt, or to move on and bury her negative emotions deep down inside? She knew it wouldn't be compartmentalising; it would only be denial. And she was done feeding into a vicious cycle of denial.

In the end, she stepped inside, telling herself that it would only be for a moment.

The room was cosy but modern, something quite similar to the Tyler's flat back in the Powell Estate. It was messy, much messier than Hartley's, but in a homey, lived in sort of way. Her covers were askew, the exposed linen a soft purple. It wasn't as full of nicknacks as hers was either. Instead it was mostly books, which surprised Hartley, because she hadn't known Rose liked to read. Clothes covered the floor, all sorts of garments, some clearly of Earth, others clearly not.

Hartley wandered over to the vanity sitting against the far wall, letting her eyes trail over the different products lining the top. She recalled long periods sat there with her pink and yellow friend, trying out exotic alien products for their hair and skin. They would listen to music as they rubbed Mars clay masks on their faces and rolled their hair up in hot rollers from the thirty-second century.

“Oh Rose,” she breathed, her eyes flickering up to the mirror where a familiar little strip of photos was stuck to the reflective surface.

With a sharp inhale Hartley reached out, brushing a finger over the glossy paper that the images were printed on, a sad, nostalgic smile on her lips.

They'd been at some kind of theme park a few weeks ago, on some moon, in some solar system, in some galaxy, in some far off corner of the universe. It was known for its superb cocktails, and the girls had indulged happily, sipping until they were tipsy, then sipping some more.

The Doctor had been busy playing darts with somebody or other, and they'd slipped away to a small photo booth sitting idle in the back of the bar, stumbling inside sloppily and setting it to take four pictures; each more ridiculous than the last.

She remembered the day fondly, stroking a finger down Rose's glossy face, smiling at the way her eyes were crossed and her cheeks were puffed out sillily.

She reminded herself again, that in the end, everything worked out as it should. Rose may have been upset now, but to be torn from her mum and dad? Her only family? That would have crushed her, and maybe one day she would have even come to resent them for it. Hartley may not have ultimately been able to save her, but perhaps there were some people she wasn't _meant_ to save, at least, not in the way she wished.

With a careful tug she gently pulled the strip of pictures from the mirror, turning to give the room a final once-over before striding out into the hall, unable to handle the flowery scent of Rose that lingered in the room like a beautiful fog.

She never did get to curl up under her covers; she was just attaching the photos to the mirror in her own room when the Doctor's amplified voice filtered through the TARDIS.

“ _Hart_!” he yelled hurriedly over the ship's internal PA system. “ _Quick_!”

She raced towards the console room, only to come to a sudden stop in the doorway.

Was she being selfish by taking up the Doctor's precious time with Rose? Did she even _deserve_ to say her goodbyes? Would Rose even _care_?

“You first,” the Doctor said generously, stepping aside and pointing to the spot she was meant to stand in.

“No, no,” she tried to say, stepping away and shaking her head quickly. There was no point in her talking – it was the Doctor whom Rose needed to see.

“What are you talking about?” the Doctor had never sounded more perplexed.

“Well, there won't be much time … she'd rather talk to you,” Hartley tried to explain, confusion splashed across her pale, exhausted face.

“Don't be ridiculous,” he told her sternly. “You're her best friend.” She remained unconvinced, indecision like a poison in her belly. “Just––just say goodbye,” he was almost begging her, freezing her in her place. “You'll regret it forever if you don't – and for you, forever is going to be a _very_ long time.”

The reminder of her unwanted immortality was a sharp one, but she refused to let herself get bogged down by that now. The now should be dedicated to Rose, and with a shaky breath Hartley adjusted herself so she was in the correct spot, the Doctor standing off to the side, his sonic aimed at the trembling immortal, the blue light shining brightly into her eyes.

Hartley wasn't sure she was mentally ready to say goodbye, to look Rose in the eyes and receive the anger she would no doubt hold over what had happened in Torchwood. But, ready or not, Pete's world appeared around her like a mirage. It was strange, like she could see both worlds at once, layered over the top of one another. She was standing on a beach, waves crashing violently to her left with dark, heavy storm clouds hovering up above.

Rose was there too, staring directly at her, pain painted across her face like a piece of gorgeous, tragic art. Hartley's heart clenched with an echo of the exact same pain, and her eyes burned with hot tears.

“Hey, Rosie,” she murmured, remembering they didn't have much time, her fingers twitching to move up and press back her wind-swept hair, only to remember she was nothing but an image and returning her arms numbly to her sides.

“Hart,” Rose breathed, staring at her like she couldn't believe what she was seeing. “How–? What–? Wh—where are you?” Rose finally settled on asking, and Hartley smiled gently, trying to memorise the way her hazel eyes glistened in the light, and the way those dimples pressed into her cheeks when she pursed her lips.

“We're in the TARDIS,” Hartley told her quickly, glancing to her left to see the Doctor peering back at her, his face carefully blank, like a perfectly constructed mask. She thought suddenly that it was like the wall of a dam, and wondered just how much sorrow it was holding back. Then what might happen should it break.

“Is the Doctor with you?” Rose asked her shakily, the pain in her eyes doubling.

“Yeah, he's right here,” Hartley nodded. “We don't have long, I just – I guess I just wanted to say goodbye,” Hartley said, her voice breaking over the words. She shut her eyes tightly for a moment, trying to pull herself together.

“I don't blame you,” Rose told her suddenly, and Hartley's eyes snapped open in surprise. “I know you, Hartley,” Rose's smile was wet and knowing. “I know you're wallowing in your guilt. But it's _not your fault_. You did everything you could. I'm the one who had to go and be a hero,” she said with a tiny, agonised sob.

“It's just like you to feel like you need to save the whole bloody world,” Hartley agreed sadly. “How's Mickey? Your mum, and Pete?” she asked hurriedly as from the corner of her eye, she saw the Doctor tap his wrist, a gentle reminder that they were running out of time.

“Mickey says he misses having his fellow third-wheel around,” Rose laughed. “But I think he misses your cooking most of all.” Hartley laughed too, the sound just a little bit hysterical.

The Doctor tapped his wrist again, and she knew she had to leave to give them the time they so desperately needed.

“I don't have long,” she told Rose, whose eyes immediately flooded with another wave of tears. Hartley hurried to finish, because this had to count, she had to say what needed to be said. There couldn't be anything left in the air. They needed closure, and Hartley needed Rose to know just how much she meant to her. “I want you to know that you're my best friend, Rosie, and I love you,” she said, jaw beginning to hurt from how tightly she was gritting her teeth, trying to keep the tears at bay.

“I know, Harts,” Rose said, a look of absolute heartbreak on her face. Hartley's chest squeezed painfully. “I love you, too. And – and I'm sorry if I ever made you feel...unwelcome,” she added weakly.

Hartley attempted a laugh. “I _was_ here first, you know,” she pulled out the old joke wryly, and Rose gave another wet chuckle, this one bordering on hysterical. “Promise me you'll find what makes you happy,” she quickly added. Rose broke down into tears, the words triggering something in her heart, but Hartley barrelled on. “I know what it's like to be ripped from this life, I know how horrible and hard it can be; but _please_ , find a way to be happy, whatever form that takes,” she said ardently.

Rose sobbed, face pressed into her palms, too overcome with emotion to reply. Hartley's heart broke, and she glanced over at the Doctor. His blank expression had finally given way to a glimmer of grief, and a tear broke free of Hartley's lid, trailing down over her cheek, hot and weighty.

“I'll leave you with the Doc now,” she rasped, taking in the sight of her dear friend, trying desperately to come to terms with the fact that it would be for the last time. “Love you, Rosie,” she said again.

Rose only continued to cry, another tear trickling down her cheek, and with a final sad smile Hartley turned and walked out of range, leaving the Doctor to take her place.

“There's one tiny little gap in the universe left,” the Doctor began, and Hartley knew she wouldn't be able to handle sticking around for their goodbyes. With a painful pang in her chest, she turned and walked towards the doors. She remained in the corridor, close enough that she could still hear them mumbling, but far enough away that she couldn't make out exactly what was being said.

It wasn't like Rose was dead; she was very much _alive_ , and she was with her family, just as she should be. What she needed to do now was move forward, or risk being left behind.

She waited until the muttering in the console room came to a close, hesitating a further moment to be sure the Doctor had collected himself, then turning and heading through the door again. As she stepped back into the console room she noted that the beach scene was gone, replaced by the cool lights of the TARDIS and a morose Doctor.

The Time Lord was still, leant up against the console, a shellshocked look on his face with a single tear trailing down his cheek. “Did you tell her?” she couldn't resist asking, hoping that by some slim chance perhaps they'd gotten to say what so desperately needed to be said. That unspoken thing that hovered between them all aboard the TARDIS. However, the Doctor didn't answer her, swallowing loudly in the silence and turning back around, beginning to pilot the TARDIS, that wonderful groaning filling the room, like a balm to their sorrow.

Hartley couldn't stop herself, able to feel his grief even with his back turned. She shuffled up the ramp until she stood just behind him, hesitating only a moment before reaching up and placing a hand on his shoulder.

He was tense under her touch, but she squeezed gently and he relaxed, bowing his head as he allowed himself to be comforted by the one friend he had left; one who didn't plan to be going anywhere any time soon – whether the universe would let her or not.

“You seem okay, then,” the Doctor spoke softly, head still bowed, voice crackling with the grief she could feel in her own chest. It wasn't easy to ignore, but if she didn't numb herself to it she risked it swallowing her whole.

“ _Everyone can master a grief but he that has it_ ,” she quoted Shakespeare wisely, and the Doctor whirled around, an sharp gleam in his dark eyes.

“Are you saying you don't feel grief?” he asked sharply.

“Of _course_ I feel grief,” she said, stepping back enough to frown up at him. She didn't appreciate the accusation. A question burned at her tongue, so strong she had to voice it. “Do you think we'll ever see her again?” she asked, the words barely a whisper.

The Doctor's expression shuttered. “We can't,” he said, voice cracking over the words.

Hartley chewed carefully on her next words. “The universe is big,” she whispered, glancing up at the bobbing time rotor like it were the stars themselves. In many ways, it was. “Maybe we'll find a miracle.”

The Doctor didn't reply, but she could feel his skepticism clear as day.

“What do we do now?” she asked him quietly, because she honestly had no idea. Rose had always been there, part of their team, a sort of buffer between them. Now she was gone and it was just the two of them. Hartley remembered what those first few weeks aboard the TARDIS were like, all those years ago. All she could do was pray that wasn't going to happen again.

“Now…we move forwards,” said the Doctor.

Hartley swallowed. “Or what?”

“Or risk getting left behind.”

She met his gaze, determination in her own, surprised by the glint of vulnerability he was displaying.

She tilted her head back, looking more closely into his eyes. They weren't just chocolate, they had rivets of caramel and gold running through them, making them shine like amber in the sun, but the sadness in them was heart wrenching, a deep pain they now shared, one that transcended words.

“Forwards it is,” she breathed, the weight of her words not lost on either of them.

“Oi!” a voice barked suddenly, startling them both out of their shared stupor. The pair spun around, Hartley's chest squeezing in shock as she spied the newcomer, a red-haired woman in a pristine white wedding dress and veil, glowering at them like their very existence offended her. “Who the _hell_ are you?”


	28. The Runaway Bride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Response to the last chapter surprised me, and I'm really glad you guys liked it. I feel like Rose holds a special place in everyone's hearts, and I wanted to do her justice. We'll be seeing her again, as you well know, but with everything going to happen between now and then … it may not go quite as smoothly as it does in the canon. But that's a while away yet.
> 
> Quick warning: this chapter gets just a tad graphic towards the end – a little gory. Just be prepared for when that comes, because I know it's not for everyone. 
> 
> Other than that, hope you guys enjoy this chapter – Donna's one of my favourite companions of all time, so I had a lot of fun getting to write her. It's another long one – so I'll see you at the bottom!

**THE RUNAWAY BRIDE**

“ _Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing at all._ ”

Helen Keller

* * *

“What?”

“Where am I?”

“What?”

“What the hell _is_ this place?”

“ _What_?!”

The Doctor swung around to fix his wide, startled gaze on Hartley, whose expression matched his own. He stared at her as if hoping she had answers, but all she had to offer was a clueless, bewildered shrug. He whirled back to face the newcomer, eyes alight with curious frustration.

“But – you can't do that,” he argued quickly, and Hartley was thrown back to all those years ago, when she'd achieved the exact same impossible feat. With a flare of traitorous hope, she let herself wonder, if only for a second, whether this scowling woman was just like her – cosmically magnetised to the Doctor and his TARDIS. “I wasn't – we're in _flight,_ ” the Doctor's voice had gone squeaky with shock. “That is...that is physically _impossible_! How did–?”

“Tell me where I am,” the woman snarled furiously, fists balled like she was about to start swinging. Hartley got the feeling she was the kind of woman who followed through with her threats, and that was only within thirty seconds of seeing her. “I demand you tell me _right_ now, where _am_ I?” she demanded in a snarl.

The Doctor blinked, unsure how to react. “You're inside the TARDIS,” he told her, slow and careful, reaching up to tug at his own hair.

The bride scowled, fury flickering like flames in her eyes. “The what?”

“The TARDIS.”

“The what?”

“The TARDIS!”

“The _what_?”

“It's _called_ the TARDIS,” he snapped, irritated.

“That's not even a proper word. You're just saying things!” she screeched back like a banshee.

“How did you get in here?” he spun around to look at Hartley like she somehow had the authority to answer. This couldn't be the Bad Wolf's doing, she knew that much. And even if it was, it wasn't as though they got together for coffee every other Thursday. “ _How_ did she get in here?” he asked her quickly.

Hartley frowned back, irritated. “How'm I supposed to know?”

The Doctor tutted pettily before turning back to the woman, who looked about ready to start frothing at the mouth in her outrage.

“Well, obviously, you two kidnapped me!” the infuriated bride snapped like there was no other possible explanation. “Who was it? Who's paying you? Is it Nerys? Oh my God, she's finally got me back. This has got Nerys written _all over it_.”

“Nerys?” Hartley repeated with a blink.

“Who the hell is Nerys?” the Doctor began to grow testy.

“ _Your_ best friend,” the woman seethed.

“I only _have_ one friend,” said the Doctor with a sharp jerk of his thumb over his shoulder to where Hartley was stood behind him, “and her name's certainly not Nerys.” Hartley was strangely flattered by the words, but he was barrelling on before she had a chance to speak up. “Hold on, wait a minute. What are you dressed like that for?” he asked, seeming to only just take note of her pristine white wedding dress.

“I'm going ten pin bowling,” the woman began calmly, and from behind the Doctor, Hartley huffed a laugh even despite the spiking tension in the room. “Why do you think, _dumbo_?” she once more exploded in fury. “I was halfway up the _aisle_! I've been waiting all my life for this. I was just seconds away, and then you two, I don't know, you _drugged_ me or something!”

“I haven't done anything!” the bewildered Doctor insisted.

“It's _her_ then!” the bride was quick to swing around, pointing a condemning finger at Hartley, whose eyes widened at the unwanted attention. “I've read all about it. Money-hungry couples driven by a sadistic woman,” she spat, and Hartley blinked, completely blindsided by the wild accusations. “What're you trying to do, then, cut me open and sell my organs on the black market?” she demanded.

Hartley laughed suddenly, and the woman only looked even more infuriated by the strange reaction. “I said the same thing!” Hartley laughed, turning to the Doctor who only looked annoyed by her mirth. “Remember? When this happened to me? I thought you were gonna sell my kidneys on the black market, too!” she reminded him, delighted by the memories from where seemed like lifetimes upon lifetimes ago.

Things were so simply back then – or as simple as their lives could ever get, at least. Which admittedly, wasn't very.

“I'm having the police on you!” the bride barged on ahead with all the delicacy of a freight train – which Hartley conceded was for the best. Nobody else seemed amused by her words. “Me and my husband, as soon as he _is_ my husband, we're going to sue the living backside off you! _Both_ of you!”

The terrified bride turned and legged it down the ramp, heading towards the doors. Hartley wasn't burdened down by a wedding dress that probably weighed in at about a ton, she was able to dive past the frazzled bride, throwing her arms across the doors to keep her from opening them.

“Not a good idea,” she warned, sincerity shining in her eyes. These doors opened and the nameless bride was going to get one hell of a culture shock. “Trust me.”

The stranger didn't heed her warning, but then again, Hartley hadn't really expected it to work. “Outta my way, pixie,” she snapped, wrapping a heavy hand around Hartley's arm and yanking her out of the way with a surprising amount of force.

Thankfully the Doctor was there to catch her, just barely keeping her from tripping face-first into the grating. She grasped at his arms, steadying herself as she turned just in time to see the bride fling open the doors and prepare to take a step outside.

All of them froze, though none more than the bride, who gasped loudly at the sight before her. A glorious purple nebula hung against the inky black of space, as if painted by the hand of God herself.

Hartley quickly did a scan of the stars, doing her best to triangulate where they were in the galaxy. “Welcome to the Blossom Cluster,” she told the bride once she was sure, turning to look at the Doctor who nodded his head at the guess.

“I'm...I'm...” the bride seemed to be having trouble getting the words out, something Hartley could understand.

“You're in space,” the Doctor said before she could give herself a headache trying to force out the words. “Outer space,” he clarified, just to be safe. “This is my...space ship,” he finished with a grimace, because that title didn't even come close to what the sentient ship really was – a protecter, a friend, a _home._ “It's called the TARDIS.”

The woman seemed to collect herself, swallowing as she stared out at the cluster of stars and gas, humbled by the sight. “How am I breathing?” she asked quietly, seeming calm, but Hartley caught sight of her shaking fingertips. All that loud, angry bravado from before was gone, replaced by a gentle humbleness that Hartley enjoyed.

“The TARDIS is protecting us,” the Doctor assured her.

She swallowed loudly. “Who are you?”

“I'm the Doctor. You?”

“Donna.”

“Human?”

“Yeah,” she replied without thinking, then grimaced. “Is that optional?”

“Well, it is for me,” the Doctor muttered.

Donna was silent for a beat, taking that in. “You're an alien,” she said. It wasn't a question.

“Yeah.”

“And her?” she asked, nodding her head to where Hartley stood behind them, pushed up onto her toes so she could look out at the nebula over their taller shoulders.

“ _Her_ name is Hartley,” Hartley responded. The words might have been curt coming from anyone else, but from her they were just matter-of-fact, if not a little sweet, said through a smile. The smile didn't come easy, but it was genuine all the same. Wasn't she only just thinking about how their lives had to move on from this? Well, this seemed like the universe's way of prompting her to do just that. “And she is very pleased to meet you,” she added lightly, meaning every word.

“You alien too, then?” the bride – Donna – asked, the words casual in a way that surprised her. She was certainly taking it well.

“Nah,” Hartley replied impishly, “just immortal.”

Donna didn't seem to know what to make of the information, her stare blank for a long moment before she reached up, rubbing her palms over her bare arms. “It's freezing with these doors open.”

The Doctor leapt forwards, yanking the doors closed and turning to race back up to the console. Hartley rocked back on her heels, smiling encouragingly at Donna but her stare remained vacant.

“I don't understand this, and I understand everything,” the Doctor was muttering, more to himself than to either of the them. “This—this can't happen!” he squawked.

“Here we go,” Hartley mumbled to Donna with a sense of warm camaraderie. The other redhead only looked bewildered by the familiarity with which she was spoken to.

Hartley realised what she was doing with a start. She'd grown so used to being surrounded by people who knew all about the Doctor and his antics. It was strange to speak with someone who knew nothing at all; it was like a blank canvas, in a sense. A clean slate with which to work on.

“There is no way a human being can lock themselves onto the TARDIS and transport themselves inside. _Well_ , Hartley did, but those circumstances were entirely different, an nearly impossible to replicate,” the Doctor was ranting, utterly oblivious to Donna's mounting panic. Hartley wasn't, keeping an eye on her, watching as her eyes watered with tears of frustration and confusion. “It must be––” the Doctor paused long enough to fish an ophthalmoscope from the TARDIS and hold it up to Donna's eyes. “Impossible. Some sort of subatomic connection? Something in the temporal field? Maybe something pulling you into alignment with the Chronon shell? Maybe something macro mining your DNA within the interior matrix! Maybe a genetic––”

Donna's hand connected with the Doctor's face in a slap, the sharp sound echoing around the console room like a bullet. Hartley gasped loudly, and the Doctor stumbled backwards at the blow, turning to stare at her with wide, shocked eyes. Confounded by the display of violence, Hartley's hands pressed over her mouth as she stared at Donna in surprise. That kind of brutal force certainly wasn't something they were used to.

“What was that for?” the Doctor demanded, reaching up to rub sulkily at his reddened cheek.

“Get me to the church!” Donna bellowed, the volume genuinely impressive.

“Right! Fine!” he snapped, glaring at her moodily before he turned back to the controls. “I don't want you here anyway! Where is this wedding?” he sniffed.

“Saint Mary's, Hayden Road, Chiswick, London, _England_ , _Earth_ , the _Solar_ _System_ ,” Donna listed in another squawk. Despite what had just happened, Hartley couldn't help but giggle a little at the sass, tipping her head back to grin up at the ceiling, like the TARDIS might be sharing the moment of amusement with her.

Things were quiet for a beat as the Doctor input the destination, and Hartley found them to be nearly unbearably awkward. “So, what's the lucky guy's name?” she asked Donna, conversational but still a little stilted.

Donna turned to look at her, utterly unimpressed. “Smalltalk?” she asked dryly. “Really?”

Feeling strangely chastised, Hartley crossed her arms over her chest. “Just trying to diffuse the tension,” she muttered, doing her best not to sound like she was sulking. She looked away, glancing down to her scuffed up trainers, idly kicking at a bolt that lay forgotten in the grating below.

“I _knew_ it, acting all innocent!” Donna suddenly exclaimed, voice sounding amplified, as though she held an invisible megaphone to her mouth. She stormed up between the two bewildered travellers, righteous fury in her eyes. “I'm _not_ the first, am I?” she snarled, holding up a piece of purple material and waving it in their faces. “How many women have you abducted?” she demanded, shaking the shirt again like it were the damning evidence in her case.

With a start Hartley realised that she'd forgotten about Rose. Not even twenty minutes had passed since she'd said goodbye, and she was standing there _laughing_ as if everything was perfectly fine. But it _wasn't._ While Rose was gone, lost to them forever, relics of her still remained on the TARDIS, and there were suddenly memories everywhere she looked. She couldn't escape it.

The Doctor was silent from beside her, and she could feel his pain in the air like a tangible thing.

“That's our friend's,” Hartley murmured weakly, the grief in her voice apparent. At the words, the Doctor's stupor broke and his hand snapped out, gripping the shirt and tearing it from Donna's fingers. He brought it in close to his chest, like he were trying to protect it. Like he were trying to protect _Rose._

“Where is she, then?” Donna pressed sarcastically, oblivious to the suddenly somber mood that filled the control room. “Popped out for a space walk?”

There was another great pause that held the weight of their shared sorrow. “She's gone,” the Doctor said, peering down at the purple shirt forlornly. Hartley watched as his thumb brushed over the familiar, wrinkled material in an affectionate move, and sadness swelled in her throat, making it harder to breathe.

“Gone where?!” Donna demanded through a sneer.

“We lost her,” the Doctor said flatly.

“Well, you can _hurry_ _up_ and lose _me_!” Donna snapped. Then she paused, finally noticing the look of hollow grief that remained on the faces of this strange, mysterious pair. The icy fury in her heart melted a fraction. “How do you mean, lost?” she asked them, reconsidering what she'd believed to be true about them in a moment of pity, suddenly cautious and compassionate.

Hartley felt the grief like a landslide within her. She'd barely had two minutes to mourn Rose, and now all of a sudden she was being forced to act like everything was fine? That the sight of Rose's favourite purple shirt didn't hurt like a drill being plunged into her chest cavity?

She wondered what the Doctor was thinking, but she wouldn't dare to look up to see his face, too afraid of the mirrored misery she might find. One of them had to be the strong one, and she knew it wasn't going to be her. The least she could do would be to maintain the _illusion_ that it would be the Doctor.

In a sharp move the Doctor threw the blouse through the doorway leading to the rest of his ship. It fluttered in the air, then disappeared out of sight. Hartley rearranged her pained expression into one of nonchalance. She might not have been as good at compartmentalisation as the Doctor, but she'd picked up a little over the years.

“Right, Chiswick!” the Doctor crowed cheerfully, bouncing over to the correct controls and slamming his right hand down on a button while pumping a lever energetically with his left. He looked for all the universe like he didn't have a care in the world. Hartley knew differently, but she thought perhaps she was the only one.

“Come on, then,” Donna prompted impatiently, only to cut off with a yelp as the ship jolted in its usual violent way.

That familiar wheezing filled the room, and Donna looked like she wanted to slam her hands over her ears at the sound, which made Hartley feel kind of insulted on the ship's behalf. She supposed, though, that it was something you _grew_ to love, rather than loved at first hearing.

“You look beautiful in that wedding dress, by the way,” Hartley told Donna, reaching out to grasp the railing in a casual move, easily keeping her balance on the trembling floor.

Donna didn't seem to know what to say, staring back at her in sheer bewilderment until the TARDIS landed with a final jolt.Suddenly Donna didn't seem too worried about Hartley's comment. She made a break for the doors, hiking up the skirts of her wedding dress and shoving them open, tumbling out into the busy street. Hartley followed quickly behind, stepping out into the crisp breeze and leaning back against the blue box, watching Donna closely.

“I said Saint Mary's,” Donna was complaining rightfully. “What sort of Martian are you? Where's this?” she demanded, spinning around to peer at all the nondescript buildings, trying to pinpoint her whereabouts.

“Think you might have overshot it a bit?” Hartley asked the Doctor in a low tone, eyeing their surroundings thoughtfully. It seemed just like any normal street in London; only there was no church in sight.

“Something's wrong with her,” the replied, poking his head out of the box and running a hand down the exterior like he were stroking a beloved pet. “The TARDIS – it's like she's recalibrating!” With a wild spin he darted back into the TARDIS, bouncing up towards the controls. “She's digesting. What is it? What have you eaten? What's wrong?” he fired off questions at his box, which did nothing to respond. Hartley felt a sort of humming in her mind, but it was the usual sensation, and it wasn't like she could ever interpret the hummed whisperings into actual words. “Donna?!” the Doctor yelled through the doors. “You've really got to _think_. Is there anything that might've caused this?”

But Donna wasn't listening, her jaw slack and her eyes vacant as she finally took notice of the size of the exterior of the ship in comparison to the size of the inside.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Hartley beamed proudly, patting the side of the box lovingly, ignoring the voice in her head that pointed out how much she was acting like the Doctor. “She's bigger on the inside!” she added enthusiastically, just on the off chance it had somehow escaped Donna's notice.

Donna didn't seem to handle this information very well. She looked vaguely like she was about to have a panic attack, be sick, or maybe even both.

“Anything you might've done? Any sort of alien contact? I can't let you go wandering off. What if you're dangerous? I mean, have you seen lights in the sky, or did you touch something … something different, something strange?” the Doctor was speaking from inside the ship, oblivious to Donna's reaction outside. “Or something made out of a, box of metal or... Who're you getting married to? Are you sure he's human? He's not a bit overweight with a zip around his forehead, is he?”

Donna seemed to turn an alarming shade of green.

“Don't worry, Donna, I'm sure he's _very_ human,” Hartley quickly assured the bride, sending the Doctor a reprimanding glare that went unnoticed. She'd taken her eyes off Donna for one moment, and by the time she'd turned back around the bride had run off, hiking her skirts up again and rushing from the street they'd landed on as quickly as she could manage in her big, puffy dress.

“Donna?!” the Doctor seemed just as surprised by her abrupt exit, leaping from the box and rushing after the loud woman in a flurry. “Stay with the TARDIS!” he ordered Hartley, who blinked in surprise but otherwise didn't argue.

Stepping back inside the TARDIS, the silence seemed deafening now that she was alone. Not even the TARDIS' constant hum could soothe her. The quiet was suddenly like a prison.

Hartley could have really done with another cup of tea, but in the end decided against it, instead going to fish a bar of chocolate out from the cupboards in the kitchen. If chocolate worked wonders against Dementors, surely it could do the same for the pain of losing a friend.

She wound her way back to the console room to perch herself on the jump seat and await the Doctor's return. Her legs swung under her, her mind awash with the sound of Rose's laugh. Everywhere she looked it seemed a new memory hit her, like tiny electric shocks to her heart.

The kitchen: they'd make hot chocolate and listen to old music while they chatted about anything and everything in the universe. Their rooms: they'd stay up late painting each others' nails with polish from asteroid markets and doing face masks made from the clay on Mars. The control room: they would stand around the console with the Doctor, listening to him ramble as he danced around the controls like a ballerina, setting them off on their next great adventure.

The chocolate melting in her mouth, Hartley curled up on the jump seat and tried to latch onto the TARDIS' familiar hum in an effort to keep from going crazy.

She wasn't waiting long, although from within the confines of her head, it could have been hours. However only a short time later the Doctor was tripping his way back into the ship, rushing up the ramp and leaping onto the controls as the doors slammed shut with a bang behind him. “Hart, hold that button down! Don't take your hand off till I say!” he ordered without preamble, beginning to operate the TARDIS like his life depended on it. “Donna's been kidnapped!” he shouted, his attention on the controls he was hurriedly manipulating.

“You let her get kidnapped?!” she hissed back. This distraction was exactly what she needed – as objectively horrible as that sounds – and she leapt to her feet to follow his instructions.

“I didn't _let_ it happen!” he cried defensively. “It just _did_.”

“Fat lot of good you are,” she muttered, thinking that they would have probably been better off had she gone after Donna herself.

“Oi!” the Doctor replied, but it was an afterthought if anything. His focus was on the controls before him. She knew now wasn't the time to get into one of their signature spats. Donna's life was on the line.

“Kidnapped by who?!” she asked instead, pulse racing from the adrenaline.

“Pump that lever until I tell you to stop!” the Doctor barked, pointing at a scuffed grey lever to her right. She did as asked, grunting when it proved to be a lot heavier to move than it looked. “I don't know for sure,” he answered her succinctly. “All I know is that they're all dressed up like Santa, and they have weapons disguised as instruments!”

“Santa?” she yelled back over the groan of the ship.

“Apparently it's Christmas Eve!”

Hartley nearly sighed; it would be, wouldn't it?

Sparks exploded out of the console right beside Hartley's hand, and she ripped it away from the lever with a yelp. “ _Behave_!” the Doctor chastised his ship, producing a heavy hammer from beneath the floor and slamming it down onto the console scoldingly. “All right?!” he called to Hartley, who took a moment to glance down at the nasty burn on her hand before huffing and once more grabbing onto the lever, pumping it with renewed vigour.

“I'll live,” she said wryly, then frowned at the strange sound the ship was making and the way it threw itself around, completely different to its usual judder from materialisation. “What's happening?!” she yelled over the odd sound, confused as she grasped tighter to the lever to keep herself upright when the whole ship seemed to tilt on its side.

“We're flying!” he called back as he worked, eyes flickering between the controls and the monitor. “Following after Donna on the freeway!”

“The TARDIS can do that?” Hartley started in surprise, ducking her head just as the console gave another shower of sparks. She just barely avoided getting burned again.

“Of course it can do that!” he shouted, sparing a moment to shoot her an unimpressed sort of stare, as if her doubt had offended him. “Now, let go of that and come hold this!” he ordered her quickly. “Whatever you do, don't let go!”

Moving as commanded, she dived into place, holding the control stick to the far right with all her strength, watching as the Doctor legged it to the doors and threw them open, leaning out into the air.

A wall of sound hit her, loud and unsavoury. Hartley grimaced at the shrill whistle of wind and the angry honking of car horns.

“Open the door!” he bellowed to Donna over the noise.

“Do what?” she shouted back, the sound of her voice just barely making it to where Hartley stood at the console.

“Open the door!”

“I can't, it's locked!” Hartley listened as the sound of the sonic rang out over all the other noise, and then Donna's voice once again shouted, “Santa's a _robot_!”

“Donna, you've got to jump!” the Doctor yelled to her.

“I'm not _blinking_ jumping!” she cried back like he were insane. Which was fair, because he kind of was. “I'm supposed to be getting married!”

There was the loud revving of a car engine, and the Doctor shouted, “Hart! More to the right!”

Moving quickly, she hurried to do as she was told. The ship shuddered again, that groaning sound picking up as more sparks emitted from the console, zapping her hand. Yelping, Hartley could do no more than blink through the pain as they tried desperately to catch up to a desperate Donna.

“Yes, Hart!” he called to her. “Perfect!”

Nodding to herself, she kept on doing what she was doing, trying her best to keep the ship around her steady. It wasn't easy, but she felt a little thrill at the fact that she was essentially _flying_ the _TARDIS._ That wasn't something many humans could say they'd done before.

“Listen to me!” the Doctor shouted, this time at Donna. “You've got to jump!”

“I'm not jumping on a motorway!” Donna's voice was faint, barely there, but strong all the same.

“Whatever that thing is, it _needs_ you. And whatever it needs you for, it's not good! Now, come on!” the Doctor implored her. Hartley could sense his desperation, feel it like a weight in her own chest. He couldn't lose Donna. They didn't even know her, but as far as he was concerned, she was now his responsibility.

“I'm in my wedding dress!” she shrieked back.

“Yes, you look lovely!” he assured her impatiently, finally arriving to his wits' end. “Come on!”

The TARDIS sparked again, and Hartley only just managed to keep ahold of the controls, closing her eyes against the bright, hot flash. “Doc, I'm not sure how much more she can take!” she shouted out to the Doctor, who prompted Donna again, growing desperate.

“I can't do it!” she cried.

“Trust me!” the Doctor implored her.

“Is that what you said to her? Your friend? The one you lost?” Donna yelled back, and the panic seemed to evaporate in an instant, replaced by that sad fog that Hartley wasn't sure would ever fully leave her. “Did she trust you?” Donna asked, genuine and curious, needing to know before she put her life into the Doctor's hands.

“Yes, she did,” the Doctor replied, slow and full of heart. “And she is _not_ dead. She is _so_ alive!” he shouted joyously. “Now, _jump_!”

There were no more words spoken, and all Hartley knew was that in the next moment Donna and the Doctor were tipping backwards into the TARDIS. They hit the ramp with a loud thump, and the doors slammed shut of their own accord.

“Let go!” the Doctor called back to her, and Hartley released the controls just as the console gave way to another flash of dangerous sparks. This one sent Hartley flying backwards into a pillar of coral. Her back cracked against the large column and she slipped to the grating of the floor just as a thick black smoke began to pour out from between the controls.

The Doctor rushed past her, darting to and fro as he hurried to land the ship.

“Hartley?!” he called over the ship's loud groaning, and she muttered an unintelligible answer as she brought herself into a sitting position, holding a hand to her cricked neck.

The familiar wheezing of the TARDIS filled the room, then a bonging sound as it landed, which was just as well, because the console was starting to catch alight, flames crackling along the top of the metal sheeting. The rotor was working overtime, the noise it was making like two stones being ground together, unpleasant on the ears.

“Everybody out!” the Doctor shouted, and Hartley was quick to heft herself to her feet. Her muscles ached and the shallow burns on her hands were stinging, but she was more concerned about Donna. Besides, she healed fast.

“Come on,” she prompted Donna, coughing when she inhaled a lungful of the thick, rancid smoke. “Out we go,” she said, pulling open the door, waving Donna out first. Stepping outside, Hartley was relieved to breathe in the fresh, clean air. Confident the Doctor would follow in his own time, Hartley eyed the place they'd landed.

They were on a nondescript rooftop on the outskirts of London, the air smoggy in its usual British way. The view may not have been breathtakingly beautiful, but it made her feel a warm sense of _home,_ and so she loved it all the same.

“You okay?” she asked Donna gently, glancing over at the woman who was now staring forlornly down at her watch, disappointment shining in her eyes.

“Define 'okay',” Donna replied weakly, and Hartley winced in sympathy.

She herself had never given much thought to marriage, or her own wedding. She'd never been one of those children who stayed awake at night dreaming up the perfect dress and colour scheme. Still, she couldn't imagine such an important day arriving only to be beamed upon an alien spaceship before she could even reach the altar.

“Hartley, was it?” Donna asked, staring miserably out at the view. “You ever been married?”

“Me?” Hartley blinked twice in surprise. “No, no. Not even close.”

“You and Martian Boy, then, you're not...?”

“It isn't like that,” she explained quietly, looking away from the skyline and over at the TARDIS where the Doctor had still yet to reappear. “He's my...” she trailed off, not knowing how to describe it. “He's my friend,” she finally decided on. “He likes to call us companions, but he's just lame like that,” she added with a fond little smile.

Donna gave a sigh that bordered on a laugh, and Hartley looked over to see her smiling. The expression didn't quite reach her eyes, but she was trying, and that was what mattered.

“You alive in there?!” Hartley shouted back into the TARDIS. There was a loud bang and some unintelligible muttering before the Doctor finally appeared, small fire extinguisher held in his hand, spraying what remained of it into his still-smoking ship. “She okay?” she continued after giving him a once-over, deeming him to be fine.

“The funny thing is, for a spaceship, she doesn't really do that much flying,” he replied, putting down the extinguisher and glancing down at his ash-covered hands before turning to the other two with a sigh. “We'd better give her a couple of hours,” he said mildly before seeming to finally notice that Donna was still staring out at the skyline sadly. “You all right?” he asked her hesitantly.

“Doesn't matter,” Donna said flatly.

“It does too matter,” Hartley argued, stepping closer to the woman, whose eyes had gone glassy. Donna gave no indication that she'd heard, and Hartley sighed, wanting to comfort her but not knowing how. “Have we missed it?” she asked her quietly, watching as she hung her head in sad acceptance.

“Yeah.”

“Well, you can book another date,” the Doctor offered.

“'Course we can.”

“You've still got the honeymoon,” he added optimistically.

But Donna didn't smile. “It's just a holiday now.”

Hartley winced again in sympathy. She looked up to meet the Doctor's eyes, noting the regret in his chocolate depths. His mouth was twisted downwards in a frown. “Yeah,” he agreed quietly, seeing her point. “Sorry.”

Donna was quiet for a moment. “It's not your fault,” she eventually said, and Hartley was surprised to find she meant what she was saying.

“Oh?” the Doctor asked, the barest hint a hint of an amused smile flickering at his lips. “That's a change,” he said slyly, and Hartley laughed. Even Donna managed a tiny trace of a smile.

“Wish you had a time machine, then we could go back and get it right,” she said flippantly. Both Hartley and the Doctor froze, blindsided by the offhanded comment.

“Yeah...shame,” Hartley agreed awkwardly, twiddling her thumbs uncomfortably at the blatant lie of omission.

“But even if I did, I couldn't go back on someone's personal timeline...” the Doctor couldn't help but interject, and Donna took a moment to shoot him a narrow-eyed look of contemplation. “Apparently,” he added uncomfortably.

Donna let it go, sighing and dropping her shoulders in defeat as she gingerly took a seat on the edge of the roof, letting her feet dangle out into the open air beneath them. Hartley and the Doctor hesitated, then in a move that surprised Hartley most of all he undid the buttons of his suit jacket, pulling it from his body and stepping closer to Donna, wrapping it kindly around her shivering shoulders before taking a seat on her right.

Smiling to herself, Hartley did the same, sitting on the Doctor's other side, staring up at the blanket of clouds above them. Just a hint of sun shone through, though not enough to combat the chill of the mid-winter air. Pulling the sleeves of her sweater further down over her hands, she wondered idly whether the clouds would give way to snow.

“God, you're skinny. This wouldn't fit a rat,” Donna was saying even as she pulled the jacket tighter around her wider frame. The words might have been derisive under different circumstances, but with everything that she'd so far learned of Donna, they only made Hartley grin.

“Oh,” the Doctor said suddenly, digging in his pocket for a moment and producing a small, glittering gold ring. “You'd better put this on.”

“Oh, do you have to rub it in?” Donna asked snidely.

“Those creatures can trace you. This is a bio-damper, it should keep you hidden,” he explained gently, and with a troubled sigh she held out her hand. “With this ring, I thee bio-damp,” he said cheekily, popping the last syllable, and it was just enough to bring a smile out of the unlucky bride.

“For better or for worse,” she muttered, and the Doctor grinned back widely.

“Bet this wasn't how you imagined your afternoon going,” Hartley said, and Donna gave a low snort of amusement.

“You could say that again,” she agreed, and they all sat in companionable silence for a long, peaceful minute, before she spoke up again. “So, come on then. Robot Santa's, what are they for?”

“Ah, your basic robo-scavenger,” the Doctor told her, and Hartley, who also hadn't a clue. “The Father Christmas stuff is just a disguise. They're trying to blend in. I met them last Christmas,” he added thoughtfully.

“Why, what happened then?”

The Doctor took a moment to stare at her in confusion. “Great big spaceship hovering over London?” he reminded her, receiving only a blank stare in response. Although Hartley hadn't been there that day – stuck in the 1870's at the time – she imagined it wouldn't have been an easy thing to forget. “You didn't notice?” he asked critically.

Donna shrugged. “I had a bit of a hangover.”

“Don't worry, I missed out on that one too,” Hartley assured her softly, and Donna gave another barely-there smile that made her feel warm with unexpected camaraderie.

The Doctor was silent a moment before saying, “I spent Christmas Day just over there, the Powell Estate, with this family.” He paused, and Hartley watched as his Adam's apple dipped with emotion. “My friend, she had this family,” he began to explain but cut himself off, staring out at the skyline without actually _seeing_ it. Heart clenching painfully inside her suddenly too-small chest, Hartley reached out her left hand and took his right in her own.

He didn't flinch, so she took that as sign to continue, threading their fingers together in a move that might have felt more intimate had she not been _Hartley_ and he not been the _Doctor._ It was an unexpected source of comfort for the both of them, and she gripped at him like he were the thing tethering her to sanity. His thumb trailed over the soft skin on the back of her hand in a move more tender than anything she was used to from him, and throwing propriety to hell, she shuffled closer, resting her chin on his shoulder and closing her eyes, soaking in the comfort while she could, like flowers in the sun.

“Well, they were,” he continued on unsteadily, and she wondered whether his voice had really cracked or whether it were just her imagination. “Still, gone now,” he finished rather abruptly. He cleared his throat casually, but the way he was still gripping Hartley's hand – like it was his only lifeline – told her that it affected him more than he would ever show.

Donna said nothing for awhile, but Hartley felt her eyes on them, thoughtful and considering. “Your friend, who was she?” she finally asked, both curious and compassionate, as if she was only just now coming to grasp how dear this friend was to the two of them. Hartley doubted she'd ever understand. The bond you formed aboard the TARDIS … it was unlike anything else Hartley had ever had.

It was the family you got to _choose_.

“Question is, what do camouflaged robot mercenaries want with you?” the Doctor asked rather than answer Donna's question, a glaringly obvious deflection if Hartley had ever seen one. “And how did you get inside the TARDIS?” he asked aloud, all the while knowing neither of them had the answer. “Only other person who's ever managed that was...” he trailed off, casting a side glance over at Hartley who stared back, recalling the same day he was, so very long ago. They were both different people entirely, back them. In one case, quite literally. “What's your job?” he asked Donna suddenly.

He went to move his hand, then paused when he realised his fingers were still tangled with Hartley's. They both looked down at their intertwined hands, the Doctor surprised by the still-shared connection. He slowly untangled their fingers, dropping her hand and turning around to face Donna, his sole attention back on the mystery before them.

Hartley's skin tingled from where they'd been touching, and she quickly crossed her arms over her chest, hiding the prickling appendage in between her arm and ribcage.

“I'm a secretary,” Donna answered the Doctor, oblivious to the exchange. The Doctor fished the sonic screwdriver from the jacket laid over her bare shoulders, taking a moment to adjust it to the right setting before scanning her up and down.

“It's weird,” he muttered to himself. “I mean, you're not _special_ , you're not _powerful_ , you're not connected, you're not clever, you're not _important_ ,” he listed callously. Hartley smacked him on the shoulder in reprimand for his careless words, but it went unnoticed.

“This friend of yours – just before she left, did she punch you in the face?” Donna asked in a mock-pleasant sort of voice, glaring at the alien darkly. “ _Stop bleeping me_!” she ordered sharply, and the sonic's buzz cut off with a click.

“What kind of secretary?” he demanded, staring down at the readings with a frown.

“I'm at H.C. Clements,” she told them, adopting a much sweeter tone, wistful remembrance in her eyes. “It's where I met Lance. I was temping – I mean, it was all a bit posh really. I'd spent the last two years at a double glazing firm. Well, I thought – I'm never going to fit in here. And then he made me a coffee. I mean, that just doesn't _happen._ Nobody gets the _secretaries_ a coffee,” she began to explain, a happy smile lighting up her face, and Hartley felt a pulse of love that wasn't her own. It made her smile. “And Lance, he's the head of HR! He don't need to bother with me. But he was nice, he was funny,” she recalled, voice filled with warm nostalgia. “And it turns out he thought everyone else was really snotty too. So, that's how it started, me and him. One cup of coffee. That was it.”

“When was this?”

“Six months ago,” Donna said happily.

Hartley turned to look at her in surprise. “Bit quick to get married,” the Doctor commented, speaking her thoughts aloud.

“Well, he insisted,” she replied sweetly, “and he nagged, and he nagged me. He just wore me down. And then finally, I just gave in.”

“He sounds lovely,” Hartley offered, and Donna's smile grew a few notches.

“He is,” she said in a dreamy sort of tone. “He's just amazing. I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with him.”

And suddenly Hartley was thinking that _she_ couldn't imagine spending the rest of her life with _anyone_ – and in that moment two very hard-to-handle truths hit her at once.

One, she was immortal, and aged at barely a fraction of what all other humans did, so the 'rest of her life' was quite potentially now 'eternity'; and if that wasn't terrifying enough in and of itself, number two was that she _was_ set to spend the rest of her life with somebody.

Unless they figured out how to sever the link the Bad Wolf had created between herself and the Doctor, she and him were in it together for the long haul. Tied together no matter what either of them wanted. Potentially for millennia to come.

The thought was as terrifying as it was unwelcome, and she felt her heart skip a beat with anxiety.

“What does H.C. Clements do?” the Doctor asked Donna, utterly oblivious to the sudden tornado Hartley's thoughts had swirled into. The sound of his voice brought Hartley out of her thoughts, and she blinked back to reality with a shake of her head.

“Oh, security systems,” Donna shrugged. “You know, entry codes, ID cards, that sort of thing. If you ask me, it's just a posh name for locksmiths.”

“Keys...” the Doctor mused. Hartley knew him well enough to recognise when he was onto something, but wasn't yet totally sure what that something _was_.

“Anyway, enough of my CV,” Donna said dismissively, slapping her palms against her knees. “Come on, it's time to face the consequences. Oh, this is going to be so shaming. _You_ can do the explaining, Martian boy,” she added sternly as the Doctor climbed to his feet, then held out a hand to help her up.

Hartley began to stand on her own, but then the Doctor was there, long fingers held out in offer.

“Yeah. I'm not from Mars,” he was telling Donna tiredly. Hartley smiled as she gingerly took the offered hand, his skin cool and calloused under hers, and he helped her to her feet. She smiled up at him in gratitude, and he gave a tiny lift of his lips in response.

“Oh, I had this great big reception all planned. Everyone's going to be heartbroken,” Donna said sadly as the Doctor peeked his head back into the TARDIS, making sure the smoke had stopped before waving them inside. The interior still reeked of burning metal and fuel, but the console was no longer on fire, so Hartley figured it was probably about as safe as it was going to get.

“Where's the reception being held?” the Doctor asked with a sniff. Donna rattled off an unfamiliar address, which he immediately began to input into the TARDIS.

“For what it's worth, we really are sorry you missed it,” Hartley told Donna, settling beside the woman against the railings, arms crossed and feet planted so she didn't tip over while the ship juddered around them.

“S'okay,” Donna shrugged. “Like the Martian said, we can book another date.”

Despite the optimism of her words, there was a sad echo in her heart that made Hartley's chest tighten with sympathy. She made the decision then to let Donna know how much she empathised with her situation.

“You know, I was randomly beamed aboard the TARDIS one day too, same as you,” she told her quietly, watching with vacant eyes as the Doctor moved around the console without any of his usual gusto.

“You were?” Donna was suddenly hopeful. “When?”

“Bit hard to judge linear time in this life, despite how hard I might try,” she admitted ruefully, but this comment seemed to only confuse Donna further. “Must have been about five or six years ago, by now,” she finally estimated, and Donna's expression dropped into one of horror.

“And you've never been able to leave?” she whispered carefully, eyes wide and imploring, like the Doctor might have been holding Hartley hostage all this time, and she was going to have to single-handedly liberate her from his clutches.

Hartley grinned back, amused. “I can leave whenever I want,” she assured her. “But I always find my way back here, one way or another,” she said with a calm smile, feeling almost fond of the circumstances. At first it had been inconvenient, then heart-wrenching, until finally it had been welcome. Now it was simply a relief, the one constant thing, something she could always rely on.

“So, what d'you do with your time?” Donna asked her, voice back to a normal volume.

“Now _you're_ the one making smalltalk,” Hartley laughed. Donna didn't join in, crossing her arms and rolling her eyes. “We explore the universe,” she answered her question, shrugging like it was no big deal, however the bright smile on her face was undeniable.

“You don't work?” Donna asked, seeming bewildered by this fact more than any other.

Hartley lifted her shoulders again. “Nope.”

“What d'you do for money?”

“Don't usually need any,” Hartley confessed. “But if we ever do, we can usually find some floating around here somewhere. The Doctor actually keeps a handful of different galactic currencies in the broom cupboard.”

Donna blinked, struggling to acclimatise to the idea that this was a way of life for the pair of enigmatic strangers. She cleared her throat, casting a thoughtful glance across the control room, where the Doctor had gone back to beating the console with a sledgehammer. “So you … you visit other planets, then? Regularly?” she asked carefully.

“All the time,” Hartley smiled. “Not a bad life.”

“ _Better with three_...” Rose's phantom voice ricocheted through her brain like a bullet, and she reached up to rub at her temples, willing the phantom pain away.

“We're here,” the Doctor's voice snapped her from her stupor, and Donna abruptly turned for the doors, hefting her skirts without a word. Hartley pushed off the railing and followed close behind.

They were in the corner of the lobby of some kind of activity club building, from the looks of things. The lobby was empty, nobody had seen them arrive, and as Donna stepped out into the open, Hartley and the Doctor hovered in the doorway.

The TARDIS still smelt like burning fuel, and the rotor was making a concerning screeching sound. “Are you sure flying her so soon was a good idea?” Hartley asked cautiously.

The Doctor winced. “She could probably do with a longer break,” he admitted. “We'll leave her here for now, let her recover.”

A door creaked open from the other side of the lobby and the sounds of upbeat music and lively, off-key singing filtered through. Donna, who had been standing frowning down at her watch, looked over in surprise.

“What're they...?” she started to ask, face scrunched up in confusion as she marched towards the sounds of singing and laughter.

Hartley had to assume it was the reception, stepping inside to be met with a wall of music and unpleasant flashing lights. The people filling the room seemed to all having a right good time, as though the bride hadn't completely up and vanished before the officiant could even begin the wedding ceremony.

Looking at the room, Hartley felt incredibly underdressed. Everybody was wearing fancy dresses and suits, while she was stood there in pair of old, holey jeans and a stripy top that exposed both her shoulders and her midriff. The beaten up chucks on her feet weren't doing her any favours, either.

She self-consciously lifted her hands to cover her exposed middle, cheeks heating up.

Very slowly, the room began to notice Donna standing there, staring at them all in aghast disbelief. The music cut off with a cliché scratch, and the room went deathly silent. The air was thick with tension, and Hartley swallowed uncomfortably.

“You _had_ the reception _without_ me?” Donna's voice was sharp and full of incredulity.

“Donna, what happened to you?” a handsome man wearing a tux stepped forwards, but Donna only stared back in stony shock.

“You _had_ the reception _without_ me?” she said again, and the partygoers all shifted awkwardly. The embarrassment filling the room was almost too much for Hartley to handle, and she rocked back on her heels, clicking her tongue uncomfortably. The awkwardness in the room was like an itch beneath her skin, and she just barely refrained from scratching at her arms to try and ease the feeling.

She cursed her new empathic abilities, turning to eye the nearby place settings with far more interest than they deserved. It was a pitiful distraction, and she attention easily wavered.

“Hello,” said the Doctor cheerfully. “I'm the Doctor, this is Hartley,” he added politely, giving his most charming smile to compensate for the awkwardness of the moment. Beyond uncomfortable, Hartley lifted her hand in a weak wave.

Donna turned to them, disbelief slowly melting into something more like rage. “They _had_ the reception _without me,_ ” she told them in a growl.

Hartley winced. “It would seem so, yes,” she agreed nervously.

“Well, it was all paid for,” a tall woman spoke up derisively, a sneer on her face like she were born with it there. “ _Why not_?”

“ _Thank_ you, Nerys,” Donna snapped, losing her cool. _If_ she'd even had it in the first place. Their first meeting would suggest not.

Another woman sauntered up to them, scowl sitting on her lined face. “Well, what were we supposed to do? I got your silly little message in the end. _I'm on Earth_? Very funny,” the woman jeered. “What the hell happened? How did you do it? I mean, what's the trick, because I'd love to know.”

As though given permission, the people filling the room began talking at once, all over the top of one another. Still feeling more than a little awkward, Hartley kept ahold of her exposed stomach and averted her eyes to the ceiling.

Abruptly Donna burst into loud, dramatic sobs. Jumping at the sudden sound, Hartley returned her attention to the woman. Everyone in the room stopped talking, instead staring at the weeping bride with pity. The handsome man ducked in, swooping Donna up in a large hug, and Hartley realised this must have been Lance.

Wondering if she should somehow try to comfort Donna or blend into the background, Hartley was just about the ask the Doctor his opinion when Donna tilted her face towards them and shot the pair a cheeky wink.

Snorting, Hartley reached up to smother the laugh with her hand. The Doctor shared her amusement, and the pair of them smirked between themselves.

The Doctor looked back up, scanning the room with careful eyes. “Shall we?” he suggested, sweeping his hand in the direction of the bar along the far wall.

“Most definitely,” she agreed.

They waded their way through the crowd towards the bar, and thankfully everyone was too distracted by Donna's theatrics to bother asking if either of them had an actual invitation.

Somebody started the music up again, this time something more mellow that had Hartley swaying in place with the first few notes. It faded easily into the background as the wedding party 'calmed' Donna down, the party falling back into its swing.

“Talk about a crazy day, huh?” Hartley murmured as she and the Doctor found an empty spot at the bar, both leaning against the counter, turning so they could casually observe the festivities. Donna was being passed from person to person, everybody getting a turn at consoling her. Hartley had to smile again at her method of handling the situation.

“You must be exhausted,” the Doctor said suddenly, and she turned to look at him in confusion. “The whole situation at Canary Wharf? That was only yesterday,” he reminded her, voice surprisingly even considering the subject matter. Hartley had to grit her teeth against the surge of pain the words brought. He grimaced empathetically. “You never got a chance to rest after it happened. Donna arrived and we've been moving ever since,” he said quietly.

Hartley could do nothing more than shrug. “I can go a bit longer without sleep than I used to,” she revealed, a little sheepish. The Doctor's eyebrows raised in surprise, and she knew he was wondering why she never said anything. “Not by heaps,” she said, feeling obligated to explain, “but I don't get as tired as fast anymore. Side effect of the Bad Wolf's gift, I guess.”

The Doctor was frowning, and she could practically see his mind racing from behind his eyes. She wondered what he was thinking about; whether this was something she should have mentioned earlier.

“I'll run some tests once this is all over,” he promised.

Hartley nodded, growing distracted as a waiter came past with a tray of finger food. She leapt onto it like a starving woman, plucking as much food from it as she could carry, already beginning to shove it into her mouth. She was only just realising how starved she was, stomach begging to be fed.

“Just leave the tray,” the Doctor said suddenly, and though the waiter looked bewildered by her actions he didn't argue, handing the plate over and scurrying back towards the kitchens. “Hungry?” the Doctor asked dryly, and she just barely kept from grunting in reply, not wanting to seem like a total cavewoman.

She took the time to swallow her mouthful of roasted pumpkin before speaking.

“Dying makes me hungry,” she said quickly, before stuffing another pumpkin-bite past her lips. He nodded in understanding, although she was sure he already knew.

To anyone listening in, it might as well have been utter gibberish. Now they were the only two people on Earth who knew what she was talking about – not including Jack, but who knew where _he_ was at this point?

The realisation made her sad, but then she caught sight of Donna at the other end of the room and she realised that maybe that wasn't entirely true. Or at least, maybe it wouldn't be for long.

“Takes a lot of energy to reanimate your cells like that,” the Doctor agreed with a sniff, holding the tray steady while she continued to pluck food from its surface. She'd finished off most of the food there before she realised they hadn't spoken in a while. Pausing her frantic chewing, she looked up at the Doctor to find him staring vacantly across the room.

Hartley knew he wasn't actually _seeing_ anything happening now, but rather lost in memories of the past. She wondered what he saw in his minds eye; where his thoughts drifted in moments of peace.

She swallowed her last mouthful and pulled the tray from his hands, putting it down on the counter behind them and gesturing to the bartender for a plain water. “You okay?” she asked the Doctor once she was sure her mouth was empty.

“Why wouldn't I be okay?” he asked defensively, the reaction instant, and Hartley's expression softened. Grimacing, he ran a hand down the length of his face. “I'm not okay,” he admitted, so quiet she had to lean closer to hear. “But I will be,” he added, the words spoken like an oath.

Hartley attempted a smile, but it was more of a twisted grimace than anything. The pain leaked through despite her best efforts to keep it at bay. But the Doctor understood – he was the only one who could.

“ _We_ will be,” he corrected himself suddenly, and she looked up at him in surprise. He was smiling, the expression somehow both forced and genuine in the same instant. “ _We_ will be okay, Hartley,” he promised her, and she swallowed around the lump that had appeared in her throat.

“You're right,” she agreed, but it was weak at best. She wasn't sure she believed it, not in her heart of hearts. That was how grief worked, she supposed. It took time to learn how to see past it. How to live without it saturating every aspect of your day. “After all, we've got each other,” she added like that settled it, and she supposed in a way it did.

“Yeah,” he agreed, and there was a conviction to his answer that left her speechless, “we do.”

And suddenly she didn't feel quite as hopeless.

“Can I borrow your phone?” he asked her suddenly.

She blinked at the strange request. It was an abrupt subject change, but she'd long ago learned to roll with the punches. “Oh yes, I suppose you'll want to call one of your many, many friends,” she teased, looking up to see him rolling his eyes at her in exasperation.

“Without the usual sarcasm, thank you,” he said primly, but it was exactly how they usually communicated, and she finally believed what he was saying to be true. They _would_ be okay. “I want to look something up,” he told her, wiggling his fingers impatiently. He watched as she dug the phone from her pocket and placed it into his waiting palm.

It had already been sonicked and upgraded to the best it could be, so he only had to quickly type in the search words – _H.C. Clements_ – and immediately information began to flood the screen. He fiddled with the small buttons, frowning.

“This would be so much easier if you had an iPhone,” he muttered thoughtlessly.

“A what?” Hartley asked.

“Give it another few years,” he said distractedly, still clicking away until he'd found what he was looking for. He gave a heavy sigh that made Hartley nervous, and she found herself holding her breath as he held the phone up for her to see what he'd discovered.

_H.C. Clements, sole proprietor – Torchwood._

“Oh, God,” Hartley felt like she might tip over for a second there, like the alignment of gravity had shifted. She swallowed thickly, nodding gratefully to the waiter, who had finally reappeared with her tall glass of ice water. She chugged it down, glad for the hydration. “Can't get rid of them, can we?” she asked bitterly once her glass was drained, turning back to observe the party with a frown.

“We need to figure out what made Donna appear on the TARDIS,” he said, voice hard as stone as he handed her phone back. She shoved it deep into her pocket, noting that her palms were clammy and rubbing them on her jeans.

“Are we sure...?” she stopped herself, unsure if she wanted to actual finish the question.

“What?” he pressed patiently.

She took a deep breath, steadying herself, and barrelled ahead. “Are we sure she's not like me?” she asked, almost too afraid to hear the answer. Was that what she wanted? Someone else tethered to the Doctor, just as she was?

“Cosmically magnetised, you mean?” he asked, and she nodded sheepishly.

The Doctor tugged at his ear as his nose crinkled in thought. “Don't think so,” he finally said. “It wasn't a tear in space that sent her to us. I would have felt it – I'd have _seen_ it. This was something different.”

Hartley wasn't exactly disappointed by the news, but she still reacted with a frown. “Well, how're we supposed to figure out what?”

He was silent for a minute, before finally he murmured, “I have an idea.”

“Does it involve the danger of bodily harm?”

“Not all of my plans do, you know,” he replied, unmistakeably defensive.

“ _Most_ do,” she smiled. He sighed dramatically but he wasn't fooling her – she caught sight of the smile sitting on his lips as he turned away, beginning to weave his way back through the crowd.

“Doc?” Hartley asked in surprise. She put down her empty water glass and reluctantly traipsed after him, dodging the people dancing around her, ducking her way towards him.

She found him standing by a man with a camera – presumably the wedding photographer – murmuring with him in low voices. The man cut himself off when he spotted her approaching, standing up straight and blinking at her dopily. Surprised by the reaction, Hartley came to a stop between he and the Doctor, one eyebrow cocked in question.

“The name's Michael,” he told her with a wide grin.

Confused, Hartley replied, “nice to meet you?” and although it sounded very much like a wary question, he still beamed like she'd said the sweetest thing he'd ever heard in his life.

“What's your name?” he asked through the same grin.

“Hartley,” she told him with a polite smile.

“That's the nicest name I've heard in a long time,” he told her, which she supposed was meant to be some kind of compliment.

“Thanks,” she murmured back awkwardly.

“Wanna dance?” he asked eagerly.

Eyes widening, she looked over at the Doctor in a panic. He looked exasperated by the whole thing, but thankfully still came to her rescue. “She's a germaphobe, hates touching of any kind,” he lied, which Hartley was perfectly okay with. She nodded quickly in agreement, and the poor guy looked awfully put out by the news. “Can I see the tape, though?” the Doctor continued smoothly, changing the subject before things could get any more awkward.

“Oh, yeah, I guess. I taped the whole thing. They've all had a look,” he said, still frowning in disappointment as he slipped the correct tape into the camera for them to see. “They said I should sell it to _You've Been Framed_. I said, more like the news. Here we are.”

Hartley leaned over, pressing herself up on her toes to look over the Doctor's shoulder. On the screen, Donna was smiling at Lance, walking peacefully up the aisle when all of a sudden she was engulfed in a glittering golden light and disappeared from view.

It was nothing like Hartley's journeys through time and space in the fissures, so that final, lingering hope that maybe Donna _was_ like her was firmly squashed.

“Can't be,” the Doctor muttered, leaning closer. He seemed to have seen something in the footage that Hartley hadn't – but that was hardly surprising. “Play it again?”

“Clever, mind. Good trick, I'll give her that. I was clapping,” the guy, Michael, was saying with a dopey grin.

“But that looks like Huon Particles,” the Doctor muttered, voice echoing with a sort of sickened realisation.

“What's that then?” Michael asked cheerfully.

The Doctor didn't answer him, only staring at the small screen in abject horror. “Doctor?” Hartley asked, gentle but pressing. “What is it?” she urged, feeling almost short of breath as she waited for an answer.

What were Huon Particles? And why did he look so horrified by the sight of them?

“That's impossible. That's _ancient_. Huon energy doesn't exist anymore, not for _billions_ of years,” he explained, half to Hartley and half just so he could work through the problem aloud. “It's so old that...” he trailed off, slowly turning to peer through the crowd at Donna, who was grinning widely as she danced happily with Lance, “...it can't be hidden by a bio-damper!”

He turned to Hartley, who was beginning to understand, that same horror dripping over her own features.

“Don't let Donna out of your sight!” he ordered her. She was quick to nod but he barely even saw, already booking it out of the room.

There was pause, then the cameraman asked hopefully, “you sure about that dance?”

“Not now, Michael,” she said impatiently, barely having the time to spare him a glance before rushing towards the oblivious bride.

“Donna!” Hartley called as she reached them. She pushed rather rudely in between her and Lance, who exclaimed loudly in shock at the unexpected interruption, but there was no time to explain, let alone apologise.

“Hartley?” Donna asked, blinking at her in cautious surprise. “What is it?”

“You're not safe,” she said quickly, whirling around in a circle, searching for any hint of danger. Nothing seemed out of place, but she knew that hardly meant a threat wasn't lurking in the shadows. “None of these people are safe,” she breathed, already counting the exits and the closest things to weapons she could find.

Donna looked panicked, while Lance just stared at her like she'd gone mental. “What're you––?”

“The bio-damper doesn't work!” the Doctor suddenly shouted, reappearing from wherever he'd gone in a flash, grasping ahold of Donna's shoulders and impatiently pushing her from the room. “Hart, get everybody out,” he ordered over his shoulder.

“Shit,” Hartley cursed, looking around wildly before leaping onto the closest chair and cupping her hands around her lips. “Everybody needs to evacuate the building!” she yelled as loudly as she could, only just audible over the music playing from the DJ's station on the other end of the room.

“Somebody cut her off!” a rowdy boy from the corner shouted jovially, and the whole room laughed.

“I'm serious!” she shouted desperately. “You're all in danger!”

There was a wave of uncaring shrugs before everyone turned back to their dancing, utterly unruffled. She was just contemplating finding the fire alarm when another voice cut over of the music.

“Get away from the tree!” the Doctor was suddenly there, pushing children away from the Christmas trees. “Get away from the Christmas trees! Everyone get _away_ from them!” he bellowed, and finally that blasted DJ stopped the music, looking irritated as he did so.

“Oh, for God's sake, the man's an idiot,” the woman, who Hartley identified as Donna's mother, said derisively. “ _Why_? What harm's a Christmas tree going to...?”

Hartley's stomach dropped as baubles hung from the branches began to detach from the trees, floating in midair. Everybody around them was muttering in awe, but Hartley knew it wasn't simply a pretty trick.

“Everybody _down_!” she screamed just as the first one exploded, sending a table of presents flying, food trays shot across the room. Everybody began to scream, shrill and panicked, the noise of it filling the room to its brim.

The explosions were loud and Hartley's ears began to ring. She dived off the chair she was stood on just as one bauble exploded right where her head had been. Throwing herself over a pair of teenage girls, she protected them from the blast, feeling bits of glass smash into her exposed shoulders and lower back.

“You okay?” she asked them hurriedly, and they both nodded with teary, terrified eyes. “Get under this table,” she told them, gently pushing them each under the tablecloth and out of sight.

There was a loud cry from behind her, and she whirled around to see a little boy in a tiny suit standing in the middle of the room, sobbing loudly with fat tears rolling down his chubby little cheeks. He couldn't have been older than four, and Hartley's throat seemed to close up with panic as she booked it over to him, flinching out of the way as somebody went flying.

Scooping the little boy up in both hands, she dove behind the sound system, ducking down low to avoid another violent explosion. “You're okay,” she whispered to the child, pulling back and quickly checking that he was unharmed. He continued to cry, grasping at her shirt in terror.

Another body ducked down beside her, and she whipped around in preparation of a fight only to wilt in relief at the sight of the Doctor. He saw her covering the little boy with her body, cradling him protectively to her chest.

“Cover his ears,” he ordered quickly before leaping back up to his feet and addressing their attackers as one. “ _Oi_! Santa! Word of advice – if you're attacking a man with a sonic screwdriver, don't let him near the sound system.”

Then there was a piercing ring, the sound so loud that the floor beneath her feet seemed to vibrate with the force of it. The child in her arms cried louder as she pressed her hands protectively over his ears. Everyone around them screamed and the noise only seemed to grow, getting more painful with every passing tick of the clock.

Hartley's head thrummed with the noise, her ears in so much pain that she wouldn't have been surprised to find them bleeding. It seemed like an entire eternity later when finally the sound came to a stop, and once more she could hear the little boy crying in her arms.

She smoothed a hand over his hair, then peeked over the table to see the robots all in pieces on the floor, powered down and harmless. Hoisting the toddler into her arms, Hartley moved around the table and into the middle of the room, silently searching for anyone who looked like they were missing a child.

“Joey!” a shrill voice screeched just as a blonde woman tripped into view, sobbing as she held her arms out for her baby. “Thank you!” she cried, hugging her son to her chest. “Bless you. Bless you!” she said over and over. Hartley could only smile, tenderly touching the little boy's head before turning and hurrying over to where the Doctor was crouched by the broken bodies of the robot Santa's.

“Look at that,” he said to Hartley without even glancing up to look at her. “Remote control for the decorations, but there's a _second_ remote control for the robots,” he revealed, robot head held in his hand, sonic aimed directly at it. “They're not scavengers anymore. I think someone's taken possession.”

“Who?” Hartley asked, hanging on his words, desperate to solve the mystery.

“Never mind all that,” Donna was suddenly behind them, speaking quickly, an edge of panic to her voice. “You're a doctor. People have been hurt.”

“Nah, they wanted you alive,” he said without thought, tossing a bauble to the bride, “look.” She caught it, frowning down at it deeply. “They're not active now,” he said as his sonic buzzed, scanning what remained of the head.

“All I'm saying is, you could help,” Donna said, but the Doctor only shrugged her off.

“Got to think of the bigger picture,” he muttered distractedly.

Hartley was torn between them both. On one hand, Donna was right, people had been hurt and they could help. On the other these robots, or whoever was controlling them, needed to be stopped – and nobody else was going to be able to do it but them.

“There's still a signal!” the Doctor crowed, leaping to his feet. “Hart, come on!” he yelled over his shoulder, unknowingly making Hartley's decision for her. She sent Donna an apologetic glance before bolting after him, following him out into the light of day. She winced at the glare of the sun, no clouds to keep the brightness at bay.

“Where's the signal coming from?” Hartley asked the moment they stopped, pausing in the middle of the courtyard, the Doctor's sonic buzzing between them.

“It's being rerouted through different channels. Making it difficult to get a lock,” he told her succinctly, shaking his sonic screwdriver like that might make it work better.

A hand touched Hartley's shoulder, and she looked up in surprise to see Donna beside them, her eyes wide with a familiar mixture of interest and fear.

“There's someone behind this, directing the roboforms,” the Doctor continued without acknowledging her, but Donna didn't seem offended – which was good. Usually it took people longer to figure out that this was just how the Doctor operated. Hartley was glad Donna was acclimatising early, and then frowned for feeling glad.

“But why is it _me_? What have I done?” Donna asked desperately.

“We don't know yet,” Hartley admitted.

“But if we find the controller, we'll find that out. Oooh!” said the Doctor suddenly, glancing up at the sky, his sonic aimed upwards. “It's up there … something in the _sky_ ,” he revealed, sending a narrow eyed stare up into the clear blue sky, like he might be able to see whatever it was if he just looked hard enough.

“Like a spaceship?” Donna asked.

“Obviously,” he murmured, and Donna turned to Hartley at the same time Hartley turned to her. Donna looked like she wanted to bite back at the Doctor for his condescending attitude, but Hartley just shook her head and rolled her eyes, trying to silently tell Donna not to worry about it.

He was a know-it-all at the best of times, and this was one of their _worst._

Besides, engaging him in a battle of wills would only end one way, and there wasn't time for that now.

“Donna!” a voice shouted, and Donna turned and ran straight into her fiancé's arms. Hartley left them to their sweet nothings.

Sirens met their still-ringing ears and Hartley glanced over at the gates which were slowly being pulled open with the low whirr of their mechanics. “Someone called the paramedics,” the Doctor muttered, sonic still buzzing on and off as he tried to get a better lock on the signal. “Good.”

“Why wouldn't _you_ stop to help those people?” Hartley asked without meaning to, regretting it the moment she did.

“I'm not a medical doctor,” he said dismissively, but Hartley knew that to be a blatant lie.

“You're a doctor of _everything_ ,” she threw his own words back at him, and he spared a moment to scowl at her unhappily. She took a breath, reminding herself that fighting now would do them no good. He was right, they had each other; they'd be okay as long as they always had that. “I'm just saying, you'd usually care,” she told him, much calmer than before.

The Doctor bristled at the insinuation. “I never said I didn't care,” he snapped, and Hartley's throat felt thick with emotion.

The ambulances arrived, their sirens cutting off as they came to a stop, paramedics leaping from the depths of their vans and rushing into the building.

“Dammit!” the Doctor cursed, shaking his screwdriver angrily. “I've lost the signal. Donna, we've got to get to your office,” he continued without stopping for breath, leaping on Donna the moment she reappeared, her anxious groom in tow. “H.C. Clements – I think that's where it all started. Lance!” he switched over to the handsome man in the tux, who looked stunned by the mention. “Is it Lance? Lance, can you give us a lift?”

“A lift to––?”

“H.C. Clements,” the Doctor nodded impatiently, no time to waste.

“Why?” Lance asked slowly, eyes shifting between the pair of travellers, wary and full of distrust.

The Doctor sighed, taking a step closer to Lance and meeting his eyes in a serious, imploring stare. “Lance, believe me when I say, your fiancé's life depends on you taking us to H.C. Clements, _right now_.”

Lance actually looked like he was considering saying no, which instantly raised red flags in Hartley's head. What kind of person didn't immediately do whatever necessary to save their partner's life? She was suspicious, but she couldn't spare the time to lean into it, so shook it off and turned back to the task at hand.

“All right,” Lance reluctantly agreed. He still looked completely and utterly confused about why it was so vital they went to his work – on his wedding day, no less – and exactly what it had to do with Donna's wellbeing. But at least he wasn't putting up a fight about the whole thing. “Car's this way,” he said, fishing a set of keys from his pocket and leading the way.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Hartley whispered to the Doctor in an undertone. The idea of sitting in a small, confined space with these strangers sounded like the last thing she wanted to do. “Can't we just take the TARDIS?”

“The trip here was hard enough on her,” he replied, just as quiet. “Needs time to rest.”

Hartley sighed, reluctantly accepting that they were in for one hell of an awkward car ride.

* * *

“To you lot, this might just be a locksmiths, but H.C. Clements was bought up twenty three years ago by the Torchwood Institute,” the Doctor told the couple as they raced through the doors of the otherwise empty building. Hartley stuck close by the Doctor's side, keen eyes scanning each room for signs of danger.

The trip had been just about as awkward as she'd thought it would be. Lance had tried to ask questions on the way over, but the Doctor shut him down with little to no answers, and eventually he'd just given up, falling reluctantly silent.

“Who are they?” Donna asked cluelessly as the Doctor leant down to begin tapping away at a computer, sonicking it first to make sure he could get into it without the access codes.

“They were behind the battle of Canary Wharf,” he told her offhandedly, then glanced up to catch sight of her vacant expression. Hartley frowned at the lack of recognition in Donna's eyes. “Cyberman invasion?” he tried, but Donna only looked more and more confused. “Skies over London _full_ of Daleks?”

“Oh, I was in Spain,” she told them flippantly.

Hartley blinked, turning to meet the Doctor's eyes. “They had Cybermen in Spain,” he told her, slow and plain.

Donna shrugged. “Scuba diving?”

“That big picture, Donna. You keep on missing it,” the Doctor huffed, hurriedly typing away at the keyboard, mind refocused on his task. “Torchwood was destroyed, but H.C. Clements stayed in business. I think someone else came in and took over the operation,” he told them quickly, teeth bared as he worked.

Hartley's insides turned to ice. “Who?” she asked, not completely sure she wanted to know the answer.

The Doctor glanced up, perhaps hearing the note of fear in her voice. “I don't know,” he told her, softer than before, more gentle. “But we'll figure it out,” he promised, and Hartley believed him.

“Hang on – this person, business, whatever they are – what do they want with _me_?” Donna demanded, and Hartley had to admit it was a valid question. It didn't matter to Donna who they were, it only mattered what they'd done to her. And why.

“Somehow you've been dosed with Huon energy. And that's a problem, because Huon energy hasn't existed since the Dark Times. The only place you'd find a Huon particle now is a remnant in the heart of the TARDIS. See? That's what happened,” he explained with a smile. Donna's frown only deepened. “Say that's the TARDIS,” he tried again, swiping an empty mug off the desk beside him, “and that's you,” he said, plucking a pencil from the penholder, “the particles inside you activated. The two sets of particles magnetised and _whap_!”

He shook them both violently, then dropped the pencil into the mug with a ping.

“You were pulled inside the TARDIS.”

Donna looked less than impressed by this analogy. “I'm a pencil inside a mug?” she asked dryly.

“Yes, you are. 4H. Sums you up,” he smirked widely, abruptly dropping both his props. “Lance? What was H.C. Clements working on? Anything top secret? Special operations? Do not enter?”

“I don't know, I'm in charge of personnel. I wasn't project manager. Why am I even explaining myself? What the hell are we talking about?” the poor bloke ranted, at something of a loss. Hartley smiled at him sympathetically, knowing how out of his depth he must have felt.

“They make keys, that's the point,” the Doctor muttered, oblivious to Lance's internal crisis. “And look at this – we're on the third floor. Underneath reception there's a basement, yes?” Suddenly the Doctor leapt up, bouncing away from them and over to a set of glass doors that Hartley realised was a sleek lift. “Then how come when you look on the lift, there's a button marked lower basement?” he asked smartly, jabbing at the little label pointedly. “There's a whole floor which doesn't exist on the official plans. So, what's down there, then?”

“Are you telling me this building's got a secret floor?” Lance asked skeptically, staring at the Doctor like the rationally-minded might stare at someone ranting about the end times in the street.

“No, I'm _showing_ you this building's got a secret floor,” the Doctor responded with astounding patience, an innocent sort of look on his face that had Hartley smiling into her hand.

“It needs a key,” Donna said blandly, thinking that she was pointing out a glaringly obvious flaw in his plans.

But the Doctor only grinned like he'd been hoping she'd say just that. “I don't,” he told her proudly, sonic buzzing. The lift beeped, and the look in his eyes was rightly smug. He nodded his head at Hartley, who got the message and stepped inside the lift next to him. “Right then. Thanks, you two. We can handle this. See you later,” he said dismissively, jabbing the button purposefully.

“No chance, Martian,” Donna scoffed, hiking up her skirts and stepping into the lift with them. “You're the man who keeps saving my life. I ain't letting you out of my sight.”

The Doctor took the time to glance to this left, shooting Hartley an exasperated look before the sound of his sonic once again filled the small space. “Going down,” he announced, glancing expectantly at Lance, waiting for him to make a decision.

“Lance?” Donna prompted her fiancé, who had yet to move from his place.

His eyes shifted from left to right, nervous and almost mousy. “Maybe I should go to the police,” he suggested, taking a small step backwards.

“Inside,” Donna commanded, her tone leaving no room for argument. With a tired sigh of acceptance Lance hung his head and marched into the lift with the tight shoulders of a man marching into battle.

There was a beat, then the Doctor murmured, “to honour and obey?”

“Tell me about it, mate,” Lance replied.

“Oi,” Donna snapped, and despite herself Hartley grinned as the doors finally shut and they began to descend down into the bowels of the ominous building.

“Who are you people?” Lance tried to ask again, his voice shaking in the silence of the lift. Hartley knew what it was like to be in this sort of situation and want answers, but she also knew now what it was like to be on the other side, the side that had those answers, but knew giving them wasn't as easy as it sounded.

“Wouldn't believe us if we told you,” she told him, the words coming easily, a blatant deflection that even she couldn't deny.

Lance wasn't to be deterred. “You with the government?” he asked suspiciously.

Hartley glanced at the Doctor, who met her stare with a look that was a cross between a smile and a grimace. She knew he didn't take too kindly to being compared to some kind of a politician. She supposed it was only one step up from soldier. She hid a smile and said nothing. Lance frowned deeply at their lack of answer, his dark eyes flickering between the pair of them distrustingly.

The lift dinged again just as the doors slid open, revealing a concrete corridor. The only source of light was some kind of eerie green glow coming from above, and Hartley thought suddenly that this would be an awful place to die.

“Where are we?” Donna demanded, as though either traveller knew the answer. “Well?” she pressed when they didn't respond. “What goes on down here?”

“Let's find out,” the Doctor said, looking up and down the corridor. Hartley began to rub at her arms. There was a chill down here, one that seeped into her very bones. Something bad was close by, something leaking evil and hunger. She could feel it like a weight on her heart.

“Do you think Mister Clements knows about this place?” Donna asked curiously as they all walked down the long, seemingly endless corridor.

“The mysterious H.C. Clements?” the Doctor replied. “I think he's _part_ of it. Oh, look. Transport,” he said quickly. Along the wall sat three strange devices; two wheels with long handles to hold onto.

“What are they?” Hartley asked, eyeing them critically. They weren't like anything she'd seen before – at least, not on Earth, and not in this time period.

“They're called Segways,” the Doctor told her cheerfully. “Quite popular too for a while there, a few years from now.” He impatiently waved for Donna and Lance to hop on one each. “Hart, you're with me,” he said suddenly, jumping up onto the one in the middle and turning it on.

“Can't I just walk?” she complained. The Doctor took the time to frown at her in disapproval. Rolling her eyes, Hartley grasped the handle and hefted herself up onto the thing behind the Doctor. Her feet balanced on the back, and as he kicked it into movement she yelped, arms snapping into place around his skinny waist, holding on tightly for fear of falling off the back.

It was strange, she wasn't sure she'd ever been so close to the Doctor before and certainly not for such a prolonged amount of time. He was always so maddeningly careful about keeping a distance between them. She knew her presence unnerved him – something about her knack for immortality was repugnant to his Time Lord DNA. She was _wrong_ , a mistake in the eyes of his people, and his instincts.

So there was always a carefully created space between them – as though touching her might somehow cause him harm. That made it strange now to be pressed up against him like they did it all the time. Like they were the kind of touchy-feely friends they always had been with Rose – but never with each other.

Donna let out a barking laugh from her left and Hartley looked over, meeting the redhead's eyes to see uncontrollable mirth in their depths, and abruptly the pair broke into laughter. The Doctor joined in, and Hartley felt his stomach contracting under her hands as he chuckled along.

It was rather ridiculous; all of them on these glorified scooters, rolling their way down the cement corridor like they weren't an alien, an immortal, and a bride and groom still in their full wedding attire, set on a mission that had the makings of serious trouble.

“Wait – there!” the Doctor shouted suddenly, bringing his segway to an abrupt stop. The others hurried to do the same. Hartley jumped off, glad to be away from the Doctor – who, strangely enough, didn't seem to run as warmly as humans did. She resolved to ask him about it later. Her chucks slapped against the concrete when she hit the ground, and the Doctor hopped off after her, putting the segway in park. She turned, catching sight of exactly what had caught the Doctor's attention in the first place.

It was a large door, bulky writing across the front reading: _Torchwood. Authorised personnel only_.

As it surely always would, reading the name gave her an unpleasant feeling, like termites in her guts. It made her sick, everything Torchwood stood for disgusted her. The Doctor didn't seem to react the same, barely bristling at the word as he twisted the wheel, opening the hatch and revealing a ladder leading up to the surface.

“Wait here,” he commanded the others flippantly.

“You don't think I should do it?” Hartley asked, leaning through the doorway and eyeing the very top of the shaft. It seemed to go on for miles, with a small, bright light at the very end.

“A little more credit, Hart, please,” the Doctor said with a roll of his eyes, but the words lacked any real heat. “I just need to get my bearings,” he added before turning to Donna and Lance, eyes narrowed in strict suspicion. “Don't do _anything_ ,” he ordered them carefully, meeting their eyes to make sure they knew he was serious. Apparently he wasn't convinced, turning towards Hartley expectantly. “Watch them,” he ordered with a nod in their direction.

“Of course,” she agreed, and with another sure nod he grasped the first rung and hefted himself up onto the ladder.

“You'd better come back,” Donna called after him, not quite anxious but certainly coming close.

“I couldn't get rid of you if I tried,” the Doctor took a beat to smirk at her before disappearing up the ladder, taking the rungs two at a time. Hartley glanced over at Donna, who was smiling fondly after the Doctor, and couldn't help but mirror the expression silently to herself.

Lance shot Hartley a suspicious look before taking Donna by the shoulder and moving her a few steps to the right as though that would stop her from hearing what he was saying. “Donna, have you thought about this? Properly?” he asked in a desperate whisper that seemed to echo for miles in the concrete of the corridor. “I mean, this is _serious_! What the _hell_ are we going to do?”

Donna blinked, considering. “Oh, I thought July,” she told him flippantly, smiling vaguely before turning back to the shaft and staring up at the Doctor, who was becoming little more than a dot in the distance. “I still don't get what Torchwood is, though,” Donna said, turning to Hartley in confusion.

“It was a company dedicated to acquiring alien technology and using it for their own, selfish needs. Utterly uncaring of who got hurt in the process,” Hartley explained flatly. In her minds eye she saw Yvonne Hartman's sly, self-righteous smile, and Rose's terrified face, mouth opened in a silent scream as she was pulled towards the Void, sure death would follow.

“Alien?!” Lance repeated, voice a higher pitch.

“They were responsible for a _lot_ of deaths,” she continued, answering Donna's question and ignoring her poor fiancé's panicked squeak. “As far as I'm concerned, anything born of Torchwood is _evil._ ”

“You said _was,_ ” Donna murmured. Hartley glanced back over to her, brow furrowed in confusion. “You said it _was_ a company. What happened?”

Hartley's expression grew hard, like steel. “It was destroyed,” she said hollowly.

“And why do I get the feeling you two had something to do with that?” Donna asked quickly.

But Hartley didn't answer. Maybe because she didn't want to, or maybe she just couldn't. She herself wasn't sure, grinding her teeth together as she turned her eyes to the hatch, where the Doctor had yet to reappear.

“Does this have something to do with your friend?” Donna pressed on, stubborn although her tone remained soft. “The one you lost?”

Hartley gave no answer other than a grim nod of her head, and Donna's frown deepened. “Donna, who are these people?” Lance demanded, apparently sick of the chatter. “How do you know them?”

But then with the slapping of shoes on concrete the Doctor reappeared from the hatch, dusting off his hands as he climbed back out into the corridor. Lance was stopped from asking any more questions, but when Hartley glanced to him, there was a glint to his eyes, a calculating sort of look that made her wonder whether he was being totally honest about everything he was saying.

But then again, what reason could he possibly have to lie?

“The Thames flood barrier is _right_ on top of us,” the Doctor told them with an edge of excitement that was impossible to mask. He would forever be marvelling at human ingenuity. “Torchwood snuck in and built this place underneath,” he sniffed.

“What, there's like a secret base hidden underneath a major London landmark?” Donna asked incredulously – as if even after everything she'd seen today, that was going just an inch too far.

“Oh, I know. Unheard of,” the Doctor took a second to send Hartley a knowing smirk that she returned, equally amused by the woman's words. If only she knew what they knew. “This way,” he commanded, turning and abruptly heading down the hall. It was as though he knew exactly where he was going – but Hartley was sure he was just making it up as he went along.

Or maybe not, she thought, as they came across a door only a few metres later. The Doctor pushed it open, stepping into the new room with confidence. Hartley followed him, the human couple shuffling in behind her. It was a large space, filled mostly with scientific equipment – scales and tubes and beakers full of frothing, bubbling chemicals.

“Ooh, look at this!” the Doctor chirped enthusiastically, bouncing on his toes as he wandered deeper into the room, eyes alight with a sort of childlike, academic excitement. “ _Stunning_!” he cheered, hands stuffed into his pockets as he leaned down for a closer look.

“Danger, Doc. Remember?” Hartley reminded him, but he didn't seem to notice, too enraptured by the fizzing liquids and scientific equipment surrounding him. Hartley thought suddenly that he really was in his element, surrounded by such mad science. “Go on, then,” she prompted him with a small smile, watching as he eyed a small canister of foaming fluid with ardent fascination, “what's it all for?”

“Particle extrusion,” he said, and Hartley rolled her eyes – as if that was supposed to make any sense to any of them. “Brilliant! They've been _manufacturing_ Huon particles. 'Course, my people got rid of Huons. They unravel the atomic structure,” he added conversationally, like they were discussing it over brunch.

“ _Your_ people?” Lance jumped in, frowning in consternation, muscles all coiled like one big spring. Hartley wondered what might happen when he snapped, and all that tension released. “Who are they? What company do you represent?” he demanded.

“Oh, we're just freelancers,” the Doctor replied flippantly, and Hartley had to be impressed – it wasn't _technically_ a lie. “But this lot are rebuilding them. They've been using the river. Extruding them through a flat hydrogen base so they've got the end result, Huon particles in liquid form,” he explained, pulling a small glass container from a slot in the side of a machine, the liquid inside fizzing violently.

“And _that's_ what's inside me?” Donna asked, looking vaguely ill.

Without saying anything, the Doctor turned a knob at the top of the container and the liquid began to glow a glittering gold. In the same instant Donna too began to glow, the light twinkling out of her like she herself were a star shining in the night sky.

“Oh, my _God_!” the bride exclaimed shrilly, looking down at her sparkling skin in abject horror.

“Genius,” the Doctor grinned callously. “Because the particles are inert, they need something living to catalyse inside and that's _you_. Saturate the body and then...” he trailed off, and Hartley could practically hear the cogs whirring away inside his brain.

He leapt backwards with a shout of pure excitement. 

“The _wedding_! Yes, you're getting _married_ , that's it!” he shouted enthusiastically, and the glowing finally stopped, although Donna's confusion didn't abate. “Best day of your life, walking down the aisle. Oh, your body's a _battleground_! There's a chemical war inside! Adrenaline, acetylcholine. _Wham_! go the endorphins. Oh, you're _cooking_! Yeah, you're like a walking oven. A pressure cooker, a microwave, all churning away. The particles reach _boiling_ point. _Shazam_!”

In a move almost too quick for Hartley to see, Donna reached out and slapped the Doctor clean across the face. He stumbled backwards in shock, blinking as he processed what had just happened. Hartley started in surprise, staring between Donna and the Doctor hesitantly.

“What did I do this time?” he whined, reaching up to rub sullenly at his reddening cheek.

The fact he didn't already know kind of justified Donna's reaction. “You _were_ being kind of an insensitive dick,” Hartley said to him under her breath,. He grimaced at the harsh truth – and at the hardly-PG rated language.

“Are you enjoying this?” Donna demanded crossly, glaring at him darkly.

Finally the Doctor had the decency to look remorseful for his earlier glee. He reigned it in, shoulders hunching and his eyes glowing with shame. He didn't answer, but then again, he didn't really have to.

“Right, just tell me,” Donna continued bracingly, her breaths growing short with fear. “These particles, are they dangerous? Am I safe?” she asked, her chin tilted up like she was silently telling the terror she felt to go screw itself. Hartley had to admire the woman's strength once again.

The Doctor said nothing for a long few seconds, the hesitation more telling than any words could have possibly been. “Yes,” he finally said. Hartley didn't have to be his friend to see the blatant lie for what it was.

Donna saw through him too, with a skill that usually took more time to build – when it came to someone like the Doctor, at least. “Doctor, if your lot got rid of Huon particles … why did they do that?” she asked him with an unexpected patience.

The Doctor's shoulders slumped, almost in defeat, and Hartley knew she that whatever would follow was going to be devastating for more than one of them. “Because they were deadly,” he confessed, voice hollow and regret swimming in his eyes. If she had to put a name to the feeling attached to him, the aura surrounding his body that only she seemed to be able to sense, she'd have said it was anguish.

“Oh, my God,” Donna gasped again, tears pooling in her eyes. It was the first intense show of emotion Hartley had seen, other than irritation and anger, from the fiery redhead. She shifted onto the balls of her feet but stopped before taking a step. Donna barely knew her, and she barely knew Donna. For all Hartley knew, trying to comfort her might only make things worse.

“I'll sort it out, Donna,” the Doctor vowed to her. Hartley wondered whether this was a promise he had any business making. Though, she supposed, false hope was sometimes better than no hope at all.

Donna's eyes glittered, genuine fear in her heart, and Hartley suddenly didn't care about propriety or risk, she just wanted to comfort her new friend in any way she could.

“You're going to be okay,” she told Donna like it were a reflex, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She pulled Donna into her side, running her hand up and down her arm in a soothing, repetitive motion.

Donna didn't flinch out of her hold, if anything she seemed to lean into it, her body trembling under Hartley's hand. Hartley gripped her tighter, casting a glance backwards at Lance who hadn't made any move to comfort his terrified wife.

Instead of scared or concerned, Lance was looking rather _bored_ with it all. It was wrong, something about it not slotting into place. Hartley narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously, and when he met her deadly stare he gulped, knowing that she could sense something was off about him.

There wasn't time to question him, however, and she knew it would only upset Donna more. So she tightened her arm around her new friend, silently vowing to keep an eye on him. No matter what else happened here tonight, nobody would be harming a hair on Donna's head.

“Whatever's been done to you, I'll reverse it,” the Doctor was promising Donna, urgent and sincere. “I am _not_ about to lose someone else,” he added, the words not meant for them. And Hartley's chest squeezed with the fresh pain of recent loss.

And suddenly she knew that he was going to defy the laws of physics itself if it meant keeping Donna safe – and something about that made _her_ feel safe, too.

“Oh, she is long since lost,” a voice snarled from somewhere above them, and Hartley spun around with a gasp, gripping Donna tightly. The wall before them slid up into the ceiling to reveal a hole in the ground, its shaft descending deep into the earth. “I have waited so long, hibernating at the edge of the universe until the secret heart was uncovered and called out to waken!”

There was movement from the edges of the room, and Hartley looked away from the ominous hole to find black-robed robots aiming weapons at them, their expressionless faces eerie and dark. Hartley wasn't scared for herself – she'd be fine in the end either way, and so would the Doctor – but the threat of anything happening to Donna was present in her mind.

The Doctor was right. They weren't losing anybody else. Not today; not ever.

“Someone's been digging,” the Doctor commented, ever so casual. He was unimpressed by the apparent threat this new faceless adversary posed. But then again, there was little that could ruffle such an ancient man. He ignored the robots surrounding them, strolling closer to the hole. “Oh, very Torchwood. Drilled by laser. How far down does it go?” he asked curiously, hands still shoved harmlessly inside his pockets.

“Down and down,” the disembodied voice snarled, “all the way to the centre of the Earth!”

“Really?” he hummed, seeming surprised. “Seriously? What for?” he asked, leaning carefully over the edge to peer down into the deep abyss.

There was a beat, then, “dinosaurs!”

Pausing, both Hartley and the Doctor turned to look at Donna, who had a desperate sort of look on her face. “What?” the Doctor asked her in an undertone, his face scrunched in confusion, as if beginning to seriously doubt her state of mind. Maybe the events of the day had taken a toll?

“Dinosaurs?” Donna said again, rapidly losing momentum.

Hartley and the Doctor met eyes, questions in their shared gaze. “What are you on about, dinosaurs?” the Doctor asked, looking back at Donna incredulously.

Donna shifted, uncomfortable under the sudden attention. “That film, _Under the Earth_ , with dinosaurs,” she explained, trailing off awkwardly. Hartley could see her train of thought now, and she pressed her lips together to keep herself from smiling. “Trying to help,” Donna muttered defensively.

The Doctor rolled his eyes. “That's _not_ helping,” he told her with a huff.

“At least she's _trying,_ Doctor,” Hartley argued crossly. He shot her a petulant sort of look before that disembodied voice interrupted them, sharp and impatient.

“Such a sweet trio,” it sneered mockingly.

The Doctor bristled. “Only a madman talks to thin air and trust me, you _don't_ want to make me mad,” he warned the mysterious source thinly. “Where are you?”

“High in the sky,” it answered him keenly. “Floating so high on Christmas night.”

“I didn't come all this way to talk on the intercom,” the Doctor crowed, unbothered by the voice's menacing quality, or any threat it thought it posed. “Come on, let's have a look at you!”

“Doc,” Hartley whispered, a tingle of fear running down her spine. The voice sounded harsh and vicious, and she was woman enough to admit when she felt afraid. Donna, too, was trembling slightly from beside her, letting Hartley know she felt the same way.

The Doctor ignored her, but she hadn't really expected him to respond, anyway.

“Who are you with such command?” the voice snarled wetly.

The Doctor blinked. “I'm the Doctor,” he said, as if it were a universal truth rather than just his name.

“Prepare your best medicines, doctor man, for you will be sick at heart,” the voice hissed. There was a haze fuzzy light, like she'd seen plenty of times before – a type of transmat – and suddenly a gigantic, ruby red, spider-like alien was stood before them. It had a dozen beady, blinking eyes, and yellow fangs that dripped with dangerous, glistening venom.

“Racnoss?” the Doctor said, recognising it at once. Hartley took this to mean he knew exactly what this alien was, and where it was from. Soon enough, they'd get to the part of its evil plan. “But that's impossible. You're one of the _Racnoss_?” he asked, sharp with surprise.

“ _Empress_ of the Racnoss,” the alien hissed back at him proudly. The sound of her rasping, insectile voice made Hartley's skin crawl, and she balled her fists until her nails bit into her flesh.

“If you're the Empress, where's the rest of the Racnoss?” the Doctor demanded, the puzzle not complete in his mind. Then suddenly an understanding dawned upon his face, as well as a deep sadness that made Hartley's heart swell with sympathy. “Or, are you the only one?” it was a question, but the way he'd said it didn't make it sound like one.

“Such a sharp mind,” the Empress snarled.

“That's it, the last of your kind,” he said, an echo of buried pain in his voice, the sound of it nearly cracking Hartley's chest in two. “The Racnoss come from the Dark Times, billions of years ago. _Billions_ ,” he explained to Donna and Hartley, who were both staring at the Empress in thinly veiled disgust. Hartley never had been fond of spiders. “They were carnivores, _omnivores._ They devoured whole planets,” he told them grimly.

The Empress hissed, and Hartley got the impression she was offended by his careless words. “Racnoss are born starving,” she bit back, fury bubbling beneath her surface. “Is that our fault?”

“They _eat_ people?” Donna whispered, horror thick on her face.

The Doctor paused a moment, eyes darting up to the ceiling. Hartley followed his line of sight, a wave of nausea rolling over her when she caught sight of numerous pairs of feet and hands sticking out of a thick layer of webbing on the ceiling.

“H.C. Clements, did he wear those, those er, black and white shoes?” the Doctor asked Donna, who grew distracted and laughed despite it all.

“He did! We used to laugh. Used to call him the fat cat in spats.”

Hartley almost didn't want Donna to see, didn't want her to realise the gravity of the situation they were in. She wanted to protect her, emotionally as much as physically. But these things couldn't be controlled, no matter how much she wished they could.

The Doctor pointed up at the very same pair of shoes, attached to legs dangling lifelessly from the grotesque web. Donna followed his line of sight and gasped in horrified disgust, her jovial amusement all but ripped away like a carpet pulled out from beneath her.

“Mmm. My Christmas dinner,” the Empress of the Racnoss said hungrily, yellow teeth gleaming in the light.

“How many?” Hartley demanded before she'd even realised she'd spoken. The Empress' dozens of beady eyes flickered towards her, but she only straightened under the attention. “How many innocent people have you slaughtered?”

The Empress laughed, like she amused her somehow. Hartley grit her teeth, feeling something that wasn't quite hatred. Fury, perhaps, mingled with pity. She pitied this creature – last of her kind, alone in this world, born starving, full of holes she could never fill.

The Doctor launched into action, sauntering forwards and speaking at a mile a minute. “You shouldn't even _exist_. Way back in history, the fledgling Empires went to war against the Racnoss – they were wiped out!” he said, partly for her and Donna's benefit. Hartley swallowed, glancing to the hole in the floor. Something about it was bugging her – why was it there at all? To the centre of the Earth, she'd said. But _why_?

“Except for me,” the Racnoss hissed, part proud and part pained.

Hartley looked back up at the Racnoss only to spy Lance creeping over the railing behind the giant alien, an axe held in steady hands. Her eyes widened, wondering what the hell he thought he was doing. Hadn't he just been behind them? Why would he, a mere man who didn't even know anything about alien life before tonight, try and take on a giant space-spider with nothing but an emergency axe? It didn't make any sense. Hartley didn't like things that didn't make sense.

“But that's what I've got inside me, that Huon energy thing. Oi! _Look_ at me, lady, I'm talking!” Donna began shouting, giving her fiancé the chance he needed to attack the Racnoss before it could destroy them all.

But Hartley wasn't convinced. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. She could feel it, deep in her guts. Things weren't as they appeared. “Where do I fit in? How come I got all stacked up with these Huon particles? Look at me, you! Look me in the _eye_ and tell me!” Donna bellowed, loud, quick and impressive.

“The bride is so feisty,” the Empress spat.

“Yes, I am!” Donna agreed loudly. “And I don't know what you are, you big _thing_ , but a spider's just a spider, and an axe is an axe! _Now_ , do it!” she screamed at Lance, who began to bring the axe down in a swing – only to stop at the very last second.

Both he and the Empress paused, before they broke into matching sniggers, like friends sharing a joke. Hartley's shoulders dropped in something like defeat.

“That was a good one,” Lance laughed, the opposite of what he'd been earlier. No longer was he meek, confused or bumbling. Now he was full of the sort of confidence that came only from self-righteousness. Hartley scowled at him, disgusted. “Your face!” he cackled.

“Lance is funny,” the Empress agreed in her dark, hissing voice.

But Donna didn't understand, or perhaps she just didn't _want_ to. “What?” she whispered, stunned and confused, unable to process what was happening before her.

Hartley's eyes began to tear up, feeling grief on Donna's behalf, along with the sharp sting of betrayal. She swallowed around the lump in her throat, glaring up at Lance with pure disdain.

“I'm sorry,” the Doctor whispered to Donna, sad and apologetic. Hartley couldn't get her mouth to work, too overcome with emotion.

“Sorry for what?” Donna snapped back impatiently, refusing to see the truth that was right before her eyes. Hartley couldn't blame her – humans had a remarkable tendency for denial. It was one of their most prominent traits, she'd found. “Lance, don't be so stupid! Get her!” she shouted.

“God, she's _thick_ ,” Lance sneered derisively, a hint of a smug smirk on his face. He felt no remorse. Only satisfaction. “Months I've had to put up with her. _Months,_ ” he said cruelly. “A woman who can't even point to Germany on a map.”

“ _Shut up_!” Hartley snarled up at him contemptuously, hands balled into tight fists at her sides. The Doctor's hand caught her wrist, a silent command to stay by his side, to try and keep her cool. She didn't get angry often, but this may have been enough to tip even her over the edge.

She was still raw from Rose's departure. Still vibrating with pain she didn't know how to deal with. And she knew Donna wasn't Rose, but she still couldn't help but feel a surge of that same protectiveness she'd felt for that pink and yellow human she so loved. Rose wasn't here, but Donna was, and Hartley had sworn that she'd protect her.

She'd just never considered heartbreak would be something she'd have to protect her _from._

“I don't understand,” Donna murmured, looking between Lance and the two travellers in dismay. Denial – it was a powerful drug. Slowed the mind, only letting her see what she wanted to see.

“How did you meet him?” the Doctor prompted her gently. He couldn't just tell her what was happening. She had to understand on her own, it was the only way.

“In the office,” she replied, feeble and confused, growing weaker with every passing breath and the realisation trickling over her like freezing cold water. Donna's pain raged inside Hartley, who felt it like it was her own. She closed her eyes just briefly, long enough to gather herself and her haywire emotions.

“He made you coffee,” the Doctor told Donna delicately.

“What?” Donna scrambled to make sense of it all. Hartley understood suddenly, and the betrayal was abruptly made a thousand times worse. She glared up at Lance with all the fury the three of them felt combined, but somehow it still wasn't enough. She wanted him to _burn._

“Every day, I _made_ you _coffee,_ ” Lance said it slowly and deliberately, like he were talking to an inept child. Hartley felt pain ripple through her like a bullet. She couldn't even imagine, trusting someone like that? To that degree? Only for them betray you in the worst possible way? To find out that, the whole time, it were nothing but a cruel lie?

It was unthinkable. Or maybe Hartley was just naïve.

“You had to be dosed with liquid particles over six months,” the Doctor told Donna in a low, grim tone. She gasped loudly, eyes flooding with tears as she stared up at Lance in utter betrayal.

“He was poisoning me?” she asked weakly, struggling to come to terms with it.

“I'm so sorry, Donna,” Hartley whispered, but Donna didn't acknowledge her words, just stared up at her ex-fiancé. She felt like she'd been shattered into a thousand pieces, and Hartley winced around the pain she felt echoing in her veins.

“It was all there in the job title. The Head of Human Resources,” the Doctor added darkly, turning his glare onto Lance and the Empress of the Racnoss. Hartley knew then that they'd be lucky to come away from this with their lives. And that was saying something.

“This time, it's personnel,” Lance laughed loudly, like it were all some hilarious joke and not Donna's life, her _trust_ , they were decimating. Hartley wondered if she would ever be able to recover; if she'd ever be able to trust again.

“But, we were getting married,” Donna whispered brokenly.

“Well, I couldn't risk you running off. I had to say yes,” Lance sneered. “And then I was stuck with a woman who thinks the height of excitement is a new flavour Pringle,” he added callously, and Hartley looked away, unable to stand the sight of him. She looked over at the Doctor instead, running her eyes down the side of his face, trying to count all the different shades in his eyes in an attempt to distract herself. “Oh, I had to sit there and listen to all that yap yap yap. Oh, Brad and Angelina. Is Posh pregnant? X Factor, Atkins Diet, Feng Shui, split ends, text me, text me, _text me_. Dear God, the never ending fountain of fat, _stupid_ trivia. I deserve a medal,” he finished cruelly.

“Oh, is that what she's offered you?” the Doctor asked loudly, and when the anger began to grow on his face Hartley looked away, eyeing Donna instead, taking in the pain in her expression, the agony glittering wetly in her eyes. “The Empress of the Racnoss? What are you, her consort?” the Doctor asked snidely. Hartley grimaced at the mental images that evoked.

“It's better than a night with her,” Lance spat, jerking his chin at Donna, blatant disgust on his face, which Hartley suddenly found not to be handsome after all. Donna flinched as if the words had been a physical blow.

“But I _love_ you,” she cried.

Lance grinned, the expression like a wolf baring its teeth just before it took a bite out of its prey. “That's what made it so easy,” he jeered, and Hartley snapped.

“You despicable, disgusting, _rat_ of a human being!” she screeched up at him. For a moment Lance looked taken aback by the sudden outburst, but then the surprise was replaced by a sly, self-important smirk. Never before had she so wished she could set people alight with the power of her mind.

“The little kitten has claws, it would seem,” the Empress hissed, and Hartley's eyes watered in her fury. She didn't want to cry, knowing it would only look like a sign of weakness, but her body was so full of adrenaline, so packed with emotion, that her eyes prickled anyway.

“She's not a kitten. Her name's Hart, and she's worth a _million_ of you!” Donna screamed back in Hartley's defence, surprising her with the passion behind it. Lance and the Empress only laughed, the sound sending chills down Hartley's spine.

“It's like you said, Doctor. The big picture,” Lance began, as though neither Hartley nor Donna had even spoken at all. He was the height of male arrogance, Hartley thought. Entitled, self-righteous, and thinks he knows everything – when really, he knew absolutely nothing at all. “What's the point of it all if the human race is nothing? That's what the Empress can give me. The chance to go out there. To see it. The size of it all,” said Lance with rapture in his voice. “I think you understand that, don't you, Doctor?”

“Who is this little physician and his pet kitten?” the Empress interrupted their discussion with a snarl. Her pincers clacked together noisily. The sound was enough to make Hartley's skin prickle.

“She said Martian,” Lance told his mistress tightly.

“Oh, I'm sort of homeless … and, for the record, Hart's anything but a _pet_ ,” the Doctor said with a grimace, finding the word repugnant. Hartley felt a flare of warmth at his strong declaration. “But, more to the point – what's down here?” he moved along with ease, and Hartley might have gotten whiplash were she not so used to it. “The Racnoss are extinct. What's going to help you four thousand miles down? That's just the molten core of the Earth, isn't it?” he asked casually.

“I think he wants us to talk,” Lance jeered.

“I think so, too,” the Empress said in the same tone.

“Well, tough!” Lance cackled madly. “All we need is Donna.”

“Kill this chattering little doctor man and his human heart!”

“Don't you hurt them!” Donna abruptly leapt in front of the travellers, her arms spread wide in a human shield. Hartley knew it wouldn't do any good should they really decide to attack, but the significance behind the action wasn't lost on her. She smiled sadly.

“No, no, Donna. It's all right,” the Doctor said quickly, gently pulled Donna out of the way.

“No, I won't let them!” Donna shouted in a panic.

“Donna. I promise you, it's fine,” Hartley gently grasped her bare arm, her skin cold to the touch. She watched as a tear trickled down Donna's cheek, the fear for her new friends so absolute. She marvelled, slightly, at her desperation to keep them safe. It was warming, to be cared for so intently by someone they'd only met a few short hours ago.

She hoped to find a way to let Donna know the feeling was mutual.

Before Hartley could think on it more, the Empress shouted for her robot army to take arms, and they did so without question. As one they lifted their guns, aiming at Hartley and the Doctor, who were still partially positioned behind a stubborn, protective Donna.

“Ah, now. Except––” the Doctor tried desperately to stall them, but the Empress was having none of it.

“Take aim!”

“Well, I just want to point out the obvious––”

“They won't hit the bride. They're such very good shots,” the Empress sneered.

“Just, just, just, just hold on,” he stammered, trying another avenue. “Hold on just a _tick_. Just a tiny little, just a _little_ _tick_.” By that miraculous luck only the Doctor seemed able to possess, the robots didn't immediately fire, giving him time to, as usual, talk his way out of it. “If you think about it, the particles activated in Donna and drew her inside my spaceship. So reverse it, and the spaceship comes to her...” he said with a giddy, victorious grin as he turned the knob on the Huon container.

“Fire!” Hartley heard the Empress screech, but in a kind of breathtaking, magical smoke, the TARDIS constructed itself around them, protecting all three from the blast of the robots' weapons. Hartley let out a sharp sigh of relief, feeling the TARDIS hum from around her, like the comforting weight of her favourite blanket at night.

“Haha!” the Doctor crowed, beginning to twirl his way around the console as he piloted his ship. Hartley smiled at the Doctor in relief, shooting a grateful look up at the domed ceiling. “Off we go!” he cheered, yanking on a lever with a triumphant shout, sending them into the vortex. “Oh, you know what I said before about time machines?” he added sheepishly. “Well, I lied. And now we're going to use it.”

Only Donna was silent, and so Hartley finally looked over to see tears streaming down her cheeks, shoulders shaking from the force of her own agonised sobs. An empathetic pain twisting at her insides, Hartley gently pressed her hand against Donna's back and gently directed her over to the jump seat, sitting her down onto it and watching as she dropped her face into her hands.

The Doctor chattered on, utterly oblivious. “We need to find out what the Empress of the Racnoss is digging up. If something's buried at the planet's core, it must've been there since the beginning. That's just brilliant. _Molto bene_. I've always wanted to see this. Donna, we're going further back than I've ever been before,” he finally turned to face them, manic grin evaporating into nothing when he spied Donna crying into her hands, Hartley rubbing her back soothingly.

She looked up from her place at Donna's side, shooting the Doctor her most unimpressed stare. He at least had the decency to look a little ashamed for his ignorant behaviour.

He opened his mouth to say something, but Hartley knew the likelihood of it being awkward and insincere was too high to risk, so she shook her head emphatically. They needed a lighter touch, one she wasn't sure the Doctor was in any state to provide. Getting the picture he cleared his throat and fell silent, much more subdued as he wound his way slowly around the console, diligently sending them into the distant past.

“Donna?” Hartley asked once she felt Donna's shell shock begin to recede. Her hand never stopped moving, rubbing soothingly across Donna's back like Hartley's dad used to do for her when she was a kid. “Are you okay?” she gently pressed, all the while know she wasn't.

“He was lying,” Donna cried into her hands, shoulders trembling with emotion. She was trying to keep her tears at bay – bury all her pain and heartache deep down in her chest. Hartley didn't know how to tell her that what she needed now was to let it out rather than hold it all in. “The whole time, he was using me. Planning to _kill_ me,” she sobbed, pain reaching out to Hartley like a solar flare might expand out from the sun. She winced at the feeling.

“He's despicable, Donna,” Hartley told her, trying very hard to keep the fury from her voice. Donna didn't need her anger in that moment. She just needed her support. “And he isn't worth your tears.”

“Well, he's getting them, isn't he?” Donna whispered back, face still buried in her hands as she radiated shame. “I thought he was the one!” she cried, and finally Hartley threw caution to the wind, leaning down to wrap herself around Donna in a tight, comforting hug, her face pressed into the taller woman's shaking shoulder blades. “How thick _am_ I?” Donna asked, sounding genuinely confused.

She thought this was her fault, and Hartley squeezed tighter, holding Donna tightly, like she were the only thing standing between her and oblivion.

“ _He's_ the thick one, Donna,” Hartley promised her, quiet but warm with sincerity, “for not seeing how absolutely amazing you are, or how lucky he was to have you.”

Donna didn't believe her – but that was okay, because she would eventually, given time. She gave a wet laugh and a little sniffle, free hand moving over Hartley's. She held Donna's hand tightly, consoling her with everything she had, letting her know someone was _there_ for her, and that someone _cared_.

That she wasn't alone.

Eventually Donna sat up, wiping under her eyes in embarrassment, and Hartley let go of her, moving backwards and giving Donna room to breathe.

Feeling the weight of eyes on her face, she looked over to see the Doctor at the console. His eyes were focused on her, narrowed like he was trying to solve a complex equation written onto the surface of her skin. She cocked her head curiously, and he shook his head, almost as though to clear it, before shooting her a small, if somewhat sad, smile.

“We've arrived,” he said, more gentle than she'd expected. She smiled back at him, warmed by his softness. “Want to see?” he asked Donna kindly.

Their new friend hesitated, taking a moment to consider whether she were ready. Neither of them would have blamed her if she'd said she needed more time, and somehow she knew that.

“I suppose,” she finally said, sniffling again. Hartley could tell she was rather unenthusiastic about the whole thing, but that was only to be expected.

The Doctor perked up. “Oh, that scanner's a bit small. Maybe your way's best,” he said, returning to his cheerful self in an effort to keep the mood light.

Hartley wasn't sure he was capable of letting things be serious for any longer than two minutes at a time; but, when it really came down to it, she couldn't deny that she was something she loved about him.

He threw open the doors, peering outside for a moment before looking back at the two women. He pouted when he saw they hadn't moved from their place at the jump seat. “Come on,” he said enticingly, waving them over. “No human's ever seen this. You'll be the first.”

Hartley couldn't deny the thrill that came along with his words. The first ever humans to see something? Was it Christmas?

She glanced over to Donna with a grin only to find the other redhead frowning tiredly. The glee melted away, replaced by a hint of shame for being so unintentionally blithe.

“All I want to see is my bed,” Donna mumbled, exhaustion dripping from her pores even as she climbed to her feet and shuffled over towards the doors. Hartley followed close behind, and once she reached the Doctor her eyes widened as she took in what she was seeing.

This was the beginning of the Earth itself – the planet she and almost everyone she'd ever known called home. And she was seeing it _born_.

The Doctor smiled, wide and proud, like the Earth meant as much to him as it did to her. “Hartley Daniels, Donna Noble – welcome to the creation of the Earth.”

It was like nothing Hartley could ever imagine. Brightly coloured clouds of gas and dust surrounded the TARDIS. Rocks rolled leisurely through empty space, like they had all the time in the universe to get to where they were going. In the distance Hartley could see their burning sun, its light dimmed through a dark cloud of purple dust.

“We've gone back four point six billion years,” the Doctor told them, voice quiet and subdued.

Was he as humbled by the sight as she was? Staring out at all this matter and energy that would one day form the planet that would give birth to _her_?

“There's no solar system, not yet. Only dust and rocks and gas. That's the Sun, over there,” he said eagerly, and as he moved to point he pressed against Hartley. She leaned over so she could still see, but somewhere in the back of her mind she registered a set of heartbeats in an odd rhythm, one that wasn't her own. She realised suddenly that it was the Doctor's pulse against her skin, racing away in his excitement. “Brand new,” he grinned, completely oblivious, and suddenly Hartley knew – he may not have been humbled by the sight, but he was certainly stunned by it, appreciating it for the wondrous thing it was. “Just beginning to burn!”

“Where's the Earth?” Donna asked in confusion.

“All around us – in the dust,” he replied. She fell silent, and Hartley understood she was experiencing the same feeling as she was, a humbled sort of appreciation for her home world.

“Puts the wedding in perspective,” she finally muttered, staring out at the clouds of colourful gas wistfully. “Lance was right. We're just tiny.”

“No, but that's what you _do,_ ” the Doctor said enthusiastically, turning to the pair of stunned humans with a brilliant grin, one that Hartley secretly thought was brighter than that new sun itself. “The human race makes _sense_ out of chaos. Marking it out with weddings and Christmas and calendars. This whole process is beautiful,” he told them passionately, “but only if it's being observed.”

His words made Hartley feel significant. They made her feel appreciated and beautiful, even if that beauty was just as one of many. She wondered how it was possible for one single man to hold the power to both build and destroy her with nothing but his words alone.

“So I came out of all this?” Donna asked, voice quiet and pensive.

“The both of you did,” the Doctor agreed with a wide, astonished smile. “Isn't that _brilliant?_ ”

Hartley agreed, but she said nothing, finding herself without words.

“I think that's the Isle of Wight,” Donna joked weakly as a large rock floated by the TARDIS, and the Doctor turned to smile at her widely, watching her watch the stars. Hartley supposed that was why he travelled with humans – so he could experience the universe through their eyes. Maybe he got just as much joy out of watching them as he did watching the stars themselves.

She turned back to stare at the sun, watching it burn, bright and beautiful and brand new. Holding the promise of billions upon billions of years of life to come.

“Hart?”

She looked up to see the Doctor no longer watching Donna, but instead her, a shine of curiosity to his deep, endless eyes. Looking back up at him, she found herself able to put what she felt into words. “It's amazing,” she answered his unspoken question, looking away from his eyes and back to the dust that would soon become her planet. “It's, it's _humbling._ I can't believe that this is the start of it all,” she said quietly, running her eyes over the beautiful swirls of green and purple gas. “The start of _me_.”

“This is where you begin,” he agreed, looking back at the stars for himself, a tiny, secret smile sitting on his lips. She wondered what was going through his mind in that very moment, knowing she would likely never truly know. “Eventually, gravity takes hold,” he began to explain, launching back into explanation mode. “Say, one big rock, heavier than the others, starts to pull other rocks towards it. All the dust and gas and elements get pulled in. Everything, piling in until you get––”

“The Earth,” Donna finished in a whisper.

“But the question is, what was that first rock?”

From the far right something burst from a thick dust cloud, but it looked nothing like the rest of the rocks floating around them. It was a spaceship, seven pointed ends jutting out from its centre, the whole thing covered in a thick white sort of thread that Hartley recognised with a sinking heart to be webbing.

“The Racnoss,” the Doctor muttered, and Hartley watched in muted horror as it moved to the centre of their vision. “Hold on. The Racnoss are hiding from the war. What's it doing?” he asked in confusion. Hartley didn't like it when the Doctor was confused – it usually meant the rest of them had zero hope of understanding.

“Exactly what you said,” Donna murmured grimly.

The rocks, dust and gas surrounding them began to swirl, being pulled into the Racnoss ship like it were a great big magnet. Hartley swallowed thickly, watching as it began to gain mass, all the way until she couldn't see the tips of its ends any more.

“Oh, they didn't just _bury_ something at the centre of the Earth. They _became_ the centre of the Earth,” the Doctor realised. Hartley watched on, feeling suddenly cold and bleak. “The first rock.”

Before Hartley could ask what this meant the TARDIS was jolted sharply to the left, giving a loud, frightening bang. The Doctor's arm shot out instinctively, keeping both Hartley and Donna safely inside the ship. They took a beat to recover before the Doctor was slamming the doors shut and rushing back up towards the console.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Hartley asked, throwing out her hand and grasping hold of the railing, just barely keeping herself upright as the ship was again thrown roughly to the side. It was violent, much more so than the TARDIS' usual fun, rocky flight pattern.

“Trouble,” the Doctor replied distractedly, rushing around in a flurry.

“What the hell's it doing?” Donna demanded as it threw them to the side once more, the Doctor losing his footing and ending up on the grating. He popped back up a beat later, going back to work.

“Remember that little trick of mine, particles pulling particles? Well, it works in reverse,” he told them loudly, over the pained groaning of the TARDIS. Hartley pressed a hand against the pillar of coral to her right, feeling it vibrate unhappily under her palm. “They're pulling us back!”

“Well, can't you stop it? Hasn't it got a handbrake? Can't you reverse or warp or beam or something?” Donna yelled back desperately.

“This isn't the Enterprise, you know,” Hartley interjected dryly.

“The what?!” Donna shouted back cluelessly. Hartley realised Donna probably wasn't a Trekkie, considering everything else she'd so far learned about the woman.

“Don't be a backseat driver!” the Doctor complained before shouting, “ _oh_! Wait a minute! The extrapolator!”

“Extrapolator?” Hartley echoed, memories flashing behind her eyes like photographs in an album. “You mean the thing from that time in Cardiff, with Jack and the Slitheen?!”

“The very same – I see your memory's improving!”

“Oi!”

“It can't stop us, but it should give us a good bump,” the Doctor explained, hooking the surfboard looking thing up to the console in a quick, practised move. “Now!” he shouted, and without a grinding sound, the TARDIS came to a stop. Heavy breaths filled the console room, and everything was still for one long, silent moment as they waited to see what would happen. “We're about two hundred yards to the right. Come on,” the Doctor eventually said, abandoning the board and darting from the TARDIS, leaving Hartley and Donna with nothing to do but stare after him.

“Is he mental?” Donna asked critically.

Hartley's face scrunched as she held her fingers up with a hum, “just a little.”

Donna hardly looked comforted, but Hartley knew that was probably unavoidable. She figured there'd be time to help her understand later. For now, they had a spider to deal with.

Leading Donna out of the TARDIS, they stepped into the concrete corridor from earlier, no unfamiliar aliens or robots or spiders in sight.

“But what do we do now?” Donna asked, hiking up her skirts to race after the Doctor. Hartley's shoes met the concrete with muted slaps, keeping up with them easily, free to move in her loose jeans.

“I don't know. I make it up as I go along,” the Doctor confessed. “But trust me, I've got a history. Just ask Hartley.”

“It's true – he really does do it brilliantly,” she confirmed. Donna only looked more alarmed by this fact, not at all comforted. The Time Lord grinned to himself at Hartley's praise before he produced a stethoscope from his pocket, holding it up to the door and tucking the ends in his ears.

“But I still don't understand,” said Donna helplessly, voice low on the off chance their enemy might overhear. “I'm full of particles, but what _for_?”

“That's a very good question,” Hartley agreed.

The Doctor paid little attention as he replied, the words more of an afterthought. “There's a Racnoss web at the centre of the Earth, but my people unravelled their power source. The Huon particles ceased to exist but the Racnoss were stuck––”

Anything else the Doctor had to say went unheard by Hartley. Two strong, unmoveable arms wrapped around her, one covering her mouth as it dragged her roughly backwards. She tried to scream for the Doctor, but the cold hand smothered her cries.

Looking over, she saw Donna caught too. She struggled harder, desperate to get free and save her new friend. But the arms around her were those of a robot – no weak spots, no give to its strength, and her sharp movements did nothing to pull it off course. Heart racing, she tried everything Jack had ever taught her to try and free herself, but to no avail.

She silently cursed the Doctor for being so bloody oblivious that he didn't even notice his friends being stolen away from less than a _foot_ behind him. Stupid, bloody aliens.

“Ah yes, put the bride in the web with her groom,” the Empress' hisses washed over her, and Hartley grimaced from behind the robot's hand, trying desperately to kick its legs out from under it. She might not have been able to overpower it, but she could certainly make things difficult for the thing. “Bring the little heart girl to me,” she added in a sneer. Hartley struggled harder, being roughly dragged in the direction of that giant, red, extraterrestrial spider.

She wondered how long it took for her body to recover from bruises – she was sure to have plenty after this whole thing was over and done with.

“Now, what to do with the doctor man's little assistant?” the Empress purred, one of her massive pincers catching Hartley around the arm, holding her in place. Its sharp edge cut through her skin, and Hartley cried out as blood ran down over her wrist, dripping onto the floor like a puddle of striking red paint. “Shall I drop you down, down to the centre of the Earth, like the others?” the Empress asked in one of her insectile snarls.

“I'd rather you didn't,” Hartley replied as cheerfully as she could manage, trying to take a page from the Doctor's book – it wasn't quite as easy as he made it look. She was scared, and in a lot of pain. Keeping the smile on her face was easier said than done.

She wondered, with a sinking stomach, what would happen if she were to fall down that deep dark hole, given away to the Racnoss buried within her beloved home planet. What would they do? Eat her? Would she be able to wake up after being chewed and digested by a hundred-thousand evil little alien spiders? She couldn't imagine how she would, and certainly didn't want to find out.

“I think I'll keep you,” the Empress finally sneered, ducking her hulking head down so her face was by Hartley's, who flinched away at the sight of her glistening, yellowed fangs, “as leverage over the little Martian man.”

“Believe me, it won't work,” Hartley assured her, however the words were hollow. She and the Doctor may have had their issues in the past, but she suddenly knew with unshakable certainty that the Doctor wasn't going to let anything happen to her. Not if there was any other way.

The Empress didn't seem convinced, giving a low hiss that sent shivers down the length of Hartley's spine. She struggled again against the Empress' grasp, but her pincers only cut deeper into Hartley's soft flesh. She let out a yelp of pain as another river of blood made its way down the length of her long, pale arm.

“Hartley!” Donna cried from high above. Hartley blinked the tears from her eyes to look up and see her new friend ensnared in the giant spider's disgusting web. She was positioned right beside a scowling Lance, who Hartley thought with a bitter scowl deserved to be there. “Are you okay?!” Donna shouted, fear for her friend shining in her eyes.

“I promise, Donna, this glorified _bug_ won't be the death of me!” she yelled back, trying her best to sound brave – or at least, braver than she felt on the inside.

“Silence,” the Empress hissed, yanking violently at her arm again. Hartley cut off with another groan, the pincers digging down to the bone. The pain was substantial, radiating through her very skeleton, and Hartley swallowed back a wave of bile. “It's the happy couple's turn to talk,” the Empress snarled.

“I hate you,” Donna muttered to Lance.

“Yeah, I think we've gone a bit beyond that now, sweetheart,” he replied venomously.

“My golden couple, together at last. Your awful wedded life,” the spider hissed like it were the most clever thing ever uttered.

“Do you _only_ know how to speak in terrible puns?” Hartley asked her captor against her better judgement, getting a rough shake and a deeper tear in her flesh for her trouble. She cursed under her breath, inhaling deeply in an attempt to work through the blinding pain. She couldn't move her fingertips anymore, having lost feeling in the entire arm.

If it was chopped off, would she be able to grow it back? She could only hope.

“Tell me, do you want to be released?” the Empress continued, sneering up at the couple like she hadn't been interrupted by Hartley's innate sense of sarcasm.

“Yes!” they shouted together.

“You're supposed to say, _I do_ ,” leered the spider.

“No chance,” Lance argued stupidly.

“ _Say it_!”

“I do,” he reluctantly grumbled.

“I do,” Donna parroted.

“I _don't_. Activate the particles! Purge every last one!”

Donna and Lance began to glow a shimmering gold, and Hartley's chest squeezed in panic. “Donna!” she cried out, concern for herself disappearing, replaced by a terror for her newfound friend.

“Silence, you impudent girl,” the Empress spat venomously. “If I have to tell you again, you'll be sacrificed first!” She paused, and Hartley fell reluctantly, obediently silent. “Now _release_!” the spider ordered, and the Huon particles inside both Donna and Lance left them, zooming directly down into the hole in the ground. “The secret heart unlocks, and they will waken from their sleep of ages,” the Empress announced in sadistic glee.

“Who will?” Donna shouted in a panic. “What's down there?”

“How thick _are_ you?” Lance snapped.

“My children,” the Empress answered Donna nonetheless, “the long lost Racnoss, now reborn to feast on flesh! The web star shall come to me!”

Hartley wasn't sure what that part meant exactly, but she was willing to bet it wasn't good. The alien's pincer cut through the final layer of her flesh, finally meeting bone, and she cried out in agony. The Bad Wolf's 'gift' might have made her immortal, but it certainly didn't exempt her from the experience of pain. If anything, it was _worse_ now that she couldn't die. Just one, never ending torture session, where the sweet release of death would come, but never stay.

“My babies will be hungry,” the Empress continued in her bitter, hungry snarl. “They need sustenance. Perish the web.”

“Use her, not me!” Lance begged spinelessly, but Hartley was barely paying attention, beginning to feel her bone crack under her pincer's pressure. She groaned in agony at the feeling, hot tears leaking from her eyes and sliding down the length of her face. “Use her!” Lance continued to plead, utterly weak.

“Oh, my funny little Lance! But you are quite impolite to your lady friend. The Empress does not approve,” crowed the spider.

Hartley could barely see through her tears, but she heard a terrified shriek then Donna's horrified scream of his name. She knew then that Lance was no more.

“Harvest the humans! Reduce them to meat!” the Empress ordered viciously. Hartley cried out in agony, her arm on fire, pain still rattling throughout her body. Where was the Doctor? He had to be coming, he had to be on his way to save them. What was taking him so long? “My children are climbing towards me and none shall stop them. So you might as well unmask, my clever little doctor man!”

Hartley sobbed with relief when the Doctor appeared, throwing off his pitiful disguise with a dramatic flourish. “Oh well. Nice try. I've got you, Donna!”

There was the buzz of his sonic, and then Donna yelled, “I'm going to fall!”

“You're going to swing! I've got you!” he promised.

He didn't, in fact, have her, but Hartley was in too much pain to worry about chastising him for his oversight.

“Thanks for nothing,” Donna called up to him snidely.

“The doctor man amuses me,” the Empress snarled, triumph still in her hissing, insectile voice. “But you forget, I still have your little _pet_!”

“So you do,” the Doctor agreed. Hartley looked up from where she had been glaring at the floor, trying to control the agony rattling through her body. Her arm most certainly broken by now, and she was beginning to feel faint from the pain. “You all right, Hartley?!” the Doctor called out to her.

“Been better!” she yelled back, her voice thick with suffering. The Doctor's face was distorted through her tears, but she thought it was darker than usual, clouded with a thunderous fury that she'd have hated to be on the receiving end of. If she were the Empress of the Racnoss, she'd have been awfully terrified right about now.

“You're going to be okay,” he promised her, his voice just as volatile as his tumultuous eyes.

“Always am!” she reminded him, but her voice was frail and full of a pain she couldn't hope to hide. The Doctor's expression only grew darker, like the angry black clouds of an oncoming storm.

“Empress of the Racnoss, I give you one last chance,” he told her Hartley's captor. There was no give in his voice, no hope of negotiation.

Hartley knew how this worked. He always, always offered a chance, and if they didn't choose to take it…

“I can find you a planet. I can find you and your children a place in the universe to co-exist. Take that offer and end this now,” he said. It was as much a plea as it was a warning.

“These men are so funny,” the Empress leaned down into Hartley's face as she spoke, watery venom spitting against her cheek. She cringed away in disgust, only to cry out in pain as her pincer tore even deeper into her arm, bone cracking fully under the pressure. She screamed, unsure she'd be able to take the agony any longer, vision seeming to twist, not from tears but from weariness, black dots appearing in her eyes.

“Stop!” shouted the Doctor, and Hartley knew she wasn't imagining the pain in his voice. As if he felt her agony as fiercely as if it were his own. The Empress gave a sick, gleeful sort of laugh, like their pain amused her. Still, she complied, letting up on her grip on Hartley, if only slightly. “What's your answer?” the Doctor asked the Empress stonily.

Some part of Hartley nearly smiled. Her life in the Racnoss' pincers, and he was still giving her a choice. She wasn't beyond redemption, not to the Doctor. Hartley was comforted by his predictable behaviour. It made her feel strangely safe, even despite her perilous situation.

“Oh, I'm afraid I have to decline,” the Racnoss hissed smugly – like she knew something they didn't.

“Then what happens next is your own doing,” he warned.

“I'll show you what happens next!” she snarled.

Despite the horrendous, mind-numbing pain Hartley was in, her terror for the Doctor cut through the haze in her mind. “Doctor!” she screamed in warning, but nobody paid her any attention, or if they did, she couldn't see it through her blurry vision.

“At arms! Take aim!” the Empress shouted. “And––”

“Relax,” the Doctor's voice said, awfully calm given the circumstances – which was definitely a good sign. Hartley sagged with heavy, potent relief.

“What did you do?” Donna's asked loudly.

“Guess what I've got, Donna?” he said in response. “Pockets.”

“How did that fit in there?”

“They're bigger on the inside.”

“Roboforms are not necessary,” the Empress hissed uncaringly. “My children may feast on Martian flesh.”

“Oh, but I'm not from Mars,” the Doctor said, a glimmer of darkness leaking back into his voice. It made even Hartley's skin prickle.

“Then _where_?” the Empress demanded.

“My home planet is far away and long since gone,” the Doctor said evenly. “But its name lives on – _Gallifrey_.”

The Empress gave a loud, piercing wail of grief. Hartley tried to flinch away from the sound, only to be caught by her broken arm. She bit on her tongue to smother a sob, face pinched in her agony. “They murdered the Racnoss!” the Empress cried, shrill with her fury.

“I warned you,” the Doctor said. Then, in a move filled with foreboding, he looked away from the Empress to meet Hartley's eyes. Her sight was distant and blurry, but she blinked the tears away long enough to see the look in his gaze. Suddenly, she knew what he already did.

She wasn't getting out of this one alive.

It was a hard truth, and her breath caught painfully in her throat. For this to work, for things to move forwards and the Doctor to win this fight, she was going to have to die. There was no way he _could_ save her, no way he could snatch her from the Empress' pincers. They were simply out of options.

He was in pain; this outcome was killing him inside, she could see it. Maybe he thought he'd failed her again, maybe he felt responsible. And despite them both knowing it was the inevitable end, she still saw a question buried in his familiar, warm brown eyes. He was asking for her permission – or, perhaps, for her forgiveness.

Swallowing around her dry, sore throat, Hartley nodded, just a simple bob of her head, giving him all the answer he needed.

“You did this,” he continued, looking back at the Empress as though the brief moment of silent understanding had never even happened.

The Empress gave another agonised wail. “And _you_ did _this,_ ” she cried vindictively, and Hartley was jerked forwards violently. She let out a cry of pain, but the sound was smothered by a sudden pressure at her chest, then a harsh burning sensation.

She could no longer feel her own pulse. It was as though her heart had just stopped beating. She looked down, calm in spite of the circumstances, to see one of the Empress' long, sharp pincers protruding from her chest, right where her heart lay, scarlet skin turned crimson with her blood.

“Oh,” she whispered to herself just before her mouth filled with blood, dripping from between her lips. Screams filled her ears, a familiar voice – Donna's, she thought distantly – before Hartley dropped to the floor, completely and utterly lifeless. Again.

* * *

Shooting upwards, Hartley came back to life with a violent gasp. The memory of what happened was sharp in her mind, and one hand snapped to her chest, clutching at the skin there only to find it free of a wound.

It had healed – and so had her arm, it seemed, as she looked down at her torn jumper with a vague expression, the skin beneath the ripped material smooth and unblemished.

“Oh good, you're up,” the Doctor's cheerful tone sounded from above her. Hartley blinked in surprise, turning slowly to look at him. He was grinning down at her, leaning against the TARDIS console, casual as could be.

“But you were _dead_!” Donna's piercing voice cried. Hartley moved her gaze a few inches to the right to see Donna standing there, soaking wet and staring back at her in unadulterated shock. “She was _dead_!” she carried on sharply, loud and painfully shrill. “I _saw_ her _die_!”

“Immortal, remember?” Hartley reminded her dryly, and the Doctor held out a hand. Hartley took it, letting him gently pull her to her feet. His hand came up, long fingers wrapping around her arm, the very same one that had just been torn to shreds by the Empress. It was fine now, like none of it had ever happened. There was a lot of that going round.

Donna was still gaping at her like she were a ghost – which she supposed, in some ways, she kind of was.

“How'd we get out?” Hartley asked the Doctor, and he withdrew his hand from her arm once he was sure she was steady, waving for her to sit down on the jump seat. She positioned herself on the chair, legs swinging beneath her, and she watched as he fished in his bigger-on-the-inside pockets for a moment before producing a small energy bar, handing it over to her with a small smile.

She took it with a murmur of gratitude, tearing into it eagerly, her stomach already beginning to groan its hunger.

“I blew up the flood barriers,” he explained, leaning back against the console. He still kept one eye on her, as if to make sure she wasn't about to keel over. “Drowned the Empress and her young,” he said it casually, like it were nothing – inconsequential – but she saw the dark shadow of regret in his eyes.

“You had no choice,” she told him, quiet and imploring. “It was them or the Earth.”

“I know,” he nodded, but the shadow didn't disappear completely.

“Then what happened?” she asked, sensing his need for a change of topic.

“We came and got you – I was able to get us to the TARDIS before the basement was completely underwater. There was a bit of swimming involved, but we got here in the end,” he said brightly, back to his usual, cheerful self. “Did drain the Thames, though,” he added with a sniff.

“You _drained_ the Thames?” Hartley repeated, just to be sure she'd heard him right. He sniffed again, tugged self-consciously at his ear. Despite herself, she had to laugh, the giggle bubbling from her lips without warning. The Doctor grinned back, and for one gleaming moment, all was right with the world.

Then, “but you _died_!”

Hartley turned to Donna, who was still staring at her in sheer disbelief. “It's a longstory,” she said honestly.

“So what, you can just die and come back to life?” Donna asked sarcastically, as if she hadn't just witnessed it with her own two eyes.

“We're standing in a time machine,” Hartley reminded her gently, a smile on her face as she glanced over at the Doctor, who was calmly manipulating the controls, the ship rematerialising with a wonderful, wheezing groan. “Is immortality really so hard to believe?”

Donna considered this, then sighed in defeat, running a hand through her still-dripping hair. “S'pose not,” she allowed, giving a shaky sort of chuckle, finally beginning to feel the effects of the day.

“C'mon,” the Doctor said, and they both turned to see him standing by the doors. “Last stop.”

He stepped from his box, waving them both out onto the street. It was still and calm, no panic or death or pain anywhere in sight. It seemed almost wrong, somehow. But in a good way. Hartley would rather the bad things happened to them and not the innocent people of Earth. She'd signed up for this; they hadn't.

It was bitterly cold, being winter in London, the air was frosty without the joy of snow. They stood for a moment in silence, then Donna said, “well, freaky as the immortality thing may be, I'm really happy you're all right.”

Hartley smiled and stepped closer for a hug. Donna sank into her touch, squeezing her back and smiling when Hartley rubbed her back affectionately. She pulled back after a beat of comfortable calm and leant against the TARDIS beside the Doctor.

“I have to ask,” Donna added a moment later, eyes sliding from a smiling Hartley to a calm Doctor, “I'm alright too, yeah?”

Pulling out his sonic, the Time Lord gave her a quick scan, checking the readings before smiling at her reassuringly. “Totally fine,” he promised, “all the Huon particles have gone. No damage.”

Donna gave a wry scoff. “Yeah, but apart from that, I missed my wedding, lost my job and became a widow on the same day...sort of,” she said with a tired sigh that Hartley understood.

“I'm so sorry about Lance,” she told her delicately, catching Donna's eyes again with a sad smile.

“I couldn't save him,” the Doctor added, sounding like he very much regretted the fact.

“He deserved it,” she said, and Hartley cocked her head.

She'd thought the same thing, down there in those labs in the heat of the moment. But now, with the chilly Christmas air soaking into her skin, she could think again. Lance hadn't deserved the end he'd gotten. Nobody did.

The Doctor waited until Donna sighed, her round shoulders dropping in something like defeat. “No, he didn't,” she corrected herself sadly, reaching up to rub at her exposed arms. “I'd better get inside. They'll be worried,” she added, gesturing to the window behind them where Hartley could see two distressed looking people hugging one another.

“Best Christmas present they could have,” the Doctor agreed, only to frown a moment later. “Oh, no. I forgot – you hate Christmas.”

Donna smiled, but it was dry with weariness. “Yes, I do,” she nodded.

“Even if it snows?” he asked, a hint of impishness making its way into his voice.

Both women turned to look at him in confusion. Smirking to himself he reached up into the TARDIS. The light on top flared a bright yellow, before it suddenly fired a strange bolt up into the sky. It exploded above their heads like a firework and not a moment later little flakes of snow began to float down over them and the entire city. It was almost like magic.

Gasping in delight, Hartley lifted her hands, catching the snowflakes on her fingertips and watching in fascination as they melted upon contact with her warm skin. It was stunning, and she'd had no idea the TARDIS could do that!

“I can't believe you did that!” Donna laughed, staring up into the snowy sky in a flash of happiness that made Hartley think that maybe she was going to be okay after all.

“Oh, basic atmospheric excitation,” the Doctor replied flippantly, as if what he'd just done wasn't on par with a miracle.

Hartley took a moment to nudge his hip with hers, and he looked away from the snow to glance back down at her curiously. “Thank you, Spacewalker,” she said, warm with sincerity.

He smiled back, wide and easy, but she couldn't help but note the hint of tension in his eyes. There was something weighing on his mind. It could have been any number of things, but she got the feeling it had to do with her, and wondered what it might be.

“Merry Christmas,” Donna said from her place across from them. The pair of travellers broke their stare to look at her, the moment alight with an easy simplicity that Hartley hadn't expected, but welcomed all the same.

“And you,” the Doctor told her kindly. There was a pause, filled with a comfortable silence, one that made Hartley suddenly want to curl up under a warm blanket and fall asleep. “So, what will you do with yourself now?” he asked next, hands tucked casually into his pockets. Snowflakes drifted onto Hartley's face, getting caught in her eyelashes, and she smiled softly to herself as they tickled her cheeks.

“Not getting married, for starters,” Donna told them wryly. “And I'm not going to temp anymore. I don't know. Travel? See a bit more of planet Earth. Walk in the dust. Just go out there and _do_ something,” she said emphatically.

Hartley smiled, wise and familiar words coming to mind. “ _Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing at all_ ,” she recited gently. For once nobody asked her where the quote was from, but rather took it for the thoughtful advice it was. Donna smiled, a light in here eyes that Hartley wasn't sure had been there before. This was new – something _they'd_ given her, over the course of their time together.

“Well, you could always...” the Doctor trailed off, just a little bit awkward. Hartley looked away from where she'd been staring up at the sky to peer back at him with wide eyes. Surprise echoed in her chest. Was he suggesting what she thought he was?

“What?” Donna pressed curiously.

“Come with us,” he said it quickly, like ripping off a bandaid.

Donna smiled, the expression peaceful and knowing, and for a heartbeat Hartley thought she might say yes and wondered exactly what that might mean for them; for life aboard the TARDIS? What was life without Rose? What did that look like? She knew she'd have to face it eventually, and before now she hadn't factored someone new into the equation.

She liked Donna – loved her, even – but Hartley wasn't ready to let somebody back into their lives in that way. She wasn't ready to replace Rose, no matter how worthy the person may have been.

“No,” said Donna suddenly, calm and patient. Hartley blinked in surprise, the answer utterly unexpected. The Doctor flinched like he'd been struck.

“Okay,” he said.

Donna smiled sadly. “I can't.”

“No, that's fine,” he insisted, looking away uncomfortably, feeling a strange sting of rejection that Hartley didn't understand. Her gaze wandered over Donna, still cloaked in her pretty white wedding dress.

“No, but really,” she said, forcing the Doctor to meet her stare. He stilled, looking back at her with a vulnerability in his eyes that Hartley wasn't used to seeing from him. He was always so put together, always so strong. “Everything we did today,” Donna whispered. “Do you two live your lives like that?”

Hartley opened her mouth to reply, but the Doctor beat her to it. “Not all the time,” he lied. She frowned in disapproval, but Donna just smiled.

“I think you do,” she said softly. “And I couldn't.”

“But you've _seen_ it out there. It's _beautiful_ ,” he argued passionately.

“And it's _terrible_ ,” she countered. Hartley knew that, in their own ways, they were both right.

It was beautiful, and it was terrible, but wasn't that what life was? A compilation of beautiful things and terrible things? Life with the Doctor was just a magnified version of all of that, put onto an almost unimaginable scale. But she also knew, very well, that the travelling life wasn't for everybody, and Donna's answer was something she could absolutely accept. Respect, even.

Hartley wouldn't have had the strength to say no. She truly admired people who did.

“That place was flooding and burning and they were _dying_ , and you were stood there like, I don't know, a stranger. And then Hartley gets stabbed in the chest, and then she wakes back up again like she'd only just fainted, and then you made it _snow –_ I mean, you two scare me to death!”

Donna didn't know how much that last admission hurt the Doctor, but Hartley grimaced because she did. The Doctor didn't want to be feared, he never wanted that. “Right,” he nodded like it didn't matter. Hartley wanted to take his hand, but something stopped her.

Donna looked like she was contemplating something, and then she said brightly, “tell you what I _will_ do, though. Christmas dinner.” Hartley looked up eagerly at the mention of food, but the Doctor only gave a grimace of disdain. Two very contrasting reactions that said a lot about who they were as people. “Oh, come on, Grumpy Guts,” Donna goaded him, “Hartley's excited.”

The Doctor only shook his head. “Hartley's just come back from the dead, of course she's excited at the prospect of a free meal,” he said with an indelicate snort, before his expression dropped, “but I don't do that sort of thing.”

Hartley looked away, a frown wrinkling at her brow.

“You did it last year. You said so,” Donna countered stubbornly. Hartley hadn't been around that Christmas – still with Jack at the time – but the thought of a happy, lively Christmas at the Tyler flat sounded like everything she wanted and could never have again. She bit down on her lip to distract herself from the pain. “And you might as well, because Mum always cooks enough for twenty,” added Donna with a small laugh.

The Doctor was more than reluctant, Hartley could feel it like an extra pulse in her veins. He shut his eyes with a groan, before opening them and begrudgingly muttering, “oh, all right then. But you go first. Better warn them. And _don't_ say I'm a Martian, and maybe don't mention the immortal thing, either.”

“It tends to freak people out,” Hartley added in a conspiratorial voice. Donna gave a small laugh, and Hartley smiled back.

The Doctor pushed open the door of his ship, impatiently waving Hartley back inside, which probably should have been her first clue. Still, she obediently stepped inside the time machine, casting Donna another smile over her shoulder.

“We just have to park her properly. She might drift off to the Middle Ages. I'll see you in a minute,” the Doctor told Donna before slipping back in and shutting the door after him.

“Did you forget to put the parking break on?” Hartley teased, but his stoic expression didn't so much as twitch as he flipped the lever, the TARDIS' engines starting up with a wheeze. Hartley's face dropped in disappointment. “We're not staying for dinner, are we?” she asked sadly, somehow also not surprised.

The Doctor didn't respond, but from outside the ship Hartley could hear Donna's piercing voice screaming, “Doctor?! Hartley?! _Doctor_!”

With a frustrated huff the Doctor landed the TARDIS again, heading back for the door and pulling it open to stare out at Donna. Hartley hurried after him, ducking down and peeking her head out from underneath his arm.

“Blimey, you can shout,” he complained irritably.

Donna was smiling ruefully, and Hartley knew then that she understood, too. “Am I ever going to see you either of you again?” she asked, quiet and wistful, as though they were already gone.

The Doctor smiled. “If we're lucky.”

She smiled back. “Just promise me one thing,” she said, and Hartley nodded. “Stay together.”

Hartley smiled, but this time it was her that was rueful. “Don't worry, Donna. He's stuck with me,” she promised with a ghost of a grin on her lips, poking the Doctor affectionately in the side. He didn't return the gesture, instead pouting at the pair of them childishly.

“I _can_ survive on my own, you know?” he murmured sulkily.

Donna laughed lightly. “I don't doubt it,” she told him, not rising to the bait. “But you _need_ her, Doctor.”

Her words gave both of them pause, the pair staring at Donna in equal surprise and confusion. “What makes you say that?” the Doctor asked, sounding just to the left of defensive.

“Because she's not just 'Hart',” Donna said gently, speaking the words like they were a truth she could see written into their skin. Like it were something anyone with eyes knew about the pair. “She's _your_ Heart. The Heart of the Doctor. And I get the feeling that, now more than ever, you need your Heart by your side.”

It was all Hartley could do not to gape at Donna, who only smiled back peacefully. She'd never heard it put into those terms before, never heard it laid out with such simplicity.

All over the universe, people had called her by this – the Heart – as if it were a title rather than her actual name. The implications of it alone were a lot to handle, and Hartley got the feeling she hadn't yet full grasped what being the Doctor's 'Heart' meant.

“And maybe find someone else, too,” Donna added suddenly. Hartley looked up from the dusting of snow beginning to coat the street. Donna was smiling softly. “Because you've got a brain, you've got a heart, but I think you might also need a conscience in there somewhere as well – to tell you when to stop.”

The Doctor was silent, considering this just as deeply as Hartley.

“Yeah,” the Doctor said weakly, not quite a dismissal but certainly making no promises. “Thanks then, Donna. Good luck. And just...” he trailed off, a thoughtful grin spreading across his handsome face, “...be magnificent.”

“I think I will, yeah,” she said with a sure nod. The Doctor smiled again before ducking back inside his box. Hartley blew Donna an affectionate kiss before slipping back into the control room. “Doctor?!” Donna's voice bled through the doors again, before they could properly dematerialise.

The Doctor stormed back to the doors, poking his head out a final time in frustration. “Oh, what is it now?” he asked impatiently.

“That friend of yours,” Donna's words met Hartley's ears, where she was perched against the console, blood thick in her veins. “What was her name?”

Hartley shut her eyes, her chest giving a painful squeeze as the memory of shining blonde hair and the familiar sight of a tongue-touched grin danced from behind her lids.

“Her name was Rose,” the Doctor's voice was thick with emotion, and there was a final beat before the door creaked shut and the Doctor came back to the console, fiddling with the controls. Hartley rocked along with the TARDIS' movements, feet planted to keep from tipping over. The room shook as the ship finally dematerialised, leaving Donna behind on Earth to live her own wonderful, magnificent life.

She and the Doctor stood in silence, the floor rattling beneath them before it evened out as she assumed they materialised somewhere into deep space, where they wouldn't be disturbed.

Left in the quiet, Hartley couldn't help but think about how the Doctor had asked Donna to come with them. He'd actually offered her a place on the TARDIS – so soon after Rose? Literally a matter of hours? At the time she'd been too shocked to think about it properly, but now that she did, she was filled with a shock that echoed throughout her body like a lonely scream in a cavern.

The Doctor turned to her, and she was expecting him to comment on Donna, or maybe what had just been said between them all. Instead when she looked up his face was unusually pale and drawn. She stared back in surprise, taking in the pain in his eyes and the strange relief in his hearts.

“Doc?” she asked, eyes flickering over him, searching for an explanation for his emotions.

He seemed lost for words, staring back at her without speaking. “Are you okay?” he eventually asked, the question more whispered than it was spoken.

Hartley blinked, thrown by the question. “Why wouldn't I be?” she replied carefully.

He stared back at her with those sad, wide, ancient eyes, and Hartley felt her throat close up at the care reflected in them. “Have you really … _died_ ,” he stumbled over the word, grimacing like it left a bad taste in his mouth, “enough times now, that it doesn't bother you anymore?”

Shocked, Hartley didn't know what to think, or what to say. That worked out fine, because the Doctor wasn't done yet.

“You still feel pain, Hartley,” he said as if she wasn't already painfully aware. “It doesn't dampen it at all. You still feel every last morsel of pain that anyone else would when that happens to them.”

Hartley swallowed, suddenly too scared to blink for fear she might see flashes of crimson behind her closed lids. “I'm strong,” she said, but it was weak even to her own ears.

The Doctor's face twisted. “I know you are,” he said, and it sounded like he meant it. “But you're still _human._ ”

She looked away, reaching up to cup her hand around the bicep that had only just been shredded to pieces by the Empress a short hour beforehand. “What do you want me to say?” she asked, sincerely hoping he would tell her. She needed help to navigate the conversation. She didn't know where to go from here.

The Doctor's expression dropped. “I'm sorry,” he murmured, and she glanced up in stark surprise.

“For what?”

“That this happened to you again,” he said, fiddling absentmindedly with the console beneath him. “I couldn't stop it.”

Hartley turned away, gathering herself and her thoughts before speaking again. “I think I was given this ability for a reason,” she told him. The Doctor looked up, confusion strong in his hearts. “In this life – in _our_ life – there are going to be no-win situations. Not even _you_ can outrun them forever,” she said, giving a sad smile at the plain, ugly truth. “Having someone who can make the sacrifice … that's a blessing.”

“Don't call it that,” the Doctor snapped, and Hartley frowned at the strong reaction. “It isn't a _blessing_ ,” he continued on with all the same passion. She met his stare, and under the power of hers he seemed to wilt. “Hartley,” he said weakly, losing his momentum. “Today – there was so much … so much blood … and I couldn't, I couldn't get to you in time, and you just–”

“Died,” she finished for him, skin turning cold at the word. The Doctor winced like it hurt.

“Your body may have healed, Hart,” he said gently, “but you don't walk away from something like that unscathed.”

And he had a point. She'd be suffering plenty of sleepless nights because of what had happened today, but it was in the past. Nothing could be done about it now. It was her burden to bear, and she would do it with grace.

She didn't want to talk about it any more. She needed to think about something other than insectile hissing and the feeling of her heart, punctured and dead in her chest, mouth filling with blood. Rose had been right; space travel was tough. For some more than others.

“You asked Donna to come with us,” she said, the words spoken like a mere observation. To the Doctor's credit he didn't look shocked by the sudden change in topic. He just glanced down at the console, nodding his head calmly. “So soon after we lost Rose?” she asked, trying her hardest to understand. “You were really ready to just...move on?”

It wasn't accusatory, but rather almost innocent in its confusion.

The Doctor looked up, the gleam to his eyes suddenly strong, his earlier softness gone like a switch being flicked.

“That's life with me, Hartley,” he reminded her tightly, “it moves and changes and evolves and doesn't stop for _anyone._ ” Hartley stared back, surprised by the strength of his reaction. “People will come and go. That's how it's always _been_ ; how it always _will_ be.”

“Except for me,” she said, eyes on her scuffed, still-damp shoes, toeing idly at a scratch in the grating.

“What?”

She looked up, sheepishness gone in a flash. “I can't die and I can't leave, at least not permanently,” she reminded him back. “When I say you're stuck with me, I really mean _you're stuck with me_. And I'm stuck with you.” It wasn't said with bitterness, just the simplicity of a fact of life.

“Yes, well apparently that's how the Bad Wolf wanted it,” he murmured.

“But why?” she pleaded, asking the question that haunted her through space and time itself.

“I don't know,” he said, and that was the end of that.

Hartley swallowed, crossing her arms over her chest, struggling to come to terms with the new normal. “So, are we just supposed to forget her?” she asked him quietly. Their lost friend's name went unspoken, for which they were both relieved.

A sadness that lingered in the air between them, neither quite knowing how to fix it.

He suddenly stepped closer, ducking down in an attempt to catch her gaze. Reluctantly Hartley glanced up, meeting his warm, passionate eyes. “We may move on,” he told her sincerely, eyes shining with the promise of his words, “but we _never_ forget.”

Hope tingled at her skin. “Do you promise?” she whispered.

He didn't reply, but the resolved gleam to his eyes was answer enough. She nodded, smiling at him gratefully. From between them her stomach gave an impatient grumble.

“What do you say we stop somewhere and get some Christmas dinner of our own?” he suggested, back to his usual bright self, bounding away to begin piloting the TARDIS once more. “Growing your own heart back...you're going to need a _lot_ of extra calories to compensate,” he said, enthusiastically pumping a lever at his right.

“Are we going to find somebody else, then?” she asked. The last thing she wanted was to bring the mood down again, but there were still so many questions left unanswered. She needed to know what their new normal was going to be from here on out. “Go looking for a new companion? Someone to fill the empty spot on Team TARDIS?”

“Nope,” he replied, still seemingly cheerful as he answered, continuing to input data into the ship with a bounce in his step. “Thought we could travel a bit on our own; see what Hartley Daniels and the Doctor, in the TARDIS, are capable of.”

Hartley couldn't deny her bewilderment. “You don't need … someone else? Another companion?” she pressed.

He looked back up at her with a mischievous grin that took her by surprise. “You're enough trouble for three companions, let alone one,” he told her lightheartedly. “And besides – you're not just a companion any more, Hart. You're my friend – my _only_ friend. My _best_ friend, I suppose one might say,” he added like it were the next logical conclusion to come to.

It was potentially the nicest thing he'd ever said to her, and she sternly told herself that she was _not_ going to cry. He met her eyes, and his manic expression softened into something more sincere.

“We're going to be fine,” he told her, a promise she wasn't sure he could make, but she was grateful nonetheless.

Hartley smiled back, each word he spoke like another weight being lifted from the heavy pressure on her chest. “So it's Hartley and the Doctor versus the universe, then, eh?” she asked him slyly, in an attempt to cover any lingering heavy emotions.

The Doctor laughed, the sound sudden, loud and bright, and so without pain that it made her heart feel full to burst. “How about we start with dinner?” he suggested. “Then we'll see whether the universe wants to fight us after that.”

“It's a date,” she agreed cheekily, and with a little bounce of his toes he turned back to the controls with an eager gleam to his rich eyes.

“Go on then, Hart,” he offered her lightly. “Pick a restaurant, any in the whole of space and time!”

And Hartley had the feeling it was the start of something _epic._


	29. Grief-Stricken

**GRIEF-STRICKEN**

“ _No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.”_

C. S. Lewis

* * *

“I have an idea.”

The Doctor looked up from where he was crouched by the console, elbows deep in an array of multi-coloured wires. “Well, don't let me stop you,” he said distractedly, shoving the end of the sonic into his mouth as he attempted to tie the ends of two cords together with nimble fingers.

“I think I've decided on our next adventure,” she told him bracingly, and he reluctantly abandoned his task, taking the sonic from between his teeth and sitting back up, turning to stare at her expectantly. “I want to meet Jesus,” she blurted tactlessly.

The look on his face was so intensely hilarious, she wished she had a camera to forever capture the sight on film. “Jesus?!” he finally exclaimed, spluttering in his shock.

“Yeah,” she nodded, holding back a smile at his reaction. “Whether you're religious or not, it's a fact that the man himself _did_ exist. I want to meet him.”

“Well, you can't,” he deadpanned, recovering quickly and returning to his task.

Hartley frowned at the abrupt brush off. “Why not?” she asked, hoping it didn't sound like she were whining.

“Are you kidding?” he scoffed. “There are so many fixed points surrounding the guy, the TARDIS won't even be able to land in the same _country._ ”

“So you've never met him?”

He paused, and she perked up at his hesitation. “I never said _that._..” he trailed off warily. She knew an evasive answer when she heard one.

“You crafty alien,” she laughed, lifting her mug to her mouth and taking a deep sip of rapidly cooling tea. “Go on, then,” she prompted when he didn't move to elaborate. “What's he like?”

“Are you religious?” he asked, rather than answer her question, looking down at the mess of colourful wires in his hand.

The question was a heavy one, and Hartley had a feeling that no matter her answer, their conversation wasn't going to take a downwards slide. They were far too rational for that. She thought that the Doctor likely didn't put much stock in religion. But then again, he'd been known to surprise her in the past.

Cupping both hands around her mug, she carefully pondered her answer. “Mum always dragged me to church when I was growing up, but once I moved out I stopped going, except for midnight mass on Christmas,” she revealed, staring down into the deep black of her tea, mind in such a faraway time and place.

“So, you _do_ believe?”

Although it appeared his attention had strayed back to his self-appointed task of tinkering, he sounded genuinely interested in her reply.

“I'm...” she trailed off, realising with a start that she didn't actually have an answer. “I don't know,” she admitted nearly a full minute later, rapping her fingertip against the blue ceramic of her mug. It made a low tapping sound, like the steady thrum of a healthy heart. “It's kind of a loaded question.”

He hummed in agreement, pulling a comically large magnifying glass out of his bottomless pocket and holding it up to his project.

“What about you?” she asked, deciding to take time later to consider the answer to the question he'd posed. “Do Time Lords have gods?”

His fingers stilled at the question. She tended to stay away from the topic of his planet and people, but sometimes, when they were both in lighthearted, easygoing moods, her curiosity got the better of her. He recovered quickly enough, resuming his tedious work of reattaching the different wires on the ball sitting upon his lap.

“Not gods, as such,” he answered her, his voice even, like every word was carefully measured before it was spoken. She watched him, taking in the way he held his shoulders, tight and tense. Under her stare he made an effort to loosen up, but failed. “But _religions_ , sure,” he told her plainly.

“Religions? Like what?” she pressed, eager to learn more as she snuggled deeper into her robe and the soft material of the jump seat beneath her. It was early (and by that she meant she'd only just woken up), and she'd yet to even change out of her pyjamas, fetching herself tea and then wandering into the console room in search of her alien companion.

“For a while there, psychics and prophecy were a large contributor to the system,” he told her with a shrug, eyes trained carefully on his task. “But that didn't last long. Honestly, there were about as many different religions on Gallifrey as there are on Earth,” he added blithely, as if the words weren't knives to the gut. “They even had a few cults.”

That surprised her. “Cults?” Hartley repeated with a blink.

“Oh yeah,” he nodded vigorously. “There was this one – the Faction Paradox, they were called – and they pretty much just revelled in the art of a paradox. As you can imagine, this was considered almost _sacrilegious_ to the High Council; and for good reason. Had they been allowed to continue, they might have ended up imploding the universe,” he finished in something of a tirade.

“Bloody hell,” she mumbled, trying very hard not to think of how scary that seemed.

“What?” he asked curiously, fetching a spanner from the toolbox beside him and using it on the bolts at the bottom of the console.

“Well, just the thought that there are races out there with such power, and there are crazy people within those races who could very well _implode the universe_ ,” she said, the gravity of it not lost on her.

She would never think it was a good thing the Time Lords were gone, but at the same time, for one race to wield so much power... Perhaps, in a roundabout way, that was why they weren't alive. Because absolute power corrupted absolutely.

“It's a wonder we're all still standing,” she breathed, the words ringing with truth.

“If you think of it like that, you'll only drive yourself insane,” he told her in a reproachful tone. Taking another sip of her tea, she nodded her head even though he wasn't looking to see it, resolving to put it out of her mind. “So, Jesus aside _,_ ” he said with a narrow-eyed look in her direction, “anyone _else_ you've been dying to meet?”

Taking a moment to think, Hartley snapped her fingers as inspiration struck. “C.S. Lewis,” she told him brightly, already excited by the idea.

“Ah – a Narnia fan, are we?” the Doctor smirked widely.

“I have a Masters in English Literature, Doc,” she drawled, impish, exasperated smile flickering at her apricot lips. “Of _course_ I'm a Narnia fan.”

“Well then,” he crowed, giving a theatrical spin as he yanked the lever to send them sailing into the vortex. “Far be it for me to keep you from meeting the genius behind it all.”

He gave a bright laugh as TARDIS lurched to the side. The contents of her mug splashed to the grating below as it slipped from Hartley's hands at the unexpected pitch, but neither cared, just gripping on tight and riding out the journey. Finally the TARDIS stopped its trembling and that familiar mechanical wheezing evaporated, leaving them in a sudden silence.

The Doctor, who had fallen over some time during the ride, popped back up to his feet, already reaching for his signature coat and yanking it on over his electric blue suit. Hartley suddenly realised something was very different about the whole picture, her eyes snapping to the material of his suit, eyeing it with surprise.

“What?” asked the Doctor, pausing where he was adjusting his collar, eyes narrowed in confusion.

“You're wearing a new suit,” she said, brow knitted together as she struggled to decide how she felt about it.

“Thought I could shake things up a bit,” he sniffed, reaching up to tug at him ear, surprisingly sheepish. “Why, doesn't it work?” he asked warily, his free hand gripping absently at his mauve tie.

Quite the opposite, actually. Hartley found it worked almost _too_ well. She loved the contrast of the stark blue against his dark russet hair, warm brown eyes and pale skin. Suddenly everything about it was lovely, everything about _him_ was lovely. She noticed, for the first time, the smattering of freckles dusting his cheeks, and something in her warmed at the sight of them.

“Well, if it's _that_ bad, I can go change-” he began with a huff, taking her silence to mean she had a problem with it.

“No!” she exclaimed, possibly more loudly than what the situation called for. He seemed surprised by the conviction with which she'd responded. Clearing her throat, feeling wildly out of her comfort zone, Hartley reached up to run a hand through her loose, strawberry-blonde hair, tugging at the ends just for something to do with her fingers. “It's, uh, it's nice,” she said lamely. “Really suits you.”

The Doctor stared back at her without blinking for just a moment longer than usual, then a bright, shit-eating grin appeared on his face. “Was that a pun?” he asked cheekily.

Blessedly, the brief moment of awkwardness was over, and Hartley broke into a grin. “Whatever, Spacewalker,” she said flippantly, noting with a curl of satisfaction that he was still grinning back at her widely.

She found that she _liked_ that she was the one to put that smile on his face, more so than she probably should have. Before her thoughts could wander into dangerous territory she abruptly spun around and headed for the doors, her footsteps silent on the ramp.

“Where are we?” she asked just as she pulled open the door, sticking her head out and giving their new location a cursory glance.

They were on some kind of estate, with sprawling green grass and a large house standing before them, painted an off-white with pink detailing around the windows that Hartley found to be quaint. It wasn't devoid of life, however. There was some kind of event happening on the grounds, people spilling from doorways and spread out at tables dotting the impeccable lawn.

“Lewis' estate,” the Doctor answered her, his hand pressing gently to the small of her back, urging her to step from the TARDIS. The soles of her bare feet sank into the soft, muddy grass, still damp from that morning's rain. The sun was shining now, however, its rays glistening on the dewey earth. “Seems he's having a garden party.”

She jerked her elbow backwards, poking him in the gut gently. “Like you didn't know, you crafty blighter,” she said with an edge of sarcasm, glancing back to see him grinning that shit-eating grin once more, holding up his slip of slightly-psychic paper and waving it for her to see.

“Shall we go mingle?” he suggested. She was about to agree, only to suddenly pause, glancing down at her clothes with a grimace.

“I have to change first.”

“What's wrong with what you're wearing?” he asked, utterly oblivious.

Eyebrows raised, she regarded him with incredulity. “Doctor,” she began, slow and quiet, like she might speak to someone with a recent head injury, “these are pyjamas.” She pointed to the flannel sleep pants covered in tiny little bunnies, and the old _Rolling Stones_ teeshirt that still had a hole in the side from when she'd tried her hand at knitting. It hadn't gone well.

Sniffing indelicately, the Doctor's mouth twisted down. “Fine,” he sighed, as if she were an awful inconvenience. “Go on, then,” he prompted her, leaning back and pushing open his time machine's door, waving her through. “You have five minutes,” he added, but she didn't dignify that with a response, heading into the hallway and making a beeline for the wardrobe.

The TARDIS, the beautiful, wonderful machine she was, already knew the era Hartley needed to dress for and had brought forwards the 50's section of her endless selection. Working quickly, Hartley shuffled through her options until she found the first thing that she felt fit the occasion. Pulling out a simple blue and gold dress, she put it on, matching it with some kitten heels before moving over to the vanity and brushing her hair, smearing on some lipstick and mascara.

Finally she declared herself done and wound her way back through the TARDIS' maze of corridors until she found the console room, stepping back out into the unusually warm, Oxford afternoon.

“Eleven minutes, thirty-seven seconds,” the Doctor said with a disapproving tut, tapping his wrist where she knew no watch sat.

“I wanted to look nice to meet C. S. Lewis,” she said with a humph. “So sue me.”

The Doctor rolled his eyes and she gave a tinkling laugh as the door shut behind her. Her heels didn't fare well in the muddy soil, but she supposed it was a small price to pay for glamour. The Doctor held out his arm in invitation and without hesitation she wound hers through it, pulling herself into his side and allowing him to lead her onwards to the sizeable residence.

“You do, by the way,” the Doctor added as they walked, arm in arm, through an impressive collection of shaped shrubbery. Confused, she glanced up only to see his cheeks coloured with just the faintest touch of pink, like he were suddenly wildly out of his depth. “Look nice, that is,” he said, looking just about as uncomfortable as he sounded.

Smiling to herself, Hartley nudged his side in a warmly affectionate move, pleased when he didn't recoil from the gesture.

They had barely hit the edge of the party when a man in vintage waiting apparel approached, a polite but stern expression on his youthful face. “Excuse me, sir,” he began in a crisp British accent. “I'm afraid this party is invitation-only,” he said, looking too apologetic to be totally sincere.

“Good thing we have an invitation, then,” the Doctor replied, utterly unbothered as he held up the psychic paper and shook it to catch the man's attention. The waiter blinked in surprise, then frowned as he reached out and took it, flipping it open and scanning whatever he saw written there. His eyes grew wide, mouth dropping open in shock.

“Oh, gosh,” he said, suddenly a whole lot more genuine, handing the paper back and dipping into a ridiculous bow. “My most sincere apologies, my Grace. I did not recognise you,” he said to Hartley, still bent over in that absurd position.

Although completely and utterly bewildered, Hartley had been with the Doctor long enough now to know when to simply go with the flow, and so she smiled at the waiter kindly.

“Who do we have here?” a new voice interjected, a short woman with dark, salt-and-pepper hair and large, expressive eyes.

“Ms Davidman,” said the waiter in something of a squeak. “This is her Lady Hartley, Duchess of Scotland – and her travelling companion, the Doctor,” he introduced them with another low, pointless bow. Hartley might have rolled her eyes had she not been so distracted by the familiar face of the newcomer.

“My Grace,” said Davidman politely, dipping down into a respectful curtsy. “I'm-”

“Joy,” Hartley supplied before the woman even had a chance, an excited smile growing on her face. She was blind to the strange looks she was receiving for it, her attention focused on the groundbreaking author before her. “Joy Davidman, the poet and author of _Letter to a Comrade,_ ” she said, on the off chance Joy had forgotten who she was.

Joy gave a shy smile, a pink, watercolour blush appearing on her sharp cheekbones. “Not exactly the piece of work I'd have expected you to be familiar with, my Grace,” she said softly.

“Call me Hartley – please,” Hartley replied, grinning widely, heart thundering in her chest. “And I love poetry. That was your first published work, yes? I loved your use of sonnet-”

She didn't realise she was beginning to ramble, but the Doctor seemed to know the signs better than she did. He cleared his throat quietly but pointedly, and she broke off with an embarrassed cough, lowering her eyes as she gathered her cool.

“Anyway, this is my friend, the Doctor,” she continued, gripping his arm more tightly, as though to help ground herself to the earth.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Joy said, dipping into another curtsy. The Doctor opened his mouth like he wanted to argue against the formalities, but quickly closed it again, probably sensing it would only be pointless. “Might I ask why you've graced us with your presence today, Hartley?” Joy asked smoothly. Hartley had to bite back a smirk at the phrase used so commonly sarcastically – in her time, that is. From Joy's mouth, it sounded only full of grace and respect. Hartley once more marvelled at the beauty and magic of time travel.

She remembered suddenly that there was a question to be answered and turned to the Doctor expectantly. Instead of answering himself, she was surprised when he only nodded her to explain herself. Squeezing his arm tight, this time to convey her annoyance, Hartley turned back to Joy, fighting to keep her expression calm and innocent.

“We were in the area when we heard word of your gathering. You see, I'm a rather large fan of your hus-” she cut herself off abruptly.

Hartley quickly eyed the house and then did the math in her head, before finally determining that Joy and Lewis weren't yet a couple, saving herself from the awkward moment that surely would have followed such a mistake. Time travel 101, as the Doctor would say.

“Your _friend's_ work,” she said instead. “Is he here?” she asked, giving the crowd another hopeful scan.

“You must refer to Jack,” said Joy with a smile. The name was like a blow to Hartley's chest.

“Jack?” she croaked, voice suddenly hoarse with shock. Jack was here? How? Why?

“Oh, I suppose you wouldn't know,” Joy laughed sweetly. “It's something of a nickname he's acquired. You will know him better as C. S. Lewis – although I do think, if anything, he'd rather you called him Clive.”

“And where is good old Clive?” asked the Doctor brightly, speaking for the first time since they'd arrived, and Hartley felt silly for her momentary lapse of panic. Of course it wasn't her Jack – she chastised herself for getting so emotional over nothing. She glanced over at the Doctor to see him eyeing a passing tray of nibbles with interest. “Any chance we could have a word? Hartley would love a chance to discuss his work in detail.”

Joy glanced over her shoulder, scanning the crowd. “I think he's rather caught up in a discussion with John at the moment,” she said apologetically, and Hartley followed her line of sight to see two men chatting over a plate of sandwiches, easy smiles hanging from their lips. Hartley could have picked out their faces from a crowd a mile away, so used was she to seeing them in her textbooks.

Her grip on the Doctor's arm tightened to the point where he began to worry about blood circulation. “By 'John', you don't happen to be referring to J. R. R. Tolkien, by any chance?” he asked, voice holding just a hint of self-satisfaction as his eyes flickered over Hartley's form, tense in the good kind of shock.

“Ah, you're a fan of his work too, I take it?” Joy smiled.

“You could say that,” Hartley squeaked, beginning to feel dizzy. Was that normal? Was she going to pass out? When was the last time she ate something substantial?

“Ma'am! A word?” called a waiter from across the yard, and Joy gave a tired sigh.

“A host's work is never done,” she said with a good-natured smile.

“I thought this was Clive's estate?” the Doctor asked curiously.

“Oh, it is,” she nodded, still smiling, wide and kind, “but the man couldn't plan a party to save himself.” The waiter called for her again, and she gathered her skirts in her hand as she turned to leave. “I'll come find you again later,” she promised.

She disappeared through the thickening crowd, and the Doctor turned to look at Hartley properly. “You alive in there?” he asked playfully, reaching up to rap gently at her temple in jest.

“J. R. R. Tolkien and C. S. Lewis – some of _the_ most significant, genre-altering, _staple_ names in modern fantasy – are sitting _right over there_ ,” she told him in a hissed whisper, sure her heart would leap from her chest, it was beating with such fervour.

“And to think, we only came here to meet Lewis,” said the Doctor, and without looking up Hartley knew that shit-eating grin was once again in proud place on his mouth. “Two for the price of one,” he added, practically radiating smugness. “Tell me, are you terribly impressed?” he asked keenly.

“All right, Spacewalker,” she said, but the words were faint to even her own ears. “Colour me impressed.” They were silent for a moment, Hartley watching the authors and the Doctor watching Hartley. “Do you think it would be rude of me to go over an introduce myself?” she asked, a hopeful tinge to her tone. “As far as anyone here knows, I'm a Duchess, so it's not like they can be too mad at me for interrupting, right?” She paused, turning to cock her head at the Time Lord curiously. “By the way, Duchess? Really?”

“I just let the person reading it come up with whatever it was they need to see,” he explained, holding up his hands in surrender. “This one is all on him.”

Rolling her eyes, she turned back to the men sitting under the umbrella and chatting idly. “What should I say?” she asked, self-consciously running her hands down the length of her hair, suddenly having cold feet about the whole thing. “Should I even say anything? Maybe I should just observe from afar. You know what they say, after all: never meet your heroes.”

The Doctor rolled his eyes and gave her a tiny shove in their direction. She stumbled but regained her footing, turning back to shoot him a weak glare. “We didn't travel all the way through space and time just so you could hide in the bushes and watch them eat sandwiches,” he told her with a crinkle of his nose.

She knew he was right but still felt so overwhelmingly nervous, hands brushing invisible lint from the smooth material of her dress.

“Do you think they'll discuss their process with me?” she asked him, voice thin with nerves and subdued hope.

“Hartley, I think they'd discuss the price of fuel with you if it would make someone like you happy,” he told her, blithely honest.

Surprised, she turned back to look at him in befuddlement, only to find him eyeing a passing plate of nibbles with interest. She couldn't help the flush that appeared on her cheeks, skin turning a rosy pink at what she could only assume was a compliment. The Doctor didn't seem to realise the impact his words had had on her, merely picking up a small cake and eagerly tearing off the paper at the bottom, biting into it with childlike enthusiasm.

Shaking it off, Hartley turned back to two of her greatest literary heroes, squaring her shoulders as if preparing to walk into battle, head held high in an attempt to gain confidence.

She walked forwards, the humble heels of her shoes sinking into the dirt, but she didn't let that stop her. Lewis and Tolkien were chuckling about something or other as she approached, and she was vaguely aware of the Doctor trailing along after her, humming in contentment as he munched on his cupcake.

The two legendary authors stopped their discussion once she'd come to a stop beside their table, turning to look at her expectantly.

“Hartley,” she blurted, eyes wide with something that wasn't quite panic but certainly came close.

The two men exchanged a bemused look. “Pardon?” asked Tolkien politely.

“My name,” she said like a staccato rhythm, heart echoing the beat in her chest, “it's Hartley.”

The authors didn't seem to know how to react, but thankfully the Doctor swooped in, saving her from herself. “She's usually much more articulate, I promise you,” the alien said with a charming smile, holding out his free hand to shake. Lewis took it, giving an easy smile. “We're both very big fans of your work,” he continued, and their smiles grew. “I'm the Doctor, and this is my companion – Hartley Daniels, Duchess of Scotland.”

“Ah,” nodded Lewis with a fond smile, “Joy invited you, did she? She's always been eager to enlarge my circle of acquaintances.” Unsure how to respond, not even sure if she physically could, Hartley moved her head up and down in an imitation of a nod. “You're fans, then?” he continued with ease, holding up a small flute of champagne and taking a sip.

“Tell me,” began Tolkien before either of them could respond, an impish look on his aged features, “which do you prefer?”

“Oh, it's impossible to choose,” Hartley said instantly, eyes wide at the predicament she suddenly found herself in. “That would be like asking which parent I love more! Honestly, on one hand you have elaborate construction of a fantastical world, which I suppose both do just as well, though Lord of the Rings certainly has more of a fantastical element, but on the other one there's the ornate structure of the evangelism of Narnia, which is of course _unparalleled_ in modern fantasy as far as religious representation is concerned–”

“She could go on for days, honestly,” the Doctor interrupted her smoothly, and realising she'd begun to ramble for the second time in five minutes, Hartley pressed her lips together in embarrassment. Lewis and Tolkien didn't seem to know how to react to her outpouring of analysis.

“I studied literature in university,” she admitted meekly, the pink on her cheeks refusing to fade. “I've even written some fantasy novels myself.”

“Anything we might have read?” asked Lewis jovially.

“They haven't been published yet,” she told him, which was _technically_ true.

“You must write to me when they are,” he replied with a kind smile. Heart in her throat, Hartley could only nod her head in agreement, eyes wide in shock that this was actually her _life_. One of the greatest, most critically acclaimed writers in the _world_ was saying he wanted to read her work. She could have died of happiness in that moment – granted, it wouldn't mean much for someone like her, but the sentiment was there all the same.

She opened her mouth, no idea what she was going to say next but desperately hoping it would be something intelligent so they could continue the conversation. But before she could pull anything out of her sleeve, they were cut off by a high pitched scream from across the garden. Both Hartley and the Doctor leapt into action, whirling around in concern to see…absolutely nothing.

A woman wearing a fancy, ridiculous hat was stood in the middle of the party, one jewel encrusted hand held over her gaping mouth, the other shaking as she pointed it at a large, empty slab of grass. The partygoers, whom had fallen silent at the piercing scream, turned to one another and began to mutter amongst themselves, some even going so far as to laugh derisively under their breaths.

Hartley and the Doctor, however, knew that whatever was happening was no laughing matter. The Doctor was across the lawn before Hartley could stop him. She hesitated, torn.

On one hand she had the attention of two of her greatest literary heroes of all time, a million questions burning at her tongue; on the other, a disturbed woman who was clearly in desperate need of their help, as well as the tantalising lure of a new mystery.

Tempting as the first option was, she knew her decision was already made, turning to Lewis and Tolkien with a deeply apologetic grimace. “I'd better go sort this out,” she said reluctantly.

Lewis seemed bemused. “But it's my party,” he reminded her with an amused sort of grin, like he found something about her to be funny. She wasn't sure how to feel about that, but decided there were more important things at stake.

“But the Doctor's here,” she told him, unperturbed, a responding smile appearing on her painted lips. “So you'd best just sit back and let him work.”

Though the authors only grew more curious, Hartley knew she could spare no time, sending them her most confident smile before crossing the distance between herself and the Doctor, who was leaned over to be able to talk with the shorter, frightened looking woman without the gossipy partygoers overhearing.

“I saw it. I swear I did. I'm not crazy...” the woman was muttering, bordering on hysterical.

“I know,” he soothed her, unendingly patient. “But could you _describe_ what you saw, Mrs Butcher?”

Noting the group of nosy women in painfully bright gowns inching ever closer, eager for content to feed the local gossip mill, Hartley pressed a hand against the Doctor's shoulder. “This is perhaps a conversation best held somewhere a little more private?” she suggested quietly, giving a subtle nod towards the hovering women.

He followed her gaze and nodded, wrapping an arm around Mrs Butcher's shoulders and gently leading her away from the hoard of staring, whispering guests. “If you'll follow me, Mrs Butcher,” he said kindly.

“Ethel,” said a familiar voice, and they looked up to see a harried Joy approaching them, concern on her face. “I was inside when I heard you scream. What on earth happened?” she demanded, gentle yet insistent, blue eyes scanning the crowd as though she might be able to spot the culprit herself.

“I'm just taking her somewhere a little more quiet to find out,” said the Doctor calmly, his own eyes scanning the crowd but for an entirely different reason. _They_ knew the thing they was looking for was anything but human.

“And what authority do you have to do such a thing?” asked Joy, cocking a critical eyebrow.

The Doctor shot her a look of offence. “I'm the _doctor_ ,” he reminded her dryly. “I believe I'm more than qualified to look into the matter.” Hartley wondered whether that response was ever not going to work.

“I'm not crazy!” cried Ethel suddenly, her self-consciousness directed at a group of women in matching pastel gowns, all of whom were making no attempt to hide their mocking jeers.

“Nobody thinks you are,” Hartley assured Ethel without a moment's hesitation, but her tight expression never relaxed. Joy looked less than pleased by the Doctor's attempt to take care of the situation. “Go back out into the party, keep the guests calm,” Hartley suggested quietly, nodding her head to the large sea of partygoers, the scene beginning to make them all uneasy.

Joy seemed reluctant, but in the end knew that Hartley was right. “Keep me informed,” she said with a sharp bob of her head, turning back to her guests to begin damage control, beginning first with the group of pastel-clad women.

“Come on, Mrs Butcher,” said the Doctor gently, guiding her towards the doors of the large house before them.

The older woman was shaking, eyes darting around the lawn as if she expected something to materialise out of thin air and attack. Nothing ever did, and they got inside the house without incident.

While Hartley tried not to gawk at the antique furnishings and vintage book editions on the shelves, the Doctor led Ethel into the sitting room, guiding her into a seat that she collapsed into gratefully.

“Now, Ethel,” he said evenly, taking a seat on the coffee table and waving for Hartley over to a water station in the far corner. She got the idea, quickly pouring Ethel a tall glass to help calm her nerves. “Tell me what you saw,” said the Doctor patiently.

“I, I don't know how to describe it,” stammered the older woman, taking off her ridiculous hat to reveal a head of well-groomed, silvery hair. She took the glass Hartley offered, her hand shaking as she brought it up to her lips.

“Give it a go,” urged the Doctor kindly. “I promise we'll believe you.”

Bringing the glass down to her lap, Ethel took a deep breath, dark eyes flickering around the room in her anxiety. “It was...a demon,” she finally said, her trembling voice barely a whisper. Both Hartley and the Doctor had to lean in to be able to hear. “Something from hell. The devil's servant!”

Hartley cringed briefly at the particular memories that brought back, but fought to keep her attention on the situation at hand. No use living in the past – she needed to focus on the present. It was the only way they were going to get through this; she could feel it in her bones.

“What did it _look_ like?” the Doctor pressed.

Holding one of her jewel covered hands to her mouth, Ethel's milky eyes grew distant, thinking back to whatever it was she had seen. “It had four legs, like an animal, but they were long and malformed. Its snout...it was long, with teeth protruding. Like a crocodile. The skin was a dark, slimy brown, and there were large _spines_ poking out from its back, like some kind of monster _._ ”

The Doctor's expression was grim. “And where did you see it?”

Ethel breathed in shakily, eyes growing damp with the memory. “Just on the lawn,” she said weakly. “It seemed to be sniffing at one of the guests – but they couldn't see it! It was like it was hidden from view!” she continued, growing in volume with her panic. “Why was I the only one who could see it? Is it coming for me? Is this a punishment from God?!” she cried.

Taking a seat on the armrest of the chair, Hartley held a hand to the aging woman's shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. “It's okay, Ethel,” she said comfortingly, working to keep her calm. She wasn't sure what kind of damage a panic attack might inflict on the older woman, but she didn't intend to find out.

“Why would it be a punishment from God?” asked the Doctor, less concerned about her emotional state and more focused on the mystery that lay before them. “What have you done?” he pressed, sensing that whatever she had to say would add a piece to their growing puzzle.

Hartley shot him a sharp look, but he ignored it with ease. Ethel gave a tiny sob, those colourful hands pressing over her creased mouth again as she fought against her fear. It was clear she didn't want to say anything, leading Hartley to believe that, whatever it was, it was bad.

The Doctor stared at her, persistent and unyielding. Hartley could tell he saw some kind of connection between Ethel's secret and the monster she'd seen, and he wasn't going to let up until he figured it out.

But before Ethel could gather her courage enough to answer, there was another piercing scream from outside, the sound laced with panic. “Stay with her,” the Doctor ordered Hartley, already leaping across the room and making a beeline for the door.

As he disappeared outside Ethel whimpered like a child afraid of the monster in the shadows, leaning back in her seat. Her eyes swept the room like she was expected the creature to leap out from behind the sofa and devour her whole.

“I like this ring,” Hartley said conversationally, trying to keep the atmosphere light. She reached down, gently tapping the least ostentatious of all Ethel's jewellery. It sat on the ring finger of her left hand, small and gold with a plain, simple diamond resting in its surface.

“It was my wedding ring,” Ethel revealed in a quiet, subdued voice.

The use of the past tense didn't escape Hartley's notice. “What happened to him?” she asked gently, sensing an opportunity to distract the woman from her fear.

“He grew ill,” Ethel said, the words simple yet holding so much pain it was nearly blinding. “That was three months ago,” she added sadly, looking down at the simple ring with a still-fresh grief.

Hartley felt Ethel's sorrow as if it were her own, and she grit her teeth against the powerful sensation, trying everything to keep it from overtaking her.

The door down the hall opened and the Doctor reappeared, herding a tall man in a pristine suit inside the house. The man looked shaken, eyes wide as though experiencing shell-shock, walking almost on autopilot and allowing the Doctor to guide him into the sitting room.

“Robert,” said Ethel, sitting up straighter and eyeing the dazed looking man with concern. “Are you all right?”

“I saw it,” said the new man, Robert, in a hollow voice.

“What did you see?” asked Hartley, her keen blue eyes flickering between him and the Doctor, who was frowning deeply.

“A demon,” replied Robert tonelessly, but his voice still held conviction. He really believed that what he'd seen was a servant of Hell. “It was a demon.”

The Doctor looked away from where he was assessing the shaken man, meeting Hartley's eyes across the room. He jerked his head towards the door and she squeezed Ethel's hand before following him out into the entrance hall where they could talk without being overheard.

“What's going on?” she asked the moment they were alone, crossing her arms over her chest, her concern palpable. “Do you know what's happening?”

“No idea,” he replied, sounding utterly stumped and frustrated over the fact. “I've scanned the general area with the sonic, but I can't find a trace of anything even remotely suggesting the monster they're describing.”

“Maybe the sonic just can't pick it up,” she suggested. “It's only a screwdriver, after all, not a magic wand.”

He lifted a hand to his double hearts. “Don't knock the sonic,” he said in a tone of great offence.

Rolling her eyes, Hartley leant around him to see into the sitting room, checking on Robert and Ethel, both of whom were silent, staring into empty space like they were lost in thought, or perhaps just still overcome by shock.

“Why have only those two been able to see it?” she asked him, keeping her voice low.

“Still trying to figure that out.”

“Do you know what it is?” she continued, curious and slightly expectant. “From the description they gave you?”

He shot her his most unimpressed stare. “I'm not all-knowing,” he told her dryly.

Rolling her eyes, she slapped him playfully on the shoulder. “What now?”

He inhaled deeply, then let the air out in a heavy exhale. “I s'pose one of us stays here and keeps an eye on those two, and the other goes out into the party to keep on the lookout for another appearance,” he said with a nod, plan forming in his head.

“And I suppose _I'm_ going to be the one stuck on babysitting duty,” she said dryly.

The Doctor grimaced. “You're better with that lot than I am,” he replied, like it explained everything.

“And by 'that lot', you mean...?”

“Humans,” he said, like it were painfully obvious.

Hartley exhaled with a huff, rolling her eyes and doing everything she could to keep a smile from shining through. “Ah,” she nodded acceptingly, if not a little exasperated. “All right. Stay safe.”

The Doctor nodded his agreement and so she turned, heading obediently back into the sitting room where Robert and Ethel waited.

The front door opened and shut as he went back out into the thick of it, leaving Hartley to settle back into her spot beside Ethel. The older woman had her head bowed, and Hartley noticed her body was trembling slightly like it might if she were very cold, or very scared.

“Ethel?” Hartley asked gently, pressing a hand to her bony shoulders. Ethel looked up, tired eyes round with fear. “Are you okay?” Hartley asked quietly, rubbing her back through the thick, knitted material of her green shawl.

“What was it?” Ethel's question was more of a demand than anything, and the force of it made Hartley uncomfortable. What could she do, or say, that would make this any easier for her? Ethel knew Hartley knew more than she was letting on, which put Hartley in an awkward position. She didn't want to lie, but what other options did she have?

“It wasn't a demon,” she assured Ethel, knowing that to be true above all else.

“But what other explanation is there?” Ethel pressed stubbornly, her voice croaky with age.

_Extraterrestrial,_ Hartley wanted to say, but for the place and time period they were in, there was no way she was going to believe that, even if it was the truth. The people of the fifties were far more likely to accept it was a demon sent by satan than something from another planet altogether.

Sci-fi had yet to even get a foothold in the world as a genre. The closest it had come were works like H.G. Wells' _War of the Worlds,_ or Hal Clement's _Mission of Gravity._ Neither was a particularly good example of other life in the universe coming to Earth in peace.

When Hartley didn't reply, Ethel bowed her head once more, lips moving and hands clasped together in prayer. Sensing that the prayers were helping her to cope, Hartley turned her attention to where Robert was sat across from her, skin waxen and pale.

“All right, Robert?” she asked quietly, not wanting to interrupt Ethel's prayers but loath to be left in the stifling silence.

“It's finally come. My recompense,” he muttered in reply. He seemed to rock to and fro from where he sat, and Hartley was hit with such a sudden blast of emotion that it very nearly made her fall from her perch.

Swarmed by feelings of grief, she had to swallow back the emotions swelling in her gut, emotions she somehow knew weren't her own. It wasn't so simple to separate herself from them – surely much easier said than done.

She hadn't had much practice since she discovered her empathic abilities. Life had caught her up in its whirlwind – as it so often did with the Doctor – and there hadn't seemed to be time to learn more, to practice the range of her new _talent,_ as it were. She resolved to making time once this adventure was over and they were back aboard the TARDIS. She was beginning to feel like it was something she was going to have to master if she wanted to come out the other side of this universe intact.

“Recompense for what?” she asked Robert as gently as she could, swallowing back his feelings of sorrow before they could choke her.

Robert didn't reply, bowing his head much like Ethel had, content to wallow in his emotions. Withholding a sigh of frustration, Hartley stood from her perch, beginning to wander the room, curiosity brimming.

The room they were in was lined by bookshelves, thick tomes of muted colours sitting in pride of place, where they could be clearly seen. An excitement pinched in her gut, one that was entirely her own, and she moved over to the largest bookcase, reaching out to gently trail her fingertips over the spines.

She spied some incredibly familiar titles among them, and couldn't smother the gasp that escaped her lips.

_The Catcher in the Rye, East of Eden, Charlotte's Web, Fahrenheit 451..._ She stopped at one book in particular, unable to help herself as she gently wiggled it free of its place.

It was a hardcover copy and by her estimation, it was barely a few months old. She trailed her fingertips across the cover, tracing them over the elegant black script reading, _Lolita._ It was one of the more controversial works of the period, and though not her favourite an exceptionally well-written book.

She held it like it were made from crystal, knowing it was more than just simply a first edition – it was one of the first copies ever _printed._

That was how the Doctor found her later on, leant against the antique bookcase, her eyes wide with wonder as she gently turned the pages, tracing her eyes down the beautiful, familiar words, reading them for what was probably the thousandth time.

“Should've known you'd start cracking open books,” he drawled as he gently guided a younger man, probably about Hartley's age, deeper into the room. He was pale and shaking, his eyes wide with horror.

“This is one of the first _ever_ printed copies of _Lolita,_ ” she informed him, never lifting her eyes from the pages. “You can't expect me _not_ to indulge.”

“Yes, well, there are slightly more pressing matters at hand, wouldn't you say?” he countered, sitting the terrified bloke into the remaining armchair before scanning him with the sonic as a precaution.

“Hm,” she hummed back, barley paying a lick of attention.

“Hart,” the Doctor tried again, a sort of fond exasperation dripping from his voice. “Giant, invisible monster on the loose, remember?” Regrettably, she knew he was right. With a huff she delicately closed the book, reluctantly sliding it back into place on the shelf. “I'm sure Lewis will let you read to your heart's content once we save his garden party from this alien.”

“ _Alien_?!” squawked the new victim.

The Doctor shushed him and he fell obediently silent, slumping back in his seat, a look of abject terror marring his pale face. Hartley was again slammed with feelings of secondhand guilt, and she frowned, rubbing a hand across her sternum as though she might be able to physically ease the pain growing there.

The Doctor waved her over to his corner, where a grand piano sat gathering dust. Standing on its other side, the two began to talk in low tones that the others wouldn't be able to hear.

“Have you managed to find it yet?” Hartley asked him softly.

“Whatever it is, I still can't see it,” he replied, shoving his sonic back into his pocket.

Hartley pulled back one of the heavy curtains to get a peek outside. None of the other partygoers seemed to think anything was amiss, chatting obliviously over plates of sandwiches and glasses of sparkling cider. “What do they think is happening?” she asked, eyes darting to a far table where Lewis sat with Tolkien and Joy, the only three who seemed to be frowning, concerned by what was happening around them.

“Heatstroke,” he told her, leaning in close to get a look outside himself.

“But it isn't even that hot outside.”

“Humans: they'll believe anything if you sound like you know what you're talking about,” he replied in his usual, know-it-all tone, and Hartley looked up only to bite back a gasp at how close she suddenly found him. His face was barely a hair's breadth away from hers, his lovely lips curled up into an impish smirk. Pulse stuttering at their close proximity, Hartley's eyelashes fluttered, and he turned away from the window to look at her.

His eyes were earthy and bright, alight with excitement from the mystery surrounding them. He didn't blink, staring back at her, seemingly as caught up in her gaze as she was in his. She felt like she could barely breathe, the air disappearing from the room, leaving her frozen in that one heart-stopping moment.

Then Robert gave a loud cough from across the room, and the pair of travelling companions sprung away from one another like they were caught doing something they shouldn't.

Hartley self-consciously ran her hands down the length of her dress, then reached up to run her hands through her hair. The Doctor had already turned away, heading for the three victims in the sitting room with a renewed enthusiasm.

“Why you three, eh?” he asked loudly, as though to cover the blunder that had just occurred. “Why is it that only you _three_ have seen this thing?”

None of them had an answer, staring up at the Doctor with wide eyes. They watched wordlessly as he began to pace the room, words pouring from his mouth like an unstoppable torrent.

“Could it be some sort of psychic episode? A mental link the creature is creating? But then why you? What's different about the three of you? Do you all know one another somehow? Are you connected in any way?”

The last question was actually aimed at them, and they blinked in surprise when he fell silent, staring at them all expectantly. “I know Ethel,” said Robert slowly, before turning his eyes to the most recent of the trio, “but I can't say I know this gentleman.”

“Douglas Leonard,” the younger man said, just a little shaky as he held out a hand. Robert took it with a weak but polite smile.

“So you _don't_ know one another – that isn't the connection,” the Doctor muttered, turning away and continuing to pace. “What else is there?” He turned, the movement sharp and jerky. “What do you do for a living?”

“I'm the State Governor,” said Robert with a prideful lift of his chin.

“I'm an intern at Clive's publisher's house,” said Douglas, shrugging.

“I'm simply a widow,” finished Ethel, tears appearing in her eyes beady, which led Hartley to believe it was recent title she'd acquired. She felt another wave of that same guilt-fuelled grief and struggled to keep it under control.

“Okay, so it isn't your jobs, either,” muttered the Doctor, spinning on his heel again and resuming his pacing. This time he came towards Hartley, brow furrowed as he fought to solve this latest puzzle. “Hartley, could you go out and speak to Joy? See if there's anything she can tell you about these three? Being that she put this party together, maybe she'll know something we don't.”

Hartley nodded, shooting her most gentle smile at the bemused victims before heading back out into the sunshine.

Joy, Lewis and Tolkien were still sat at their table, conversing in undertones while they kept one eye on the partygoers around them, watching out from any more signs of trouble.

“I'm sorry to interrupt,” Hartley said awkwardly once she'd approached, and they stopped talking to turn and look at her.

She felt warm under the weight of their renowned gazes. Her literary heroes were right here, staring her in the face, and again words began to fail her. She cast a look over her shoulder at the house where the Doctor remained with the others. There wasn't time for her to have her fangirl moment. They needed to figure this out – preferably _before_ somebody got hurt.

“I was wondering if I might speak to Joy for a moment?” she asked, glad the words all came out in the right order.

“Of course,” said Joy, standing to her feet and squeezing Lewis' shoulder in affectionate farewell before following Hartley across the lawn. The sun was in her eyes so Hartley turned her back to it, stopping a fair distance away from the others, where they wouldn't be overheard. “What's happening, then?” asked Joy sharply once they'd stopped, impatient concern layering her tone.

She was responsible for the people at this party, and Hartley got the feeling she didn't trust what she didn't understand. Hartley knew she could only thank her faked credentials for getting her this far.

“We don't know, exactly,” she admitted slowly. Joy's eyes narrowed, more with concern than consternation, much to Hartley's relief. “We're working on it, though. I was actually hoping you could tell me more about Ethel, Douglas and Robert. Do they have anything in common?”

“In common?” parroted Joy, perplexed by the request. “Why?”

“We're trying to determine why it's only these _three_ guests who have been effected,” she said, casting a glance back to the window where she knew the Doctor to still be talking with the victims. She couldn't see him from where she was standing, but she felt a sense of comfort knowing he was only just behind those curtains.

“Effected?” Joy asked in a higher pitch. “Effected by _what_?”

For a moment Hartley wasn't sure what to say. Did she lie, say it was some sort of gas? Tell the truth and bring aliens into the equation? Something told her neither was the way to go.

“Think, Joy,” she said instead, electing to ignore the question all together, “is there anything at all that connects them?”

Huffing in frustration, Joy didn't look happy with the avoidance tactic, but nonetheless she finally answered the question. “No, nothing that I can think of,” she told Hartley, shoulders slumped as she cast the house a look of worry.

Hartley decided to try a different approach. “Why don't we start somewhere else?” she suggested. “Why did you invite each of them here today?”

Joy's features pulled down into a thoughtful frown. “Well, Ethel used to babysit my children for me, and her husband of fifty years only just passed away, so I thought this would get her out of the house,” she began slowly. “Douglas is a sweet lad, he doesn't have many friends, and he's living on his own for the first time since his mother-” Joy cut herself off abruptly, and Hartley leant in, round eyes imploring her to continue. “I think there _is_ a connection between them all, actually,” she whispered, looking suddenly haunted.

“Yes?”

“They've all lost someone recently,” said Joy weakly. “Ethel, her husband; Douglas, his mother; and Robert, his niece.”

The knowledge that they'd lost someone was like an ache to Hartley's chest, because it hit a little too close to home. The memory of a scream reached her ears, the sound echoing from the past, when she'd lost one of the most important people in her life. Before she could lose herself in the painful memory, there was a flash of something dark from the corner of her eye. Hartley whipped around with a stab of terror in her chest, hands held up as if to shield her face from an attack.

“Hartley?” asked Joy, voice cool with confusion. Hartley stared at the empty patch of lawn, trying to recall the shapeless thing back into being. But whatever she'd seen, it was gone now. Swallowing thickly, Hartley felt her hands begin to tremble and curled them into fists to try and stop it.

“I thought I saw...” she trailed off, unsure how that sentence was going to end. What had it been? She wasn't confident enough in what she'd seen to even make a guess. Her skin began to prickle, suddenly feeling as though she were being watched. “It's nothing,” she said rather unconvincingly, twisting her hands together and turning her attention back to Joy. “You said they'd lost someone recently?” she asked, the strength in her voice wavering. “So, they're all experiencing grief, then?”

It certainly lined up with the emotions she'd been picking up on all day. All that grief finally had a source, a reason for being. But where did the guilt come in?

“Haven't you ever lost anyone?” asked Joy sadly. The words evoked an intense wave of grief that hit her like a tsunami.

Again that phantom ache appeared in Hartley's gut, the sensation of missing Rose much like she imagined it would be like to miss a limb. She heard a sudden, animalistic snort from somewhere to her right, and Hartley spun around hands outstretched, only to find nothing there once again.

“Hartley?” repeated Joy, watching the woman she believed to be a Duchess with caution.

Feeling strangely dopey all of a sudden, Hartley turned back to Joy and rearranged her features into an apologetic grimace. “Sorry, I think the heat might be getting to me,” she lied, gesturing up to the sun. Its heat was beating down on them, hot and unrelenting, but it was bearable.

Joy looked skeptical. “It's happening to you too, isn't it?” she asked knowing, concern shining in her kind eyes.

“No,” Hartley lied instantly, an instinct born of self-preservation. She didn't want to give anyone cause to think she was losing her mind. “No, I'm sure it's fine,” she said, feeling about as unconvinced as Joy looked.

“Hartley!” the Doctor's voice appeared, and she spun to look at him, watching as he hurried away from the TARDIS, where he'd evidently just been. He was clutching a small pile of thin white poles, like comically large chopsticks. “With me!” he called as he jogged, heading around the side of Lewis' grand house.

“I'd better go see what he wants,” Hartley said to Joy as evenly as she could manage when her skin itched and prickled with the weight of unseen eyes. “Why don't you go and make sure the others in the sitting room are all right?” she suggested. Although she looked reluctant to agree, Joy nodded, understanding on a base level that it was best to leave the mysterious duo to their work.

Once she was sure Joy was gone, Hartley hurried quickly through the slowly drying grass. The Doctor had disappeared around the back of the large home, and she burst into sight, only to be pulled to a stop when she found the Doctor shoving the oversized chopstick-like objects into the soft earth, much like markings at an archaeologist's dig site.

Good, she thought, he had his tech and his wits about him – clearly he knew what was going on, and exactly how to fix it.

“What's the plan?” she asked him with a small sigh of relief, stepping closer to watch him work.

“ _You're_ the plan,” he replied abruptly.

It certainly wasn't what she'd been expecting him to say, and it took a few seconds to fully sink in, but even then she didn't actually understand what he meant. “What?” she asked, wondering if it were possible that she'd heard wrong.

The Doctor moved over to where she was standing, taking her shoulders in his hands and gently steering her into the middle of the large square he'd made with the markers. “You're going to need to tap into your empathy, Hartley,” he said as he positioned her in the very centre. His fingers squeezed her shoulders before he took several large steps backwards, so he was out of the boundaries of the square.

“Use my empathy?” she echoed, feeling more dumb than ever.

“Focus on the feelings of guilt swarming the estate,” he told her hurriedly, pulling the sonic from his jacket pocket and beginning the scan the area at large, the device letting out that small, comforting buzz that she had grown so familiar with.

“Guilt?” she repeated, heart beginning to race from the pressure. He didn't answer her, focusing on his work. She was beginning to get the feeling that something was seriously wrong, and that fixing it was a time-sensitive task. “But I don't know how it works,” she said quickly, making sure he knew she wasn't in any way qualified for this large a responsibility. “I don't know how to control it yet!”

The Doctor didn't look up. “Well, you're going to have to figure it out,” he replied rather dispassionately. Confused by his sudden coldness, Hartley shifted her feet so the tips of her heels sank into the soil.

“And what's the plan, exactly?” she pressed, feeling so far out of her depth she was scared she might drown.

“The creature, whatever it is, it can only be seen by those who feel immense guilt,” he explained impatiently, distracted as he fiddled with the settings on his screwdriver. “You're an empath – albeit a young one – you have the most capacity for emotion out of everyone here.”

“So?”

“So, you need to tap into the guilt circulating the guests, then you'll be able to see this creature. It'll come looking for you – like a shark smelling blood in the water – and once it steps inside of this boundary, the markers will be able to sense its internal metabolic frequency and use a field to not only make it visible, but also capture it. Like a butterfly in a net.”

Hartley stared at him. “Which is it?” she demanded shrilly. “A shark or a butterfly?”

“The important thing is that you lure it here,” he said without answering. She didn't miss the blatant deflection, but she figured there'd be time to berate him for that later.

“And then?” she asked with a sinking dread.

The Doctor's expression was grim. “And then you run.”

Hartley swallowed. “Won't this trap me in with it?” she asked with a nod down at the white poles fencing her in.

“No, it should only trap the creature.”

“ _Should_?”

“We don't have time for this, Hartley,” he said, unnaturally harried. She said nothing, and finally he looked up from his task, meeting her eyes with a level, confident stare. “You'll be fine.”

She didn't want to agree – in fact she wanted to run far, far away, change her name and live out her life as a peaceful cotton farmer – but she knew in her heart of hearts that she couldn't let her fear get in the way of what needed to be done. Even if she _wasn't_ an Empath this would have been the most rational choice. She was immortal, so whatever happened to her wouldn't matter in the grand scheme of things. It was better to risk herself over risk anyone else, of that much she was certain.

“Okay,” she nodded, agreeing even without fully understanding what it was she was agreeing to do.

“Focus on the guilt you feel coming from inside,” he said as if reading her mind. The sonic was aimed in her direction, making her feel just that little bit safer. “Tap into that feeling and amplify it as much as you can. I want you to broadcast it on all frequencies.”

“You make it sound so easy,” she grumbled under her breath, but the Doctor still heard, his lips twitching upwards at the corners. The expression was gone before she could prove it was there.

Hartley didn't indulge in looking long. She shut her eyes and tried her best to turn off all the sound in her brain. She vaguely knew what she had to do, but it was all very much theoretical. Taking a deep breath, she let it out on a sigh, rolling her neck and relaxing her shoulders. She could do this. She would be okay.

Eyes still closed, she struggling to latch onto emotions that weren't her own. It was like an abyss, deep and dark and totally empty. Why was it she could only do this when she didn't _want_ to?

Opening her eyes, she frowned at herself. “I don't know how,” she said with a helpless shrug. The Doctor looked away, turning to the side so she couldn't see his expression. “I'm sorry,” she told him, voice small and laced with disappointment in herself.

From around the other side of the massive house there was a high-pitched scream, the monster having made another appearance. The Doctor turned back towards her, a renewed determination in his molten chocolate eyes.

“It's your fault,” he suddenly spat, the words burning like venom.

“Excuse me?” she asked in pure bewilderment, stunned by the sudden 360 he'd taken.

“Rose is gone because of _you_ ,” he told her, a malevolence in his voice that shocked her. His words hit Hartley like a slap, and there was a hostility in his eyes that burned at her own. “Because you decided to save _yourself,_ rather than her.”

She knew exactly what he was doing – she was far too smart not to – but the words were preying on her every insecurity about that fateful day at Canary Wharf, preying on the guilt that had welled inside of her ever since. It ate at her, stewed in her insides and made it difficult to sleep or to eat. The remorse was eating her alive, and that was only her _own_ ; the Doctor saying these words was the source of her every nightmare since. She couldn't bear the thought that he might think those things too, that he might hold it against her in the worst of ways.

Tears came to her eyes, and she whispered, “stop.”

“Rose is lost to us forever because you were too concerned with saving your own skin,” he spat viciously.

“Please don't do this, Doctor,” she pleaded with him, feeling her body tremble with emotion, entirely her own.

“She's gone and I blame _you_!” he shouted. “And you should blame yourself too!”

She did blame herself, every day, but that wasn't nearly as bad as hearing the _Doctor_ blamed her too. There was something not quite right about the whole thing, though. She'd felt guilt all day – from the moment she'd left Canary Wharf she'd felt guilt, and every moment since – so shouldn't it have attacked her long before now?

Hartley suddenly remembered what she'd learnt from Joy – the thing everybody had in common wasn't _guilt_ , it was _grief._ Sometimes the two were hard to tell apart, because sometimes they were so interwoven together that they became one emotion.

With a truly remarkable control over her emotional state, Hartley purged the guilt from her system, replacing it with the easily accessible grief she felt every day. The grief poured through her veins, hot and uncomfortable, making her skin itch. A warm tear trailed down her cheek, and from the other end of the yard she heard a vicious snarl.

Whipping around, Hartley was met with a truly grotesque sight.

It was alien, of course, but Ethel had been right in claiming it looked like a dinosaur. It was on four legs, a dark grey in colour, skin covered with a light coating of slime. Its jaws were long and encrusted with too many teeth to count, much like how she might imagine a prehistoric crocodile to look. Its stature was bony and skeletal, with massive, jagged spines poking out from its angular back. They dripped with some kind of fluid, a threat if she'd ever seen one. She knew now why the others in the sitting room looked so terrified for their lives.

Its eyes were large and the deepest black she'd ever seen, and they were focused solely onto her.

The alien and the immortal stared off for a long moment, everything perfectly, unsettlingly silent, not even the breeze through the trees making a sound, and then it began to charge at her.

“Stay still, Hartley!” shouted the Doctor as he saw her prepare to move. “Don't move until it's in the boundary!”

Swallowing around her painfully dry throat, Hartley forced her legs to lock into place, every muscle in her body tensing, preparing for the worst.

Death by giant, alien dinosaur – that would be a new one.

Her heart was beating so fast it hurt, and it seemed to be keeping time with the creature's footfalls, loud and quick on the lawn. It grew closer and closer, moving faster than she would have thought it could. She wasn't trembling anymore, instead torturously still. Even her ability to think had been frozen. She was waiting for her fight of flight to kick in, but instead she just remained rooted to the earth, unable to react in any way other than a small squeak that came from somewhere deep in her chest.

It was practically on top of her when that familiar voice yelled, “ _Hart_!”

Like a switch had been flicked Hartley leapt to the side and out of the monster's path. She hit the ground hard, rolling out of the way, barely escaping in time.

The creature gave a loud roar, the sound seeming to vibrate the very ground beneath her, and she stared up at the clear sky, struggling to catch her breath after having stopped breathing altogether.

There was a long pause filled with the creature's furious snarls as it came to understand that it was caged. Then the Doctor's face swam into view, his hands gentle as he grasped her arms, working to slowly bring her up into a sitting position.

“You did it,” he said, the maliciousness now gone from his voice, as if it had never existed. She still felt the sting of it, the ache it left behind in her system. She wondered whether it would ever heal. “Hart?” he pressed, ducking his head to catch her vacant stare.

She blinked, coming back to the moment. She met his eyes and he seemed relieved when he saw her focus on him properly, finally coming out of her own head.

“You're okay,” he said, but she wasn't sure for whose benefit it was meant to be. It certainly didn't make her feel any better. “I've got to take care of the creature – but I want you to go inside and get some water, okay?”

“I want to help,” she argued stubbornly, fighting to climb to her feet.

He knew a lost cause when he saw one, wrapping an arm around her waist and helping her upright. She staggered once on her feet, the world tilting on its axis, but then it realigned and she got her footing back. The Doctor didn't immediately let go, holding onto her tight, his arm a strong, reassuring weight around her waist.

She turned to look at the creature, only to find it missing. Hands braced on the Doctor's shoulders, Hartley stared at the empty square of grass. “It's gone!”

“No,” he replied, nodding his head at the white sticks embedded in the lawn, little lights on top blinking a dull red. “See, it's still there. You're just not feeling guilty anymore, so you can't see it.”

“You were wrong,” she said before she could censor herself. The Doctor, still holding her close, looked down in confusion. “Guilt wasn't the trigger,” she told him evenly. “It was grief.”

The look that appeared in his eyes was unfathomable, perhaps remorse for his words? She didn't take the time to ponder it, instead gently extracting herself from the Doctor's firm grip. He let her go, hands hovering in mid air for a beat before he dropped them, leaving them hanging uselessly at his sides.

“I'm going to go tell Joy to send everybody home,” she said. “Perhaps wait until the party is cleared about before you make that thing visible? You don't want to scare the humans.”

“Right,” he nodded, and she attempted a smile before turning and rounding the side of the large house. The smile melted from her face like butter in the sun the further was walked from the Doctor, replaced by a blank stare and a lingering pain that she wasn't sure would ever properly go away.

* * *

The yard looked so much bigger with all the guests gone, Hartley mused as she walked through the large house – really more of a vintage mansion – with Joy. The older woman was quiet as they collected Ethel, Robert and Douglas. None of them wanted to leave the illusion of safety that the sitting room provided, but Hartley was eventually able to convince them to follow her, one arm wrapped around securely Ethel who trembled as they stepped out into the golden afternoon sunlight.

The Doctor stood beside the boundary line, fiddling with a large chunk of metal he held in his hands. Hartley hadn't seen it before, and figured he must have gone to fetch it from the TARDIS while she was busy.

“Ah, good, you're here!” he called as they approached, the humans all eyeing the area hesitantly, as though expecting the creature to leap out from behind a rose bush and attack. “Don't worry, she's perfectly contained. I'd just recommend you didn't step past these two white sticks.”

“Contained?” asked Ethel in her croaky voice.

“ _She_?” added Robert in contemptuous confusion. “How can it be a _she_?”

“Easy, she's not a _he_ ,” the Doctor replied without hesitation, smiling at them all brightly. “Though, to be fair, I never stopped to ask – I really shouldn't go around assuming things like that, gotten me in trouble on more than one occasion-”

“Doc,” Hartley interjected, stopping him from going off on a tangent as he so often did.

“Right,” the Doctor cleared his throat. “Well, she can't escape, at any rate.”

“What are we talking about?” demanded Tolkien, who stood off to the side with Lewis, both of them looking more than slightly bewildered. “ _What_ can't escape?”

“Shall we take a look?” the Doctor asked them with that eager, borderline maniacal glint to his brown eyes. Lewis and Tolkien shifted uncomfortably, wondering what could possibly be happening to evoke such a reaction.

The others couldn't have possibly wanted this less, but they probably sensed that arguing would get them nowhere, and agreed. Perhaps there was an element of dark curiosity in there as well. If Hartley hadn't already gotten a good look at the creature, she'd have probably wanted to see what it looked like too.

The Doctor pulled out his sonic with his free hand, and it buzzed at a high pitch for a few moments before the space inside the trap wavered, like the air off the road on an extremely hot day. The monster came shimmering into view before them, and the humans all gave shouts of terror at the sight of it.

Hartley stared at the creature in consideration. She was calm now, laid on the ground but appearing uncomfortable, almost like an elephant lain on its stomach. She didn't seem to see any of them, content to tug on some of the long grass growing within her cage, almost like she were playing a game with herself.

“What _is_ that thing?” demanded Robert weakly, and when Hartley glanced over at him, she saw Douglas holding him upright. The poor guy looked about to faint at the sight before him.

“No idea,” the Doctor responded cheerfully.

“What _do_ you know?” pressed Hartley, not wanting anybody to get any more frustrated than necessary. “Is she alien?”

“Alien?!” exclaimed Lewis. “As in _extraterrestrial?_ That isn't possible!”

“She's alien,” confirmed the Doctor, shooting Lewis a sympathetic glance, the aging writer looking about ready to face-plant into the shrubbery in his shock. “She doesn't communicate verbally,” he continued, turning to grin at Hartley widely, “she's an Empath.”

Weight settled in her stomach like a bowling ball, and Hartley let go of Ethel's hand to step closer to the Doctor. “What's she doing here?”

“My best guess is that she's lost, probably got separated from the others.”

“Others?” asked Joy weakly.

“Obviously,” replied the Doctor, “near impossible for an Empath to survive on their own. They need emotional contact; particularly that of their own kind.”

“Why was it attacking us?” asked Douglas, still holding up a weak looking Robert. “Why were _we_ the only ones who saw it?”

“ _She_ feeds off of emotion,” explained the Doctor patiently. “You've all recently lost somebody dear to you, you're all feeling grief.” The humans all nodded, showing they were following. “She's grieving too, she's all alone, she misses her kind. So, when your emotional frequencies met – when you both felt the strongest sense of grief – she became visible.”

“Why wasn't she visible the whole time?” asked Hartley, noting that the creature's eyes had shut, like she were trying to get some rest. Now that she thought about it, the alien even _looked_ sad. Body language wasn't quite as easy to read in a creature like her, but she was slumped over, much like a sad, defeated child.

“She exists in a parallel dimension.”

Eyes going wide and spine snapping straight, Hartley turned to the Doctor in shock. “Like Ro-”

“Not a parallel _universe_ ,” he shook his head, stopping her before she could properly voice the question. “A parallel _dimension._ The world exactly as it is here and now, only on a separate frequency, just slightly out of phase with us – one rarely so easily accessed,” he mused, turning back to look at the creature with a curious eye.

“So how do we kill it?” asked Robert, a stony grimness to his tone.

“We don't,” snapped the Doctor immediately, turning the full power of his glare onto the man, who seemed to shrink into himself under the reproachful stare.

“It _did_ try to kill us,” said Ethel hoarsely. She was frowning, eyes glistening with emotion.

“She was scared,” argued the Doctor. “She couldn't see _you_ until you met frequencies either. Believe me, she was just as terrified of you.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” murmured Douglas, and Robert gave a grunt of agreement.

“She's _still_ scared,” said Hartley strongly. She knew in a way no one else could, a thrumming deep in her soul that told her what the creature was feeling. Her pain was thick, and Hartley's eyes stung with the force of it. The others fell silent, staring at her. “She's terrified, actually. And lonely.”

“And how d'you know that?” asked Joy, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“...Because she's an Empath, too,” said the Doctor gently. Unthinking, Hartley took a step towards the boundary. The Doctor grasped her arm to pull her to a stop. “Once you're inside you won't be able to see her. The markers create a sort of window, a filter that we're looking through. Step inside and it goes away.”

There was another tug of sadness from the creature, and Hartley felt her wall crumble, allowing the emotions inside. The creature looked up, turning its head to meet her eyes. “Will she hurt me?” Hartley asked the Doctor in an undertone.

“I don't know,” he replied with brutal honesty, concern and understanding warring from behind his eyes.

She nodded, taking a moment to weigh what she knew was wise and what she knew was right, before taking that extra step and crossing the barrier. Nothing happened and the creature disappeared completely. Hartley inhaled sharply, glancing over her shoulder to see the others watching with bated breath. She attempted a smile, then stepped closer to where she knew the creature to be laying.

Hartley closed her eyes, prodding that spot inside of her that held all the creature's emotion. There was so much sadness, the poor thing felt so alone. She was scared, and isolated and grief stricken, and Hartley's heart melted like ice over a fire, compassion winning out over her fear.

She wasn't sure where to go from there, so she did what she apparently did best; she _empathised._

Feeling the same things as the alien wasn't as difficult as she'd thought it would be. Those emotions were all inside of her, born from different experiences, yes, but real all the same.

She closed her eyes a moment, basking in it, then opened them to find the creature in front of her once again, visible to her naked eyes.

The creature lifted her massive head, giving a horse-like snort and tilting to fix her beady eyes on Hartley. She pulled back her menacing jaws, giving a snarl as she watched her gingerly approach.

“Hey, girl,” Hartley murmured, knowing she didn't communicate verbally but still determined to try. “I'm so sorry about this,” she whispered, the words meant for the creature alone. “You're so scared. I can feel it… I am too.”

The creature didn't move, still staring at her with those endlessly black eyes. The sadness was beginning to make Hartley's eyes water, and she clenched her hands into fists, trying to control the urge to cry.

“You can choose not to be sad, Hart,” said the Doctor from behind her, but she didn't look away from the creature, not trusting her enough to have her back turned. “You can make that choice for both of you.”

And suddenly she knew – they were sharing emotions now, neither of them had more control than the other. If the creature could lead them into one emotion, then couldn't Hartley lead them into another?

Staring at the magnificent creature without blinking, Hartley focused on happy thoughts. She recalled the way the TARDIS would hum in her mind as she fell asleep; the way the TARDIS' kitchen always smelled like Christmas; the way Rose used to poke her tongue out between her teeth when she grinned; the way Jack could make her laugh so hard it hurt; the way her dad's voice sounded as he read her favourite books aloud; the way the Doctor's eyes shined with emotion as he stared at her, and the sense of warm companionship she felt, the kind that prevailed against all else; she thought about how _loved_ she felt – and then she let it fill her up until she was ready to push it towards the creature.

Her slimy skin gleamed like fire in the light of the setting sun, and she looked up in surprise as Hartley fed her these emotions. She made a gentle cooing noise, softer than anything Hartley had thought she could make, then rested her head on her legs.

Shuffling ever more slightly forwards, Hartley slowly began to lower herself beside her. Once she was knelt on the grass, she lifted out a shaking hand, letting it hover over the creature's slimy skin before gently resting it on her neck. She didn't so much as flinch, only cooed again, and Hartley gently began to pet her, murmuring reassurances under her breath and continuing to send pulse after pulse of love in her direction. In return she received an abundance of gratitude, and Hartley smiled, telling her that she was a good girl.

“Hart,” said the Doctor after a long few, quiet minutes. “Hart, I have to send her back to her own dimension,” he told her regretfully.

Hartley's petting stopped, hand freezing on the creature's slippery pelt before starting up again. “She'll be all alone?”

“We can't predict how she'll react if she sees someone else. Someone could get hurt.”

“She isn't hurting _me_ ,” argued Hartley weakly.

“ _You_ aren't just _anyone,_ ” he said with conviction that made her heart clench. He was right. She was an Empath, the one person who could understand her, the only person who was truly safe beside her. Hartley said nothing, sending another pulse of love through the bond she and the creature now shared. “Maybe the others will come back for her,” he told her hopefully.

“That's a big maybe,” she replied sadly.

He didn't reply, and she knew this was it. This was goodbye.

“You're going to be okay,” she whispered to the creature who, despite her grotesque appearance, was actually kind of beautiful. “I'm going to make sure you're okay.”

“Hart,” said the Doctor, and she swallowed around the lump in her throat, reluctantly climbing to her feet. She wiped her hand off on her dress, uncaring that it stained the fabric, and moved away. The creature gave a sad little wine, and Hartley sent a final burst of love and comfort through the connection before she stepped out of the boundary line and cut the connection, disappearing from view.

The creature gave a loud cry of sadness that just about tore Hartley in two, before the Doctor hit something on his little device and the air shimmered like a mirage, and then the creature was gone for good.

* * *

“We'll take care of them,” Joy was assuring Hartley, whom had expressed her concerns for Ethel and the others. “They'll be okay, given time.”

“I'm worried Ethel doesn't have much time left,” whispered Hartley, glancing over at the old woman, looking frail and small in her chair, eyes drifting shut from exhaustion.

“Then she'll be off to meet with her husband in paradise,” said Joy calmly. “Until then, we make her comfortable.”

Hartley nodded, sad but accepting. Everything had its time, and everything dies – wasn't that what the Doctor had said? Everything dies; what a sad thing to tell yourself in times of trouble.

“Hart?” asked Joy, and the woman in question looked away from a now sleeping Ethel to blink at her curiously. “You're not really the Duchess of Scotland, are you?”

Hartley could only laugh, the sound weak from fatigue but genuine all the same.

“Hartley?” a new voice asked, and Joy wandered away politely as Douglas approached, a contemplative look on his youthful face. “I just wanted to thank you, and wish you a safe journey home,” he said politely, reaching out to shake her hand. Touching his skin, she felt a pulse of sadness, and gripped it tighter.

“I'm sorry about your mum,” she told him quietly, and he pursed his lips as he nodded, that now familiar grief gripping him like a tsunami.

He pulled his hand away, reaching up to dab at his eyes and rub his nose. “I can't believe that our _grief_ did all of this,” he murmured thoughtfully, looking up at the tops of the trees, which the sun was just beginning to dip below.

“A very wise man once said, _'No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear'._ ”

“Who was that, then?” asked Douglas, sniffling again.

Hartley gave a large, secretive smile. “Just an author whom I really, really admire.”

Douglas gave a shy smile, and Hartley squeezed his shoulder gently before turning away, heading for where Tolkien and Lewis were talking to the Doctor, some ways away from the others.

Hartley stepped into place beside the Doctor and threaded her arm through his. It was a bold move, but she felt like she needed the touch, the physical reassurance to weigh her down to the present, to _this_ dimension.

“Hello, Hartley,” said Lewis, and she allowed herself another internal squeal over the fact that she was talking to _C. S. Lewis –_ and he _knew her name._

“Clive,” she greeted him familiarly, but she didn't care, too wrapped up in her fangirl moment. “Despite everything that happened today, I really can't even begin to tell you what an honour it has been to meet you.”

Lewis smiled widely, reaching out to take her hand in his, holding it politely. “I think if you weren't to have arrived when you did, somebody might have gotten hurt. So, thank you,” he said gently, warm eyes flickering between them both with gratitude. “I believe you wanted to discuss my work with me?” he continued with a larger smile.

Eyes going wide, Hartley began to speak, pulling her hand from his so she could use both for emphasis. “I mean – of course, there's so much – where to even begin? I mean, Narnia, of course! Should I go by publication order or chronological order? I personally like the the former, as it's the way I originally read them, but of course the latter has its advantages-”

And arm coiled around her waist, the Doctor squeezing to get her to stop. “She'd honestly go on for hours if you'd let her,” he chuckled. Lewis and Tolkien gave matching grins. “But I think it's been too long a day to be talking shop now,” he continued. “Perhaps we could come back another day, have some tea? I'm sure Hartley would love to ply you with all manner of questions about your published works.”

“There is, of course, an open invitation for the both of you to visit whenever you're next in the area,” said Lewis graciously.

Getting the ridiculous urge to curtsy, Hartley gripped the hand the Doctor had hooked around her waist to keep herself from doing anything so embarrassing. “Thank you,” she said sincerely.

“I extend the invitation also,” said Tolkien, amusement playing at his mouth. “That is, to say, if you're a fan of the Lord of the Rings?”

“ _Am_ _I a–_?” she cut herself off, blinking in shock. “I don't it's possible _not_ to be-”

“That's our cue to leave,” interjected the Doctor cheerfully, beginning to drag Hartley away, for which she admitted was probably for the best. “We'll see you again soon, Clive, I'm sure!”

“Farewell, Doctor!” he called after them. “Thank you again!”

Once he was sure that Hartley could walk on her own he stopped dragging her, simply winding his arm through hers and gently leading her in the direction of the TARDIS. The sun had almost completely disappeared below the treetops, sending the sky into an array of stunning, fiery shades, dotted by the odd cloud, like islands in a sea of molten gold.

“Did today really happen?” she asked the Doctor as they walked, her shoes beginning to create blisters on her feet. She didn't care, she was too blissed out from their day to worry about a few sores on her heels.

“Either that or we're sharing a very realistic hallucination.”

“No way,” she argued, shaking her head, still dazed. “Not even _my_ imagination could cook up something like this.”

He gave a small laugh, grinning as he unlocked the TARDIS, holding the door open and waving her inside. The TARDIS greeted her with a low humming in her head and she felt her muscles relax at the familiar, phantom sound. She took a moment to kick off her shoes, sighing with relief as her bare feet met the cool metal of the grating, then walked up the ramp towards the console.

She was halfway there when she realised she couldn't hear his footsteps behind her, and turning to look at him curiously.

The grin from a moment ago was gone from his face, replaced by a heavy contemplation, the look like a storm cloud on the horizon, full of the promise of darkness. “Doc?” she asked, careful and measured.

He looked up from the grating to meet her eyes, and what she saw there made her heart drop into her stomach. It was an icy guilt, one that clung to his warm chocolate eyes, turning them cold. “I'm sorry,” he said, voice layered with remorse.

“Hey,” she said, padding her way back down the ramp until she was stood in front of him, her head tilted back to look into his eyes. “Come now. There's already been more than enough grief in the air for one day.”

The look in his eyes didn't evaporate. “If I'd figured out it was grief and not guilt...” he paused, seeming to hate himself that little bit more for his mistake. “I should never have said those things to you,” he said, and the mention of that moment back on the estate made her lungs seize up.

“You were trying to save everyone,” she whispered, reaching up to pull at the lapel of his coat, distracting herself with straightening it to perfection. “It's fine.”

“It wasn't fine,” he argued. She glanced back up to meet his eyes. “Hart, the look on your face...” he trailed off, pain lacing his voice, like the mere memory of it caused him physical agony. “I don't ever intend to be the cause of that _ever_ _again_ ,” he said, something of a promise. She didn't tend to like promises, in her experience they ended up being difficult to keep. But something about the sincerity with which he swore it made her warm – it made her believe him.

“I trust you, Spacewalker,” she whispered, a fond smile on her lips.

“You know I only said those things to make you...” he couldn't seem to finish the sentence. She nodded, assuring him she understood. “I don't actually think them,” he said, imploring.

She wasn't sure if this was something she could believe, so she merely gave him a gentle smile, gripping his coat lapels and pulling herself up onto her toes. She pressed her lips against his slightly stubbled cheek, kissing him there briefly before pulling back and smiling wider.

“I'm going to go take a bubblebath,” she told him, letting go of his coat and dropping back down to the flats of her feet.

“Then we'll go somewhere amazing,” he told her, another promise. “Somewhere we won't run into any unexpected trouble.”

“Well,” she smiled at him over her shoulder as she turned to leave the console room, “now that's something I'm going to have to see to believe.”


	30. Wonders of the World

**WONDERS OF THE WORLD**

“ _The Earth has its music for those who will listen.”_

George Santayana

* * *

Hartley had read about people getting what they called a 'new lease on life', but it had always seemed like a fictional concept. Perhaps all concepts did when one hadn't experienced them, but she nevertheless felt a disconnect, that was until she found herself travelling with the Doctor – on her own.

  
She'd gotten a taste of it with C. S. Lewis, but as they moved on from that adventure and plunged headfirst into the billions upon billions of adventures just waiting for them out in the big, wide, unfathomable universe, Hartley realised that she'd reached a point where she could say she 'had a new lease on life' and understand what that meant.

She was filled with excitement and childlike wonder once more. She used to worry that eventually she'd run out of enthusiasm, that seeing supernovas and spaceships and planets with dirt made of cinnamon would grow dull. But with every passing escapade they ventured on, her wonderment only grew.

The Doctor liked to use the 'random' feature whenever it was his turn to decide. When it was hers, she would convince him to choose instead – to take her somewhere he knew would take her breath away, somewhere _impressive_. He never failed to disappoint.

“Klingito's Quaking Moon!” the Doctor announced, stepping from the TARDIS with a theatrical swing of his arm, like a magician presenting a trick, and the moment Hartley set foot on the ground outside her entire body was rattled, the moon beneath them trembling with an earthquake.

Teeth chattering from the force of it, Hartley turned to look at the Doctor in search of an explanation.

“The tectonic plates are in constant movement, causing never-ceasing quakes to rattle the whole moon,” he told her cheerfully, voice trembling with the violent movement beneath them. “Tell me,” he added with a crooked smirk, “are you terribly impressed?”

The words had become something of a running line between them over the years they'd travelled together, and the familiar sound of it made her grin.

“I dunno...a quaking moon?” she mused playfully, her smile widening when his cocky smirk dropped into a blank indignation. “What else you got, Spacewalker?”

* * *

“It's a waterpark – an entire _planet_ of water rides,” he enthused brightly, and Hartley made sure to fix her expression into an apathetic stare. He deflated. “You can't tell me this isn't amazing,” he whined, pointing at a slide the size of a skyscraper as though it might have escaped her notice.

She lifted her shoulders, giving a purposefully vague shrug.

“A bit ordinary, to be honest,” she lied, enjoying the exasperated huff he gave in response, turning and marching back into the TARDIS, a Time Lord on a mission.

* * *

“The Floating Forests of Alsador,” the Doctor proclaimed, stepping from his ship to present their new view like the host of a gameshow. Hartley followed him out, and had to physically smother her gasp at the sight she was met with.

They stood on a small island, only one in a sea of hundreds, all floating in the air, bobbing slowly up and down like buoys in the water. The hovering islands were all a breathtaking green, lush in a way that was growing difficult to find on planet Earth.

“The native race are half human, half racoon. Bit of a strange mix but I think you'll find them all to be a whole lot of fun – just be mindful to keep them away from your garbage.”

“Floating forests and racoon people?” Hartley asked, swallowing back her sense of wonderment and shooting the Doctor an unimpressed expression. “That's the best you've got?”

She didn't know whether or not the Doctor had caught onto the game she was playing, but even if he hadn't he was playing along brilliantly, sending her a look of utter vexation as he took offence to her words.

“You want impressive?” he grumbled, just a tad confrontational. “I'll give you impressive.”

He turned, marching back into the TARDIS with exaggerated, petulant stomps, like a child who hadn't gotten their own way.

Once he was out of sight, Hartley smiled wide, amusement curling in her gut as she turned back to the big blue box. Before stepping through the door she cast a look back at the magnificent sight before her, humbled by its beauty for another moment before she slipped through the doors and the floating forests disappeared from view.

* * *

“Now, if you're not impressed by this, I will eat my hat,” the Doctor swore as he skipped up to the doors, pausing before them and turning back to stare at her mischievously.

“First we'd have to buy you a hat,” said Hartley, meeting his smile with an impish one of her own.

“I own hats,” he seemed miffed by the assumption. “Wore a hat quite often, way back when. It was one of my favourite accessories. Well, that and a scarf.”

Hartley didn't really understand what he was talking about, but by the faraway look in his eyes knew he was reminiscing about the past. She debated whether or not to leave him to his memories, but in the end decided to plough ahead, knowing that if she let him he could be lost in his thoughts for hours.

“Well, feel free to blow my socks off any time now, Doc,” she said breezily, and he blinked back to the present in time to give a suiting eye roll, turning and throwing open the doors, ushering her out into a bitingly cold wind.

Her eyes were assaulted by red. Everywhere she looked she saw nothing but a deep, endless crimson.

“The Frozen Wastelands of Valhale,” he proclaimed proudly, like he'd built them with his own two hands, icicle by icicle.

“It's _red_!” she called back over the howling wind carrying the sleeting scarlet snow.

“The snow? Seems to be, yeah,” he replied with a faked nonchalance that she saw through like glass.

“Go on then,” she prompted him with a smile, arms coming up to wrap around herself in an attempt to combat the icy chill. “Why's it red?”

The Doctor puffed out his chest as he began to explain. “Just a chemical in the atmosphere, really. Nothing special. They call it Emutonin. It's close to Earth's hydrogen, but when it comes in contact with water molecules...”

“It turns them red,” she finished, lifting a hand to the falling snow. A pile of the little red flakes gathered in her palm, bitingly cold against her skin, but stunning all the same. It was like somebody had turned crimson blood into snow, pouring it from the sky in a show of collateral beauty.

“You can't tell me you're not impressed now,” the Doctor said smugly, and not yet ready to abandon her little game, Hartley arranged her features into a carefully blank mask.

“I mean...it's _all right_ ,” she lied, and the Doctor's jaw dropped open in pure indignation.

“All right?” he echoed in exasperation, taking offence to the words. “ _All right_?”

“S'just a bit of red snow,” she said as flippantly as she could manage. “Surely you can do better than that.”

“More impressive, she says,” he huffed, turning and shoving his way back inside the TARDIS. Hartley took a moment to take in the beauty of what she was seeing, before slipping back into the humming warmth of the TARDIS she called home, watching in amusement as the Doctor muttered under his breath, taking her and his beloved ship off to see something even more _fantastic_.

* * *

“The Twin Planets of the Jaguar Solar System, most commonly known as _Zeus_ and _Hades_ ,” the Doctor announced as he threw open the doors to reveal that they hadn't even landed at all, but rather were floating in space, hovering between the horizons of what were really a pair of twin planets. “They're gravitationally locked, you see,” he explained eagerly, pulling open the second door so there was room for them both to lean out and take in the view.

The planets were only a few miles from one another, separated only by a thin layer of atmosphere. So close together were they that giant buildings stretched from one planet to the other, quite literally bridges to another world.

It was beyond stunning; absolutely breathtaking, really. Hartley swallowed back her wonderment and forced an apathetic look on her face. The Doctor wilted under her apparent lack of enthusiasm.

“Really?” he asked, disappointed. “This is one of the most beautiful, awe-inspiring, breathtaking things to see in the entire universe,” he said, growing desperate. “In fact, I've taken you to some of the most stunning places I can think of. Let me tell you, it doesn't get any better than this, Hartley. If you're not impressed by this, then I doubt anything's ever going to do the job,” he finished with a sniff.

Suddenly Hartley realised why she'd been playing this game with him. It wasn't because she was feeling playful, or because she wanted to toy with him. It was because she was trying to teach him a lesson, something she was sure he already knew – but had forgotten at some point over the last 900 years or so.

The idea struck her suddenly, and she looked over at him peacefully.

“I know where I want to go,” she said plainly. He turned away from where he'd been sulking out at the twin planets like a petulant child. “After everything we've seen today – I think I've finally decided what I actually, really want to see.”

His eyes narrowed as he stared at her, considering her carefully. “And what's that?” he asked when she didn't immediately elaborate.

“I want to go to Alaska,” she told him, meeting his eyes across the top of the console, her unique shade of brilliant blue sparkling in the low lighting of the TARDIS.

“Alaska?” he asked, frowning at the strange request. “As in Alaska; Earth?”

“As in Alaska; Earth,” she confirmed, growing in confidence as she smiled at him, red lips pulling upwards at the corners. It didn't click in his head, but it didn't matter, because his confusion only rewarded him with a larger, brighter smile. “I want to see the Northern Lights,” she explained, and he blinked, wondering how he hadn't put the two together.

It was a rather mundane request, he had to admit. There were places in the universe he could take her that would make the Aurora Borealis look _dull_ , places he'd already tried to take her, tried to make her love as much as he did. He opened his mouth, just dying to suggest something better, more exciting, something that would _really_ impress her – the Fifteenth Broken Moon of the Medusa Cascade, the planet Killgrave with its crystal skies, or perhaps the Singing Towers of Darillium – but she blinked those big, wide eyes at him sweetly, and he found himself agreeing to the awfully bland request.

“One Aurora Borealis, coming up,” he told her, making sure to inject the usual level of enthusiasm into his voice. Though, judging by her narrowed, knowing eyes, it wasn't particularly convincing. “Go on, then,” he added when she didn't move. “Go get yourself a coat.”

She gave a melodic laugh and disappeared into the hall.

With a few well-pushed buttons, the TARDIS was landing in the perfect place to view the lights, and he was only just pulling on his own coat when Hartley rushed back into the room, puffy blue snow jacket covering the simple mauve dress that made her look entirely too beautiful for their simple TARDIS high-jinks.

“Out of everything in the whole of space and time, you choose _this?_ ” he asked, just unable to help himself as he followed behind her, letting her lead the way down the ramp towards the doors. “I don't understand,” he complained, and Hartley paused at the door, leaning her weight against it as she looked back up at him evenly.

“You will,” she promised, smiling again before pulling open the door and stepping out into the icy winter gale.

Her feet sank into the fluffy snow, this kind a pure, familiar white. She smiled even as her canvas shoes grew soaked, her toes practically freezing where they lay. The doors to the TARDIS creaked shut behind her, and she felt the Doctor press innocently against her back. She leant into it, grateful for the warmth and unthinking of how uncomfortable it might make things.

It didn't, however, the Doctor uncaring as she pressed into him. His focus was instead on the lights above them. Hartley looked up, and this time made no attempt to smother her gasp of awe.

The lights were moving almost in a dance. They flickered and shimmered across the sky, a stunning combination of blues and greens and purples. It quite literally took her breath away. She knew there was a smile growing on her face, could feel it pulling at her lips, and she didn't bother to will it away, smiling up at the mystical performance the Earth was showing them.

Finally, once the freezing wind began to sting her wide eyes, she looked away, instead turning her gaze over to the Doctor. He was stood just behind her, staring up at the Northern Lights in a humbled silence. Hartley understood the feeling.

Her smile went from stunned to gentle, and she wound her arm through his, staring up at him and admiring the way the colours of the lights danced over his pale skin, cheeks dusted with just the tiniest hint of stubble.

“There's a lot of beauty in the universe, Doc,” she began, soft and tentative but laced with the conviction of someone far older than her mere thirty years. “More than I can probably even imagine. And I lied. Everything you showed me today was breathtaking. I was impressed by it all. But I feel like sometimes, maybe, you don't have to try so hard to find the beauty. It's already there, right in front of you. You just need to learn to take a breath and look around every once in awhile. And maybe you'll see it too.”

The Doctor was silent, continuing to stare up at the Aurora Borealis in thoughtful silence. She could see the thoughts spinning away from behind his eyes, and she didn't dare interrupt them, turning her eyes back to one of the seven natural wonders of planet Earth.

It wasn't something she'd ever seen with her own two eyes, and she gazed up at it with unrestrained awe. Everything she'd seen that day was amazing, so astonishing it was impossible to compare them to one another, or put them in any kind of order. They were each, in their own right, awe-inspiring.

But there was something about this view – the sight of the Northern Lights on a winter's night on her own little backwater planet in a tiny corner of the Milky Way galaxy – that left her completely and utterly speechless.

They flew all over the universe, chasing supernovas and twin planets and billion-year-old asteroids, but here, in her very own backyard, was one of the most stunning things she could possibly imagine seeing.

The Doctor never replied, but Hartley knew it wasn't because he disagreed. She thought that it might even have been because he agreed _too_ much, but didn't know how to voice it.

She just smiled, snuggling into his side and the slight shield his body offered against the Alaskan gale-force wind beating at her exposed skin. She was content to stand in silence, appreciating the Northern Lights and enjoying the company of the person she considered to be her best – if only – friend.


	31. The Girl and the Goa'uld

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, you guys. Now, something you may not know about me: my favourite show of all time (other than DW, of course) is a little series called Stargate: SG1. When mapping out the original chapters for HotS, I knew I wanted to incorporate the lore and world of Stargate into it somehow. 
> 
> This chapter features the alien races known as the Goa'uld and the Jaffa. To be clear, you DO NOT have to know anything about Stargate to enjoy this chapter. If you just treat it like any other original chapter I've written, then it reads just the same.
> 
> I really hope you enjoy – I know I certainly had a blast mashing together my two favourite sci-fi franchises. Seriously, I was like a kid in a candy shop!

**THE GIRL AND THE GOA'ULD**

“ _Children are not only innocent and curious but also_

_optimistic and joyful and essentially happy._

_They are, in short, everything adults wish they could be.”_

Carolyn Haywood

* * *

“We could have cocktails on Mars?”

“Boring.”

“Fine. We could go give Cavemen the gift of fire?”

“Done that already.”

“You're impossible. How about 1969, go give Neil Armstrong the fright of his life?”

“Fixed point, not even I can go messing about with that moment in history.”

Hartley collapsed back against the jump seat, beyond exasperated. “Alright,” she huffed, folding her legs underneath her and scowling back at him playfully. “What do _you_ want to do, Mr Time Lord?”

The Doctor pretended to think about it for a few long moments. “Let's set her to random!” he finally proclaimed, already beginning to input the command, giving an unnecessary spin for show.

“You _always_ choose random,” Hartley complained.

“What's wrong with random?”

“Nothing's _wrong_ with it,” she said, gripping ahold of the jump seat just as the whole room lurched forwards. She was used to it, keeping herself balanced until the shaking stopped and she could properly stand, already pulling on her jacket and moving towards the doors. “I just think you could stand to be a little more decisive. Aren't there people throughout history you wanna meet?”

“I _have_ always wanted to meet Emperor Gustav-Creetus the IV,” the Doctor told her, pulling on the door and holding it open for her to duck through.

“Who's that?”

“Exactly,” he said primly, stepping out after her and letting the wooden door creak shut loudly. “I've got the whole of time and space full of people I wanna meet, but the only basis you have is the span of a few centuries on one tiny little planet.”

“Why do I feel like you're holding back an insult?” she mused, tapping a finger against her peachy lips.

“I usually am,” he sniffed.

“ _Halt_!”

Both Hartley and the Doctor came to an abrupt stop, blinking at the people suddenly in their path. So caught up in their banter, neither had even taken the time to look at their surroundings. They were standing in some kind of mixed terrain. Trees shot up from all around them, but the ground was made of a dry dirt, a contrast that made Hartley wonder about the kind of life that thrived there.

The people in front of them were even more surprising, wearing dull, heavy-looking metal armour, and holding long sticks in their hands, some kind of bulge at the ends that sparked with electricity at will.

“By the command Baal, I _demand_ to know who you are,” grunted the man at the front, his weapon aimed threateningly in their faces.

“Oh, not again,” muttered the Doctor to Hartley as she hesitantly held both her hands up in a weak surrender. He rooted around in his pockets for a long few moments before finally producing the psychic paper, holding it out to them with a triumphant humph. “There we are. I think you'll find it's all in order,” he said cheerfully.

The man eyed it skeptically for a moment before his expression melted into further anger. “Diplomats on a mission of peace?” he asked, voice dripping with revulsion, like the words themselves disgusted him. “Take them,” he ordered his soldiers.

The Doctor turned to Hartley, utterly perplexed. “Why didn't it work?” he asked as he pouted. “It's the psychic paper – it always works.” He frowned up at the leader of the strange group. “You must seriously thrive on conflict,” he sniffed, “only explanation.”

The leader grunted, taking offence to the words and with a jerk of his hand the armed men all began to converge on the pair of travellers. The Doctor rushed to leap into action.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he said loudly, hands held out in front of him, not quite in surrender. “If we're trespassing, we can just leave and never come back,” he suggested hopefully. “Honestly, you'll never hear from us again.”

“Take them,” repeated the one at the front, tone leaving no room for argument.

“Brilliant,” Hartley muttered to the Doctor as the armoured man marched behind them, grasping their wrists and locking them together with some form of space-age handcuffs. They were pushed forwards, immediately marched in the opposite direction, like criminals to the gallows. “See, this is why I'm not a fan of random,” she said to the Doctor, more than unimpressed by their situation. “We're far more likely to find ourselves captured and held at gunpoint when we use random.”

“I'd say the odds are pretty even either way,” sniffed the Doctor haughtily.

“You will cease talking,” snapped the leader from up ahead, the parts of his metal exoskeleton-type armour clanging together as he walked.

“Where're you taking us?” Hartley asked rather than keep her mouth shut. She wasn't about to stay silent while they were being marched across the near-barren land of their planet. “Please don't say to our deaths – I'm really not in the mood to die today.”

“We are taking you to our god, Baal, where he will decide your fate,” spat the leader.

“Our fate? For what, taking a few steps onto your land?” she countered smartly. The guy in front fell silent, not deeming her worthy of answers. “Who are these people, exactly?” she asked the Doctor. He was padding along beside her, just as frustrated by their circumstance as she was. She kept her voice low, so the others of the party couldn't hear their conversation.

“They're Jaffa,” he explained, eyeing the group surrounding them carefully. At Hartley's clueless expression, he elaborated. “An offshoot of humanity, genetically engineered by a race of parasitical aliens known as the Goa'uld. They're bred into slavery, religiously worshipping the Goa'uld, a network of false gods spread throughout the Milky Way.”

“Whoa, back up,” Hartley breathed, eyes wide. “These guys are all over the galaxy? How have I not heard about them before now?”

“They're just something of a pest, really,” the Doctor replied with another sniff, looking down his nose at the group around them. It was rare for him to show animosity towards anything, so she was surprised by the force of it, watching him with a frown.

More questions bubbled at her tongue. “Hang on, if this is a network of false religions focused on nothing but slavery and genetic breeding, how come you haven't put a stop to it?” she asked carefully. “I can't imagine you'd let it go on.”

“As I said, they're a pest,” he murmured, casting the Jaffa a dark look. “No matter how many factions I destroy, there are always more and more popping up. The fires appear faster than I can put them out.”

Hartley knew he couldn't spend all his time as a freedom-fighter for hire. He wasn't a warrior; not anymore. He'd left that life behind a long time ago. Knowing this, Hartley accepted his answer with a nod. “So who's this Baal guy, then?” she asked instead. “Some kind of head honcho?”

“Something like that,” the Doctor muttered. “These guys think he's their god.”

“But he's not?”

He shot her an exasperated look. “There's no such thing as gods, Hartley,” he reminded her slowly.

Hartley wasn't totally sure she agreed, so she decided not to reply, instead changing the subject. “Do you know him? This Baal?”

“We've met once or twice,” the Doctor told her, a frown twisting at his mouth.

“If you can't keep quiet, I'll be forced to shoot your mouth clean off your face,” threatened the lead Jaffa from ahead of them, not even bothering to turn back and look at them.

“Anyone ever told you you've got some anger issues, buddy?” Hartley asked dryly. He let out a growl but otherwise didn't respond. “So, what planet are we on, again?” she asked the Doctor from the corner of her mouth.

“No idea,” he replied just as quietly.

Hartley frowned. “How can you not know?”

The Doctor just looked exasperated again. “There are billions upon _trillions_ of planets in the universe, Hartley,” he told her, dry and unimpressed. “It's ridiculous to think I'd know the name of every single one.”

Hartley smiled, unable to help but find his indignation amusing. The people he called _Jaffa_ led them out of a tree line, suddenly revealing a tall, looming structure that looked remarkably familiar.

“Is that an Egyptian pyramid?” she asked the Doctor, her curiosity drowning out the loud, mechanical sounds the Jaffa's metal boots made as they slammed into the cracked dirt beneath them.

“Strictly speaking, it's a Goa'uld landing platform,” he replied with frustrating ease. “But also, yes, just like the ones in Giza.”

Hartley blinked. “Are you telling me the Great Pyramids of Giza are landing pads for alien spaceships?” she asked, surprisingly unperturbed by this information. She wasn't sure anything could shock her anymore. She'd literally _seen it all._

“Is it really so surprising?”

“Actually, not at all,” she admitted, frowning down at her restraints and tugging at them gently. They were like iron, only stronger, the metal cold and constricting around her wrists. “So, on a scale of happy-ending to dead-again, how dire of a situation are we in?” she asked conversationally.

“Depends,” the Doctor murmured.

“On what?”

“On what kind of mood Baal is in today.”

“So, basically, we're at the whim of a parasite posing as a false god,” she summarised.

“We've been in worse situations,” he replied easily. “Besides, I've met him before. I have an in.”

“But have you met him in _this_ body?” she asked him quickly.

The Doctor's confidence wavered. “Oh,” he muttered, pursing his lips and frowning. “No.”

“Not sure the whole 'I change my body/personality when I'm dying' thing is going to go over so well,” she said. “It's not a particularly easy thing to swallow.”

The Jaffa marched them into the pyramid, the sunlight disappearing. Hartley's eyes took a moment to adjust, the glare of the sun replaced by the dancing flames of firelight. The noise that the Jaffa's boots made against the ground was even louder now. It bounced off the walls of the small cavern they'd entered like little bullets, and Hartley had to try not to flinch in reaction.

Finally they were led into a larger room, this one with a large throne up the very back, occupied by a tall man in elegant, elaborate dress and a rocking well-groomed goatee. He was smirking at them, his gaze drifting over Hartley like she were something on display. His beady eyes on her skin made her want to go and take a long, scolding hot shower, as if she could burn off the imprint of his gaze.

They came to a stop before his throne, and the Jaffa behind the pair of travellers slammed his staff against their shoulders, sending them to the floor. Hartley's knees made rough contact with the stone beneath them, and she winced, knowing it was going to leave a temporary bruise.

“My Jaffa tell me you were found wandering through the forest,” the one she could only assume was Baal spoke, voice deep and holding a crisp British accent. “What are you doing on my planet?”

“We're here to foil your evil plan,” said the Doctor without so much as pausing to think. Hartley glanced over at him in part surprise, part exasperation.

Baal chuckled, the sound rough and a just little menacing. “Which evil plan might that be?” he asked, unmistakably amused.

“Well, why don't you list all your current evil plans in detail, and then we'll tell you which one we're here to stop,” the Doctor replied easily, a sunny smile on his handsome face. He was utterly unbothered by the blatant danger they were facing, the staff weapons of the Jaffa aimed at their heads in a silent but present threat.

Baal chuckled again, eyes darting between the pair thoughtfully. “Have we met?” he asked after a moment, focusing in on the Doctor with his laser-like gaze. “You seem strangely familiar.”

“I'm the Doctor,” the Doctor told him with all his usual confidence and bravado.

Baal's eyes narrowed further. “ _The_ Doctor?” he asked suspiciously, and Hartley sensed his hackles begin to rise. “Of Gallifrey?”

“That's me,” the Doctor chirped brightly, like they were old friends meeting for tea rather than prisoners being held at gunpoint.

Baal didn't look impressed. “You can't be,” he said thinly, no doubt thinking of a man with a different face, “and I don't tolerate imposters.” He made a motion with his hand and suddenly the staff weapons held to their heads sizzled with electricity. Hartley gulped, wondering how much this one was going to hurt.

“When we last met I had curly hair and wore a long, multicoloured scarf,” the Doctor hurried to say. Hartley blinked at the description, trying to imagine the Doctor to look like that. The Doctor she knew now would sooner join the military than wear a long, multicoloured scarf. He was rather vain in that way. “Your Jaffa captured me and my companion at the time, and we escaped by beaming off your ship using your own transportation rings.”

Baal's eyes narrowed further, and he shifted from where he was sprawled across his throne like a gluttonous king. “So you are somewhat like a Goa'uld,” he said slowly, trying to understand. “You jump from host to host.”

The Doctor grimaced at the comparison. “Something like that,” he allowed reluctantly, if only to make things easier.

“And who might your _lovely_ companion be?” Baal asked sharply, eyes shifting from the Doctor to Hartley. His words were innocuous but his tone held an edge of malice. His stare on her skin was like ice, and she fought the urge to say something rude that she knew would only get them killed faster.

“That's Hartley,” the Doctor told him shortly, and she got the feeling it was an effort to keep the Goa'uld's attention from straying to her for too long. “Look, we really were just passing through the area. We didn't mean to trespass. So, if you'll just let us go, we'll be on our way before you can say ' _Tal'ma'te_ ',” he said brightly, unyieldingly optimistic, as always.

Baal stroked his goatee in a stereotypically villainous move, and Hartley coughed to mask the sound of her amusement.

“Take the girl to the cell,” he finally said decisively, waving a casual hand in her general direction. “I think I'll stay and chat with this _Doctor_ for just a while longer...”

The Doctor's eyebrows lifted in surprise. “No, no, no,” he muttered quickly. “It's really best we stay together...”

Baal cocked an eyebrow of his own. “And why is that?”

“Because...because...” the Doctor's mouth flapped open in a spot on impression of a koi fish. He glanced over at Hartley, wincing awkwardly. “I don't have a good answer,” he admitted, and Hartley felt like bashing her head against the stone beneath them until it rendered her unconscious – it sounded much more appealing than staying awake to witness the train wreck happening before her.

Baal gave a derisive laugh, like a king who found his court jester to be vaguely amusing. “Take the girl to the cell,” he ordered his soldiers once again, and the one behind Hartley wrapped a hand around her arm, grip so tight she knew it was just going to leave yet another bruise.

“Watch it!” she barked as he wrenched her violently to her feet.

“Just do as they say, Hart,” the Doctor called after her from where he was still knelt on the floor before a smirking Baal. “Try not to die,” he added casually.

“Oh, I'll do my best,” she muttered back sardonically just before she was yanked around a corner and away from the throne room, the Doctor now out of sight. “Could you ease up a little on the grip?” Hartley asked the Jaffa holding her. She was slowly beginning to lose feeling in her arm.

“Be quiet,” the soldier spat, and she grimaced, turning away and falling obediently silent.

She was led down three separate corridors before suddenly they were standing in front of a grated door. A guard stood in front of it, wearing the same ostentatious armour as the other Jaffa, and he slammed a hand down on a button on the wall. The grated door began to slide upwards, and the moment it was high enough the Jaffa holding her shoved her roughly into the cell.

“Hey!” she yelped, landing on the floor, her poor knees taking yet another beating.

The guards didn't reply, hitting the button again and sending the cell door back down into place, sealing her inside. Hartley grunted as she climbed to her feet, dusting the dirt from her clothes.

She thought she was alone, but suddenly there was a whimper from behind her that made her gasp. Hartley whipped around to find a small girl sitting hunched over in the corner, eyes round as she shivered from head to toe; not from cold, but rather from fear.

“Hey there,” Hartley began gently, taking a tiny step forwards, hands held out to show she wasn't a threat. “My name's Hartley,” she said, inching forwards a little more, approaching the girl carefully. “I'm not going to hurt you,” she promised sincerely.

Hartley slowly bent down until she was crouched on the floor about five feet away from the girl, who watched her warily, sniffling every now and again. She couldn't have been older than seven or eight, skinny and exhausted looking, big eyes full of distrust.

“What's your name?” Hartley asked her delicately, a gentle, friendly smile on her face. “It's okay, you can tell me,” she promised quietly.

The little girl looked up properly, tears glittering in her big, round eyes. She looked like she was debating saying anything, and Hartley did her best to radiate a feeling of comfort. Manipulating the emotions of those around her wasn't something she had much experience in doing – yet – but she knew she had the ability, buried deep within her DNA.

“Nadine,” the girl finally whispered. “My name is Nadine.”

“Nadine,” Hartley echoed with a kind smile. “That's a beautiful name. You know, on my planet it means 'hope'.”

Nadine gave a timid little smile, pink lips just barely pulling up in the corners. “On this planet, it means 'mover of the tide',” she replied, her tears slowing. She reached up, rubbing at her sticky little cheeks.

“And what might the name of this planet be?” Hartley pressed curiously, moving from her crouched position so she was sitting on the stone floor of the cell, legs crossed underneath her.

“Ambelu,” she told Hartley in a soft voice that just barely carried.

“That's a nice name for a planet,” Hartley replied softly. “I come from a planet called Earth. Which sounds much more dull than one called Ambelu,” she joked, and Nadine gave a tentative little smile. “What're you doing in here?” she pressed gently, and Nadine looked away sharply, bony shoulders tensing up as if preparing for a blow. “Hey, it's okay,” Hartley hurried to reassure her, “I just want to help.”

Nadine sniffled again, reaching up to scrub at her eyes. “It's my mother,” she began, voice weak and afraid, “she's what the guards call a Rebel.”

“A Rebel?” Hartley echoed, thinking back to what the Doctor had told her of the Goa'uld on the way there. “You mean against the false gods?” Nadine nodded her head meekly, casting a frightened glance at the Jaffa guarding their cell. He didn't appear to be able to hear them, but Hartley kept her voice low just to be safe. “That's very brave of her,” she said gently. “But how did you end up here, Nadine?”

Nadine's lip wobbled but she held it together, whispering her tale to the time traveller, eyes welling with tears. “Our people were hidden, but they still found us,” she breathed, and Hartley saw her fingers trembling. She reached out, gently taking the little girl's hand and holding on tight. Nadine's eyes were far away, reliving the horror of her past, but she squeezed Hartley's hand like a lifeline. “They took me from my mother and brought me here. I heard the guards talking. They sound like they are waiting for something, but I don't know what,” her voice shook.

“It's okay,” Hartley calmed her, reaching out and gently brushing back a piece of her corkscrew hair. “How long have you been here, sweetheart?”

“I don't know,” she replied shakily, reaching up with her free hand to rub her eyes. “I'm so scared,” she admitted, and Hartley felt the fear rattle around in her insides as though it were her own.

“I know,” she whispered, her own eyes stinging with empathetic tears. Unprompted, Nadine crawled in Hartley's lap. Surprised but not unwilling, Hartley held her close, getting the feeling that she was searching for comfort the only way she knew how. “It's okay,” she said again, wrapping her arms around the girl whose entire body was still trembling with fear. “You're all right,” she soothed. “I'm gonna get you out of here. I promise, I am.”

Nadine didn't answer, just staying curled in Hartley's lap, clinging to her desperately. It was like she was scared that if she let go they might be separated, never to find one another again. Hartley sat in silence, rocking her gently back and forth until eventually Nadine fell asleep. Still holding the little girl tightly against her, Hartley began to assess the situation.

The walls seemed to be plated in gold, and when she reached out to gently rap her knuckles against the surface she realised it was probably at least a half a foot thick. The cell door was large and made from the same material, only grated. She briefly entertained the thought of slipping through one of the holes, but she definitely wasn't that limber.

It could have only been a few minutes later that the sound of loud, metal footsteps on the floor met her ears. A small parade of Jaffa appeared from the room beyond, a very familiar face in the middle on the group.

The Doctor was none-too-gently shoved into the cell with them, and he brushed off his pinstripe suit, frowning at the guards in displeasure. “If you know what's good for you, you'll stay quiet and refrain from trying to escape,” sneered the Jaffa at the front of the group, a stocky man with a golden tattoo gleaming above his eyes.

“Yes, yes,” muttered the Doctor in annoyance, turning away from him with a mocking sort of grimace, “I know the drill.”

With something of an ugly, victorious smirk, the group of armoured Jaffa turned around, plodding their way back down the hall and out of sight. “You all right?” Hartley asked the Doctor in a quiet voice, and he looked away from where he'd been eyeing the cell door critically.

“Right as rain,” he told her, somewhat unconvincing. But there were more important things to worry about. “Who've you got there?” he asked, lowering his voice when she placed a pointed finger to her lips.

“Her name's Nadine,” Hartley told him softly. “From what I've gathered so far, the Goa'uld stole her from her mum, who's a pretty big deal in the Rebel forces.”

“Is she all right?” the Doctor whispered, the look on his face suddenly stormy. Hartley knew then that if Nadine had been in any way hurt the Goa'uld and his Jaffa would be lucky to escape with their lives that day.

“She's fine,” she assured him, “just a little rattled.” They fell into silence, Hartley holding a still-slumbering Nadine tight, while the Doctor paced the length of the cell, checking it for weaknesses, most likely. “Will we be sonicking our way out of this one, then?” she asked after a long few minutes of quiet.

“Can't,” he said.

“Don't tell me the door's wooden,” Hartley smiled thinly.

The Doctor's lips twitched, just a little bit – whether to smile or grimace, she couldn't say. “No,” he told her with a shake of his head. “But say I open the door. Then what? We fight our way out of this pyramid with nothing but our bare hands and a screwdriver?”

He had a very good point. Hartley sighed, running her hands over Nadine's dark, curly hair. The repetitive motion was soothing to her, probably even more so than to Nadine. “So what's the plan, then?” she prompted him, knowing he had to have one.

“I'm working on it,” he replied vaguely, and Hartley held back a sigh.

“What's the deal with this Baal guy, then?” she asked instead. “Why is he keeping us here?”

The Doctor scowled. “Pettiness?” he suggested, strangely bitter.

Hartley eyed him thoughtfully. “What happened between the two of you, exactly?” she asked. She felt like there was a story there, one she probably needed to know if they wanted any chance of finding their way out of this.

“What is this, story-time?” he countered dryly.

Hartley knew an evasion tactic when she saw one. She levelled him with her most stern, unimpressed stare, and he met her eyes unflinchingly. The two engaged in a familiar battle of wills; the Doctor stubborn, Hartley patient and persistent. Eventually he caved, giving in with a sigh of exasperation.

“Sarah Jane wanted to go somewhere tropical,” he reluctantly began. Hartley's brow hiked up in her surprise.

It wasn't often she was treated to stories involving the Doctor's previous companions; she supposed it was because talking about them was just too painful for him. She understood and knew never to push. She wondered, sometimes, how often he thought of them, or if he even thought of them at all.

“We arrived on a planet that I knew to be inhabited only by peaceful fishermen,” he continued, a faraway look in his eyes. “But I was a couple centuries off in my landing, and the civilisation was nothing like I'd expected. Baal had arrived some time earlier, setting himself up as their god. They worshiped the ground he walked on,” he spat, voice dripping with disgust. “But they didn't know the secrets he was keeping from them.”

“Like actually being a parasitic alien in control of an unwilling human host?” she asked dryly.

But the Doctor's expression only grew more drawn. “It went deeper than that.”

Hartley was suddenly afraid of whatever he was going to say next.

“He was mining the core of their planet,” he told her, a rare grimace etched into the lines in his handsome face. “Scooping it out and selling it to the highest bidder, all to finance the building of his grand _empire_ ,” he spat the word in disgust.

“What was at the core of their planet?” Hartley asked in a whisper.

“Naquadah.”

The word rang a bell for Hartley, who shut her eyes tight to quickly scan her memory, trying to locate where she'd heard it before. “Naquadah,” she repeated, testing out the sound of it in her mouth. It hit her suddenly, and she opened her eyes to look at the Doctor in surprise. “You mean the hyper-volatile element made into a bomb that time in the diamond factory?”

“The same,” he nodded. “The core of their planet was made up almost entirely of the stuff.”

Hartley frowned, trying to see the bigger picture the Doctor was alluding to. It took a moment, but finally understanding dawned. “If he was mining the entirety of the planet's core...” she trailed off, horror tight on her face and heavy in her heart.

“It was losing its stability, beginning to slowly fall out of orbit. The continents were shifting and there were earthquakes every other day. The whole planet was dying,” he said, grim and full of something that wasn't _quite_ hate, but maybe closer to contempt. “Baal's plan was to mine it to the very brink of collapse before beaming onto his ship and flying away, leaving all the people there to die with it.”

Hartley felt a surge of anger that created a lump in her throat and prickled uncomfortably at her skin. With Nadine in her lap she couldn't react, and took a deep breath, telling herself that indirect rage wasn't going to solve anything.

“What happened?” she asked quietly, stroking one hand down Nadine's wild hair, taking care not to let the little chocolate corkscrews get caught on her nails.

“I blew up his mine,” said the Doctor with the sort of nonchalance that didn't quite fit the sentence.

Hartley smothered an indelicate snort. “Just the one?”

“They only had the one,” he told her, “just a straight hole down with a drill and harvesting technology fused together. It was all automated.”

“And then? From what I heard back there, you ended up getting caught.”

“Oh yeah,” he nodded, eyes distant as he relived the past from the confines of his own mind. “Baal's guards managed to catch Sarah Jane and I before we could escape, and we were locked in a holding cell – quite like this one, actually.”

“How'd you get out?”

“He let us out,” the Doctor shrugged, “thought we were working for a Goa'uld resistance known as the Tok'ra and tried to torture us into giving him information.” Hartley's insides swooped in horror at the casual way he'd said it, but the Doctor didn't seem to notice. “I managed to use the sonic to turn his torture device around on him, incapacitating him long enough for Sarah Jane and I to use his transportation rings to beam back down onto the planet and get to the TARDIS.”

“What happened to the planet?” Hartley asked quietly, hoping desperately that he'd been able to save the people of the planet.

The Doctor's expression darkened, and Hartley's insides twisted. “The planet was a lost cause,” he said grimly, before brightening unexpectedly, “but we managed to relocate the survivors to an uninhabited planet only a couple systems away. I haven't checked in on them in awhile, but they seemed a capable bunch – I'm sure they're doing just fine.”

Hartley felt relief strong in her veins, and her shoulders slumped a little at the force of it. Nadine shifted slightly in her lap, and Hartley knew she needed to get them back on track. With the Doctor, sometimes it was easy to forget where you were – even if where you were happened to be locked in a guarded prison cell on an alien planet lorded over by a parasite with a mind of its own.

“And you haven't seen Baal since?” she asked, casting the guards a narrow-eyed stare where they stood, stoic and unmoving, outside their cell.

“Nope. He turned tail and ran the moment he had the chance. Didn't expect to run into him again. Small universe, I s'pose,” he sniffed.

“What happened when you were alone with him?” Hartley pressed, wondering if their discussion would be able to give them any ideas about how to get free.

The Doctor shrugged, leaning back against the golden surface of the wall, long legs splayed out before him. “He just badgered me about how I can be the same man in a different body, then got creative and began to tell me all the ways he would make me pay for what I did to him last time we met,” he said, unconcerned with Baal's threats.

“Do you think he'll follow through?” Hartley whispered, brow knitting together in worry. She didn't want the Doctor getting tortured – and she certainly didn't want to be stuck sitting idly by while it happened.

But the Doctor didn't answer, which she took as a bad sign. Instead he looked down at Nadine, who still slumbered peacefully in Hartley's lap. “You said her mother was with the rebels,” he said, watching the little girl sleep with a frown marring his brow. “Do you know how many of them there are?”

Hartley shook her head. “She doesn't seem to know much, or if she does, she was in too much of a state to tell me.”

The Doctor looked pensive, his brown eyes scanning the room, looking for answers that weren't there. “What I want to know is, why kidnap a little girl and keep her locked up like this?” he wondered aloud.

“Leverage against the rebels?” Hartley suggested hesitantly. “Or maybe for ransom? You said Baal wanted money to finance his empire.”

The Doctor pondered the idea, lips pursed in thought. “Maybe,” he finally said before falling quiet.

Hartley wasn't sure what they were going to do. They could probably get out of this cell easily enough, but beyond that what did they have going for them? No blasters, no weapons of any kind – not that the Doctor would allow them – and barely any tools to aid them apart from the sonic, the psychic paper, and whatever miscellaneous junk the Doctor happened to have stored in those bottomless pockets of his.

To Hartley's surprise, however, their biggest problem – the guards outside their cell – suddenly wasn't much of a problem at all.

The cell and the hallway outside suddenly began to flash red, loud alarms blaring throughout the entire ship. Nadine shot upwards with a scream as the sudden, piercing wail of the alarms cut through her peaceful slumber.

Hartley gripped Nadine, whispering soothing words in her ear while the Doctor stood to his feet. Nadine seemed to realise what was happening, calming down even as the sirens blared.

“Hart,” said the Doctor, voice only just audible over the alarms. She looked away from Nadine, watching as he nodded to the hallway outside the cell. Through the bars Hartley spied the dull silver of the metal exoskeletons which served as the guards' armour, watching as it moved away. The Jaffa's footsteps were heavy and mechanic on the floor, but after a long moment they were gone all together, leaving the corridor empty and their cell unguarded.

Hartley intended to wait a few moments to make sure they weren't going to come back, but the Doctor wasn't quite so patient. In a movement so quick she barely even saw it happen, he had his sonic screwdriver out and aimed at the door.

There was the loud clicking of futuristic mechanics unlocking themselves, and in the next breath the door to the cell began to lift. Hartley scrambled to her feet, quickly bringing Nadine up with her.

“Who are you?” Nadine demanded, a fearful tremor in her voice. She wasn't sure whether the Doctor could be trusted. Hartley took the little girl's hand, squeezing reassuringly.

“I'm the Doctor,” he told her as he gingerly pressed a hand to the threshold of the cell. Hartley was confused for a moment before quickly realising he was checking for a forcefield. Thankfully, there was none.

“What are we doing?” Nadine asked shakily. “What's happening?”

“We're getting out of here,” the Doctor told her confidently. “Tell me, Nadine,” he took a brief second to crouch down in front of the little girl, so their faces were at the same level, “have you ever heard of the game 'follow the leader'?”

Nadine seemed wary to respond, but Hartley squeezed her hand again, encouraging her to answer. “Yes,” she said, sniffling quietly as she nodded her head.

“We're going to play that now, all right?” the Doctor said, glancing back out at the hallway, beginning to grow antsy. Their window for escape was closing – it was only a matter of time until the guards reappeared, and they both knew it. “Do you think you can do that, Nadine?” he pressed urgently.

“Yes,” she said again, unsure of herself but trying anyway. It was the best they were able to hope for from someone so young.

The Doctor straightened, this time meeting Hartley's concerned stare. “Hart?” he asked quickly.

“Ready or not,” she assured him, and a smirk flickered at his lips before he abruptly slipped from the cell.

Stepping over the tiny line of threshold, Hartley couldn't help but feel starkly exposed, like arrows might start firing from the walls – Indiana Jones style.

The Doctor seemed to know where he was going, and that gave Hartley pause. “How d'you know where to go?” she asked in a whisper, because all the halls looked utterly identical to her. It was like some kind of extravagant, gold-plated labyrinth.

“They build these things out of kits. You've navigated one, you've navigated them all,” he replied, pausing at a corner and leaning around it to scan the hall beyond. Once he was sure it was safe he waved them through, and Hartley kept a tight hold on Nadine's hand, not for a moment letting go.

It was all rather anticlimactic. They encountered no more Jaffa or guards of any sort, and with just a little bit of super-stealthy tiptoeing the three of them were stepping out into the daylight in less than five minutes.

The Doctor froze the moment the sun hit his face, brow furrowing as he turned back to the pyramid before them, staring at it carefully.

Exasperated, Hartley gripped his hand as well, impatiently tugging him in the direction of the tree line. She didn't stop until they were well within the forest, stopping to let herself and Nadine breathe some much needed air.

The Doctor remained perfectly silent, staring back the way they'd come, suspicion etched into his expression. “What?” Hartley panted, lungs and legs burning from the mad dash to safety. The Doctor didn't answer her, and she could sense his dismay. “Doc,” she pressed, finally letting go of Nadine's little hand to step closer to him, a frown on her face, “what is it?”

He pursed his lips, the look in his eyes dark. “Did that seem far too easy to you?” he cautiously wondered.

Hartley paused, considering. “Are you actually _complaining_ about how easy that was?” she asked him critically. “Would you have rathered we encountered guards on our way out?”

“I'm just saying, it should have been more difficult than that,” he replied, ignoring her light jab.

“You've escaped from them before,” she pointed out.

“Which is how I _know_ this was unusual.” He spun in a slow circle, eyes piercing through the trees as if expecting something to leap forth and attack. “They should have sent guards after us,” he muttered to himself. “It would be easy enough to follow us – we weren't exactly careful with our tracks.”

Looking down at Nadine, Hartley took note of how pallid and drawn her face looked, circles large under her eyes. Protectiveness surged within her, and she frowned at the Doctor in disapproval. “Don't go poking holes in this,” she said sternly. “We escaped. That's what matters.”

The Doctor didn't look convinced, but she knew what he was like and left him to his griping.

“Nadine,” Hartley began, leaning down and pressing her hands gently to the little girl's shoulders, “do you know how to get home from here? Do your people live nearby?”

Blinking slowly, it seemed to take Nadine a long moment to process Hartley's words, until finally she nodded her head. Taking a step back, Nadine looked up towards the sky then did a scan of the nearby landmarks before bobbing her head once. “I know where we are,” she told them, more confident than Hartley had heard her yet.

Hope gripped Hartley like hands, warm and excited. “Is your home very far?”

Nadine paused, face scrunched as she thought. “If we hurry, we can get there soon,” she said decisively, and Hartley figured that was as much of an answer as she was going to be able to get.

“Lead the way,” she told her, giving a gentle smile that Nadine struggled to return. The little girl turned, taking stock of her surroundings once more before beginning to walk confidently deeper into the forest.

Hartley followed, and she was relieved when she heard the Doctor's footsteps crunching in the fallen leaves after them.

“Maybe we should head back to the TARDIS instead,” he suggested, keeping his voice low so Nadine couldn't overhear. Hartley wondered why that was, but decided not to question it.

“Why?” she asked just as quietly.

“So I can run some tests.”

That same protectiveness as before surged strong and hot in her veins. She whipped around to fix her friend with a disapproving scowl. “She's been locked in that cell for who knows _how_ long, Doctor,” she reminded him tartly. “She's underfed, exhausted, and scared. The last thing she needs is to be taken to a physics-defying blue box to have tests run on her by an alien stranger.”

The Doctor opened his mouth to argue, but she cut him off.

“What she needs now is to get home to her mother and have a decent meal. End of story.”

Now he looked like he _desperately_ wanted to argue the point, but he seemed to take note of the stubborn, unyielding glint in Hartley's blue eyes and reconsidered his argument. “All right,” he reluctantly agreed, and the rest of the journey was made in silence.

Nadine led them to the edge of the forest near to a beautiful, babbling creek. She came to a stop, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, and both Hartley and the Doctor warily paused, eyeing the immediate area with cautious curiosity.

“Nadine...?” Hartley tried to say, but whatever she'd been about to ask was interrupted by a sort of tribal shout, the sound reminding Hartley distinctly of Peter Pan and his Lost Boys.

A man appeared, tall and dark, wearing modest cotton clothing and holding a blaster of some kind.

“Nadine,” he said, voice like dark chocolate, rich and bitter. Nadine didn't hesitate to rush to the man's side, all but collapsing into him. He wrapped a firm arm around her shoulders without the aim of his weapon so much as wavering. Hartley warily held up her hands in the universal sign of surrender, and with a huff the Doctor did the same. “Who are you?” the man demanded tightly.

“I'm the Doctor, this is my friend Hartley,” the Doctor told him brightly. “What's your name?”

The man didn't respond, staring at them stoically, full to the brim with distrust. Hartley couldn't quite blame him.

“Ural,” came Nadine's sweet voice, and Ural reluctantly tore his stare away from the strangers to look down at her obediently, “they helped me. Hartley is nice. She saved me.”

The man – Ural – looked like he wanted to say it didn't matter; that they weren't to be trusted and they should either be killed or sent on their way. To Hartley's surprise he said nothing, as if Nadine's opinion mattered more than his. She wondered why that was.

“I want to take them to Mother,” said Nadine strongly.

Ural very reluctantly lowered his blaster – a strange silver device, bent into a sort of _Z_ shape – and nodded to them. Nadine detangled herself from around his waist, taking a few steps back until she was beside Hartley, taking her hand again without a word.

They all watched in silence as Ural leant down to the ground, beginning to run his fingers through the thick carpet of leaves that coated it. Hartley was confused until he suddenly grasped something solid and pulled it upwards, revealing a trap door hidden beneath the leaves and soil.

“Down,” said Ural succinctly, no give in his eyes.

“You're the boss,” the Doctor drawled, and Hartley rolled her eyes at his tone.

There was a rope ladder leading down into a tunnel, and one by one they climbed their way down. Hartley was just coming to the end when she felt a pair of hands on her waist. She took the final step to the ground, the Doctor's capable hands steadying her as she let go of the ladder. She glanced up, smiling at him gratefully, only to find he was frowning.

Not at her, but at whatever was going through his mind. His eyes kept flickering over to Nadine, who had been first down, standing in the shaft of sunlight streaming in through the open trapdoor.

“This way,” said Ural, turning to lead them deeper into the tunnels, his weapon thankfully holstered at his thigh.

Despite how sickly she looked, Nadine had brightened as she realised she was about to be reunited with her mum. Hartley had to wonder, suddenly, just how long Nadine had been locked in that cell. She was so young, Hartley could only hope the experience wouldn't leave lasting scars; the kind that weren't seen on the surface of your skin, but rather deep in your soul, where no medicine could reach.

Down the end of the tunnel was a large room, the glow of firelight dancing through the open door. Ural walked in without so much as a moment of hesitation, making a lazy gesture at Hartley and the Doctor, silently telling them to stay put. They reluctantly obeyed, and Nadine kept a tight hold of Hartley's hand.

Her skin was a little clammy against Hartley's, but they _had_ just sprinted for their lives a good mile through uneven terrain, so she didn't think it was important.

“You live underground?” the Doctor asked Nadine, sounding so casual that Hartley knew it to be anything but.

“We are hidden from the false gods here,” said Nadine in a quiet, wobbly voice. “They cannot see through soil and stone.”

Hartley's brow pinched as she considered the little girl's words. They were said with such conviction, like something she'd been taught from the moment she learned how to talk.

“Did the false gods ask you where you lived, Nadine?” pressed the Doctor. She looked up in surprise but his eyes were focused solely on Nadine, an unusual, worried glint in them that made Hartley nervous.

Nadine looked confused by the question. “No,” she said simply, turning back to the glow of the firelight against the stone walls, watching the colours dance in something of a daze.

Hartley opened her mouth to ask the Doctor why that was important, but before she could a shadow passed over the light in the next room and they all turned to find a tall, strikingly beautiful woman standing in the doorway.

She wore the same modest cotton as Ural, hair the exact same mess of corkscrew curls as Nadine's.

“Mother!” cried Nadine, letting go of Hartley's hand to launch herself at her mum, who caught her and swung her up onto her hip, relief and love shining like a newborn star in her heart.

Hartley and the Doctor politely looked away as the mother and daughter reunited, the pair whispering to one another, the mother wiping tears from her eyes.

A long few minutes later the woman put Nadine down, although kept a tight hold of her daughter's hand. Hartley imagined she wasn't going to be letting Nadine out of her sight any time soon. She couldn't say she blamed her.

“Ural says you saved her,” said the woman, immediately to the point. Hartley was a little blindsided by the directness of the words, but she nodded nonetheless. “You have my eternal gratitude,” she continued warmly, a small smile curving at her lips. “I am in your debt.”

“I'm the Doctor, this is Hartley,” the Doctor said in a hurry, as if keen to get the introductions out of the way as quickly as possible. “You are?”

“Yvette,” the woman told them with that same grateful smile in place.

“Yvette,” repeated the Doctor blithely, “lovely name. Could I ask a favour, Yvette? Since you owe us a debt, and all that.”

Hartley was about ready to smack him, but she settled simply for thrusting out her elbow, jabbing him none-too-gently in the ribs for his comment. Yvette looked surprised that they were cashing in their reward so quickly. She glanced unsurely over at Ural, whose expression remained as stoic as ever, then looked back at them with a nod.

“I'd like to examine Nadine, if that's all right,” he said, tone polite but holding an underlying edge of gravity that made her pause.

Slowly, she began to grow concerned. At first she'd played off the Doctor's worries as nothing more than boyish disappointment. _Of_ _course_ he'd find fault in their escape being too easy – the thrived on challenges, and this hadn't been one. Now, however, Hartley could see there was a lot more to this than simple, childish griping.

Yvette looked bewildered by the strange request, then her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

The Doctor hurried to hold his hands up, expression perfectly innocent. “I'm a Doctor,” he reminded her.

“A healer, he means,” added Hartley, deciding to stop treating the Doctor with disbelief and instead start working as a team again. She'd gotten so caught up in what she'd thought was best for Nadine, she hadn't stopped to wonder if she was _right_. And as much as she hated to admit it – the Doctor usually was. “We just want to make sure Nadine is healthy after being held captive for so long.”

Yvette still didn't look convinced. “Where are you from?” she asked them, eyes trailing carefully over their strange clothes and hair, too clean and sleek for one of their own. “You are not of the clans.”

“We're travellers,” the Doctor explained, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

“We were exploring the forest when we got captured by Baal's guards and taken to the same cell as your daughter,” Hartley elaborated, sensing they needed more details than the Doctor was giving.

“They saved me, Mama,” said Nadine again, her little voice ringing with childlike innocence, tilting her head right back so she could look into her mother's face. Yvette stared down at her daughter, a softness in her eyes that transcended words.

Everyone was silent, all waiting on Yvette to make the first move. Hartley found herself holding her breath in anticipation, anxious about what would come next. The whole thing felt unfinished, in a way, like something deep in her gut knew this wasn't over – not by a long shot.

“Would you care to dine at my table tonight?” Yvette finally asked, dark eyes meeting theirs in the low lighting of the tunnel.

“We'd be honoured,” said the Doctor almost before Yvette had even finished speaking. Hartley got the sense that he too sensed there was more to their journey today than met the eye. And she had to admit, a proper meal sounded pretty bloody fantastic. Her stomach gave a low grumble at the very mention of food and she pressed her hands over her middle, cheeks flushing pink.

Although still wary, Yvette graciously led Hartley and the Doctor through to the room beyond that first tunnel. Lit with roaring fires, the room was warm and comfortable, filled with little groups of men, women and children, all clumped together and whispering over their bowls of food. Hartley felt the weight of their stares like a blanket over her body and fought to keep her expression impassive.

Yvette's table seemed to be at the very head of the room, and it was bigger than all the others. Hartley began to get the sense that Yvette wasn't simply _a_ Rebel, but rather perhaps one of great influence. Her hunch was strengthened when the people nearby all nodded respectfully as Yvette lowered herself to the floor.

Taking seats on either side of her, the Doctor and Hartley gratefully accepted the bowls handed to them by the people Hartley took to be waiting on them.

“Tell me,” began Yvette, picking up a small spoon and beginning to stir the broth in her bowl, “where do you hail from?” Hartley hurried to copy her movements, seeing the Doctor do the same on her right.

“Just travellers, like we said,” the Doctor chirped. Hartley leant around Yvette to find him looking ferrety and anxious. His eyes kept flickered to Nadine, who sat in her mother's lap, absentmindedly peeling at some kind of alien fruit.

“Even the most determined of travellers has a home,” Yvette replied sagely. Hartley smiled at the words, spooning some of the broth to her mouth. It was warm, the meaty flavour strong and rich. Her stomach growled again and she put aside her concerns in favour of spooning more passed her lips, like a girl who'd just been starving in the desert.

“My ship is my home,” said the Doctor, voice holding an edge of steel. It was a clear warning, like a line drawn in the sand between them: _do not cross_. Despite this, a smile remained curled at his lips, like a mask he didn't know how to take off.

“And you, Hartley?” asked Yvette, turning to look at her expectantly. Hartley panicked and swallowed too much of her mouthful at once, the lump burning as it travelled down her throat.

“Well, I was born in a place called London,” she said, feeling a little uncomfortable under the woman's intense stare. It was like her eyes were piercing through the layers of her skin, digging at the hidden truth that lay beneath.

“London,” Yvette echoed curiously, a frown on her lips like the name was in another language all together. “Is it very far away?”

“Very,” Hartley nodded.

“Then how will you get back?”

“On my ship,” interjected the Doctor, and Hartley used the distraction to gulp down some more broth. “It travels great distances in very small chunks of time.”

Hartley was expecting her to look intrigued, but instead Yvette just looked indifferent, humming to herself as she waved her hand, one of her waiters reappearing with a ceramic jug. He began to pour her a cup of sweet-smelling liquid, and she smiled at him kindly.

“How did you get free of Baal's palace?” Yvette asked them in that same patient tone. She spoke slowly, like she had all the time in the world to get the words out of her mouth.

Hartley wondered what to say – whether to tell her that it was a stroke of absolutely miraculous luck or a carefully orchestrated plot to lull them into a false sense of security. She had a feeling Yvette wasn't going to like either of those responses.

“There was an emergency of some kind,” the Doctor began with his usual casual confidence, “it was enough to draw the guards away from our cell. Opening the door was easy – I'm _very_ clever – and from there it was just a game of cat and mouse to find our way out to freedom.”

Hartley hoped that might be enough to satisfy Yvette's curiosity, but she was promptly disappointed. “And why did he not destroy you on the spot?” she asked, eyes narrowed over the rim of her cup. “Baal is not known for his _mercy,_ ” she spat the word like it disgusted her, or maybe like it had abandoned her; not unlike a fairytale you grew up to learn was never real, a lie told to keep you in line your whole life.

Meeting the Doctor's glance, Hartley was surprised to see him looking ever-so-slightly uneasy. He didn't want to answer those sort of questions; didn't want to reveal exactly how cosmically important he actually happened to (reluctantly) be.

“We convinced him we had information he needed,” Hartley lied, and to her relief Yvette seemed to believe her. She hurriedly pushed the conversation along before she could dwell any further. “I see you're something of a leader amongst these people,” she said, casting the room a glance. People were still staring, but less so than before. “How did that happen?”

Yvette carefully weighed her words, methodically sorting them out in her head before answering.

“My father was a devout follower of Baal,” she began, eyes a million miles away. “He was so loyal, in fact, that Baal gave him the position of First Prime.”

The term was unfamiliar to Hartley, but thankfully the Doctor spoke up before she could get too lost. “Leader of his Jaffa army, most trusted personal assistant; that sort of thing,” he muttered, and Hartley nodded in understanding.

“My whole family was loyal to Baal,” Yvette continued, each word weighed down with a kind of stoic emotion. It was still so strange to Hartley, to see someone expressing no outwardly signs of emotion, and yet know in excruciating detail exactly what it was they were feeling. “We thought he was our great and powerful god. That he cared for us and loved us. That he could do no wrong.”

“And then?” Hartley whispered, already knowing in her heart what was coming.

“And then he murdered my father,” Yvette's expression and tone never once changed, but internally she was a storm of rage and pain. She didn't say any more about the circumstances of her father's death, but Hartley could imagine it hadn't been for some great and noble cause. From what little she knew of Baal, she could gather he was a petty man with little regard for intelligent life.

“And how did you end up here?” Hartley asked gently, putting down her bowl with a quiet clink of ceramic, her focus now entirely on the conversation.

“We had heard rumours of a resistance,” Yvette told her, expression changing for the first time in awhile – just a tiny lift of her lips. “The leader at the time was gracious enough to allow us sanctuary. I was young and healthy, and I was given more and more responsibility as I grew older. Eventually, when he passed, he left the resistance in my care.”

“That must have been a great honour,” Hartley whispered.

“Likely the greatest I am to ever receive,” Yvette agreed solemnly.

Hartley was so caught up in her story, she'd failed to notice something crucially important. “Nadine?” said the Doctor, reaching into Yvette's lap to gently shake the little girl's bony shoulder.

Hartley's pulse jumped, stomach swooping with horror. Nadine was out cold in Yvette's arms, head lulled back, lips just slightly parted.

“She's tired,” said Yvette dismissively. “She can sleep anywhere.”

But the Doctor wasn't so easily convinced. “Nadine!” he called, shaking her more firmly, and the entire room went silent, every Rebel staring up at the Doctor in wary concern. They watched as the Doctor pressed the back of his hand to Nadine's clammy forehead. “She's burning up,” he muttered, and the horror in Hartley's chest began to morph steadily into panic.

“What?” asked Yvette, her carefully applied mask finally cracking, giving way to genuine terror. “Nadine!” she shouted, shaking her daughter roughly. Nadine didn't so much as stir.

“I need to examine her,” the Doctor insisted, and this time Yvette didn't dare argue. She picked her daughter up in strong, capable arms and moved through a doorway leading off from the busy room. The Doctor was close at her heels and Hartley stumbled after them both, far clumsier in comparison.

Yvette set Nadine down on a stone table, running a hand over her daughter's clammy forehead. The panic that had begun to shine in her eyes was also emanating from her like a sequence of steady waves, each pulse causing Hartley's insides to clench as if fighting off a sickness.

The Doctor wasted no time in crouching by Nadine's unconscious form, beginning to run the sonic up and down her body, its blue tip casting an eerie glow over her coffee skin.

“What's happening?” Yvette demanded nervously. Gone now was that cool, calm and unflappable exterior she'd shown before, replaced by the anxiety and concern of a terrified mother watching her child suffer without knowing how to help.

“I'm not sure,” said the Doctor slowly, still scanning with the sonic. Every few moments the pitch of its buzz would shoot up as it switched to different frequencies – its most thorough scan yet.

“Not sure?” Yvette hissed impatiently.

“Well, the sonic isn't exactly designed for this sort of thing,” he replied, unconcerned by the daggers she was shooting him with her eyes. “Ideally, I'd take her back to the TARDIS, run some proper tests...”

Hartley sensed what he wasn't saying better than anyone. “But?” she prompted anxiously.

“But from what I can tell so far, moving her would only cause more damage,” he said, mouth pulled down in a heavy frown. Hartley lifted a hand to her throat, gripping firmly and letting the steady, predictable thumping of her pulse against her palm calm her.

The sonic suddenly beeped, and the Doctor lifted it to his face, eyeing the readings with a frown. Suddenly his eyes went open wide, and Hartley knew nothing pleasant would follow. “What?” she asked, dreading whatever he was about to say.

“Traces of nitrate, chemical accelerant, hardened naquadah...” he trailed off, and Hartley could tell he was as perplexed as the rest of them. Until suddenly he wasn't, horror that he did nothing to mask appearing in his hearts. “Turn her over,” he ordered Yvette sharply.

Yvette didn't seem the kind to take orders from anyone – but this was her daughter's life that was at stake, and Hartley knew she'd swear fealty to Baal himself if it meant keeping Nadine alive.

Hartley moved closer, helping Yvette to gently turn Nadine over onto her stomach. There was muttering in the doorway, and Hartley glanced back to see Ural talking with a handful of his people, assuring them everything was okay and asking for space, to which they complied.

The Doctor crouched again by Nadine's head, gently moving her chocolate, corkscrew-curls and holding them up so they could get a good look at the back of her little neck.

At the top of her spine was a small, inky black, raised patch of skin. The skin looked scarred, as if they'd sliced the patch open, shoved something inside, then hastily sealed up the area around it without caring for the girl's wellbeing.

Hartley's hands came up to her mouth, smothering the gasp of horror that escaped. In comparison Yvette was perfectly still, staring down at the dreadful sight stoically. “What is it?” she asked the Doctor, voice carefully measured, her storm of terror and dismay kept internal, Hartley the only one to know it was even there.

The Doctor hesitated in answering, and again Hartley was hit with the foreknowledge that whatever followed would be truly horrifying to hear.

“It's a bomb,” he said plainly, making no attempt to sugar-coat it as someone else might have.

Glancing down into his face, Hartley found fear in the depths of his eyes, the kind that clung to you like frost after a winter rain. Yvette said nothing, turning away from them to hide her expression. It did nothing to keep Hartley from feeling every morsel of terror and pain that lay in her broken heart.

“That's why it was so easy to get out of Baal's ship,” the Doctor continued, going back to scanning the little bomb with the sonic. “He wanted us to get free. This bomb was meant for you and your resistance.”

Hartley shuddered with sick horror. “How long does she have?” she asked him, the question whispered, as though if she spoke any louder it would set off the delicate bomb in Nadine's neck.

The Doctor scanned a moment longer before answer. “The bomb's on a countdown,” he revealed, “that's good news, at least.”

“ _Good news_?” Yvette whipped back around, hellfire in her eyes at the Doctor's blithe response.

He looked up at her apologetically, seeming not to know what to say to fix it. Luckily, after so many years travelling the stars together, Hartley was almost completely fluent in 'Doctor'. “What he means is that it's good to know there's a countdown, rather than some kind of random trigger. It means we have time now – that we can plan our next move,” she said calmly.

Yvette didn't look totally satisfied, but she no longer looked ready to put the Doctor's head on a pike.

“How long?” Hartley asked him quietly.

“Thirty-five minutes, twenty-one seconds,” he relayed, dark and grim. “I s'pose they wanted to ensure she'd be back in the resistance's hideout before it went off.”

Yvette cleared her throat, jaw tight with fury. “How big will the blast be?” she asked him flatly.

Both the Doctor and Hartley were blindsided by the question. “Sorry?”

“I need to know how far away from here we have to get her,” Yvette told them in a carefully detached voice. Hartley realised suddenly what she was suggesting, eyes widening in horrified shock. The Doctor was similarly stunned.

“No,” he said, voice like ice. “We're going to fix this.”

Yvette stared back at him, unmoving and unblinking – like a statue.

“Can you disarm it?” Hartley asked, hope like fire in her bones.

He shook his head. “Definitely not,” he told her regretfully. But then his eyes lit up with an idea, one so strong Hartley could almost see the lightbulb appear over his head. “Although,” he began, standing to his feet in one smooth move, “with the right equipment, I could remove it.”

“Remove it?” echoed Yvette dully.

“Despite what its placement might suggest, it _isn't_ hardwired into her nervous system,” he told them, bright and chirpy, as if this were any other puzzle to solve and there wasn't an innocent little girl's life at stake. “It's just slipped under the skin; somewhere they hoped you wouldn't find it in time. It'll be easy enough to remove.”

Hartley was already nodding in agreement. “So we just have to get her back to the TARDIS-”

“We can't,” he said, and she froze, staring at him with a mounting sense of dismay. “We can't move her now – her system's reacting to some of the elements in the bomb. It could kill her. Besides, the TARDIS is about a half hour away even if we run; we'd never make it in time.”

“We can't perform surgery _here_ ,” Hartley hissed, violently gesturing to the grit of the stone table and the muddy, dirty walls, moss growing along the seams at the floor.

“We're going to have to,” he replied, then turned to Yvette with a renewed sense of purpose. “Do you give me permission to perform this operation on your daughter?” he asked her respectfully.

Yvette wanted to say no, Hartley could tell, and she wondered whether this sort of thing went against their beliefs in some way. “It will save her life?” Yvette asked tightly.

“Almost definitely,” he nodded.

Yvette's jaw clicked, eyes hard as stone. “Then you have my permission,” she said formally. “What do you need?” she asked promptly, making a sharp motion at Ural who obediently appeared at her side.

“I need alcohol – the strongest you have – and a lot of it; your thinest, sharpest knife; a cold compress for her head, to try and bring her temperature down; and something clean to mop up the blood,” he listed without pausing for breath.

“It is done,” Ural swore, disappearing through the doorway like smoke.

Yvette knelt down to her daughter's side, whispering words of comfort in her sleepy ears. Hartley, however, had noticed a rather important item missing from the Doctor's list. She stepped closer to him, a frown knitting at her brow. “What about anaesthesia?” she asked quietly.

The Doctor was fishing something from his deep pockets. “They don't have any. They're not that medically evolved yet,” he told her distractedly, finally producing a pair of purple, latex gloves and pulling them on. “And there's no time to run back to the TARDIS to get any, either.”

“So we're just going to do this without it?” Hartley hissed. “She's only a little girl.”

“The alternative is dying,” he reminded her sharply, and Hartley had to concede the point. “She's strong,” he said, sounding more sure of himself than he felt, but Hartley was willing to pretend she didn't know that last part. “Besides, we've got you here.”

“Excuse me?” Hartley wasn't sure what to make of that comment. “In case you forgot, my degrees aren't exactly in medicine, Doc.”

“No,” he agreed, “but you _are_ an Empath.”

She was silent a moment, desperately trying to figure out what that was supposed to mean. It hit her suddenly, and then she was gaping at him like he'd just announced he was going to take up archery and tell everyone to start calling him Legolas.

“You want me to take away her _pain_?” she hissed, incredulous.

“95% of pain is just emotion,” he reminded her. “The actual physical experience is very weak. As an Empath you can take that pain away from her, channel it into exhaustion instead – keep her unconscious,” he said as if it were just that simple.

“I barely even know how to tell the difference between impatience and hunger, and you want me to stand as the only thing between Nadine and total agony?” she hissed.

The Doctor reached out, pressing his gloved hands against her shoulders and ducking his head to catch her stare. “Hart,” he said, slow and patient and full of an unearned confidence in her abilities. “You can _absolutely_ do this. I trust you. And so does Nadine.”

She didn't know what to say, his faith in her almost too much to bear. Swallowing down the lump that had appeared in her throat, Hartley changed the subject. “Can _you_ do this?” she asked him quietly. “You have actually performed surgery on someone before, right?” she added, a little teasing.

The Doctor looked offended at the insinuation. “It's been awhile,” he admitted, “but they don't call me _Doctor_ for nothing, now, do they?”

Hartley just barely managed a smile as Ural finally reappeared, arms laden with the supplies the Doctor had requested.

It all happened very quickly after that. The Doctor moved in that way only he seemed to be able to – fast and yet slow at the same time, like his movements were unrestrained by the law that governed time itself. He set everything up, then hovered over Nadine's neck, nodding for Hartley to begin her part in this whole plan.

She sat at Nadine's left while Yvette was crouched at her right. Both were gripping her hands, but only one had the ability to manipulate her emotions through the contact.

Nadine's emotions were distant, clouded by the fog of unconsciousness. Hartley closed her eyes, latching onto that sleepy, exhausted feeling with everything she had. Without opening her eyes, she nodded her head for the Doctor to continue.

She couldn't see what was happening, but a moment later Nadine's world went red with pain. Hartley winced, holding onto her hand in a white-knuckled grip, doing her best to send wave after soothing wave of peace over the scared, agonised little girl.

Hartley was new to this – she was an amateur at best – but Nadine needed her, and if she had this ability naturally inside of her, then surely she must have some kind of predisposition for it…right?

Pain surged again, red and white-hot, and Hartley latched onto the pain like a fisherman casting his net out to sea, pulling in his catch. It was strong and exceptionally difficult to fight, but she didn't stop, not even when her own insides began to burn with that same pain, exhaustion taking hold inside her very bones.

There were voices from all around her – distant and indistinct – but she ignored them, sweat beading on her forehead as she used every ounce of strength in her to keep Nadine in the foggy land of dreams, where the pain of reality couldn't quite reach.

A hand on her shoulder was what brought her back to herself, and Hartley gasped as she reluctantly opened her eyes, meeting the Doctor's chocolate stare. He was holding something in his hand, and she cringed as she took in the deep red splashes that stained his once-purple gloves black.

“Can you do it, Hart?” he was asking her in a rush.

Shaking her head as if to clear non-existent water from her ears, Hartley ineloquently asked, “what?”

“Take this as far away from here; run and _run_ , then throw it as far as you can before getting as far away from it as possible. You have about five minutes before it goes off, ” he said urgently. She finally realised he was holding the bomb – a small, square thing that in another life she might have confused for a camera's SD card. “Hartley – _can you do this_?” he asked again, and she realised she hadn't answered his question.

“Yes,” she assured him, gingerly taking the bomb from him, cringing at the blood still coating it, then standing to her feet.

“I've got to stay here and close her up,” the Doctor told her as she turned to leave, as if she was worried about why he'd delegated the task to _her_ , rather than do it himself. “Go now, Hart,” he said with a nod at the door, eyes hard as diamonds and just as beautiful. “Quick as you can.”

Nodding her head once, Hartley made a beeline for the door that led to the ladder that would take her back up to to the surface. The sun was beginning to set, the sky a beautiful mosaic of fiery colours unlike anything Hartley would ever see back on Earth.

She picked a direction and began to run, following the flow of the river that led away from the resistance's hideaway. She was painfully aware of the ticking clock she had hanging over her head, and was only all the more relieved it was her taking the bomb away, rather than someone who still had the ability to die.

The air was bitingly cold but her skin was wet with sweat from both her mental exercise and her sprint, and she breathed in the brisk air as she ran. Glancing down at the bomb, she found with a sinking heart that it was flashing red. She was no expert, but she was pretty sure that meant 'explosion imminent'.

Looking wildly from left to right, she tried to pick somewhere to throw it, thinking suddenly that the last thing she wanted was to kill any wildlife with her haphazard throw.

The sound of the rushing water beside her was suddenly deafening in her ears, and without stopping to wonder whether it was even a good idea, Hartley tossed the tiny bomb as far down the river as she could throw. It landed in the water with a small splash, but down this far the current was rather wild, and she knew the flow was taking it further and further down the river.

With a silent apology to the alien fish that might inhabit the stream, Hartley turned and bolted back in the direction of the resistance's base. As an afterthought she stuck her fingers in her ears, ducking her head just in time.

The explosion was so big it rocked the very ground beneath her feet. The dirt trembling under her, Hartley lost her footing and fell with a yelp. The ground gave way and next thing she knew she was tumbling into the river. It was terrifyingly deep and freezing cold to boot, but her instincts won out and she thrust out a hand.

She managed to get ahold of a protruding tree root, and by some miracle it didn't give under her weight. She was able to use it to slowly, painfully pull herself out of the water, ears ringing from the volume of the explosion, vision blurry and weak.

Back on solid ground, Hartley collapsed into the dirt. She stared up at the sky, which by now had faded to a deep indigo, stars beginning to dot the heavens like artful sequins. The constellations were unfamiliar but comforting all the same.

She allowed her breath to even out and her pulse to do the same, basking in the glow of all the people she'd helped save today, not the least of which being Nadine. And a smile spread across her face, wide and content, and she was happy.

The Doctor was speaking with Yvette when she finally arrived back in the tunnels, soaked to the bone and shivering from head to toe.

He seemed to sense her arrival before even setting his eyes on her. His spine straightened the moment she slipped into the room, his eyes searching for her before she'd come to a complete stop.

His expression slackened with relief, like he'd been taut with tension not knowing if she was okay. He barely said a word of apology to Yvette, literally getting up and leaving mid-way through her sentence. He didn't seem to care, eyes only for Hartley.

Despite her intense shivering and bone-deep exhaustion, she found herself smiling as he approached, scooping her up into the biggest hug she was sure she'd ever received. Her feet left the ground as he hefted her into his arms, spinning on the spot and squeezing her tight. She gripped him back tightly, his body cool and sure against hers, the scent of him the strangest but most wonderful combination of marmalade and motor oil.

“I don't recall taking a dip in the river to be part of the plan,” he said, voice warm and fond and familiar in her ear.

“I had to improvise; so sue me,” she replied lightly, squeezing him once more for good measure before he gently put her back on her feet and slowly let her go.

She continued to tremble, the heat of the nearby torches doing nothing to help warm her up. The Doctor didn't even hesitate to strip off his coat and jacket, wrapping her in the latter and then the former, bundling her up like a child. It made her smile.

“It won't do much until you get out of those wet clothes,” he said even as he hurried to rub his hands up and down her arms in an attempt to warm her up. “But it's better than nothing.”

“How's Nadine?” Hartley asked around her chattering teeth. “Is she okay?”

“Right as rain,” he smiled. “Want to come see?”

He led her back to where Yvette was still sitting, Nadine curled in her lap. Her hair was just as bouncy and wild as ever, and a small piece of cloth covered the wound on the back of her neck. All together she looked none the worse for wear.

“Hartley,” said Nadine in her small, childlike voice, blinking blearily up at the redhead who was dripping a puddle on the floor. “You're back!”

Hartley smiled at her gently. “How are you feeling?” she asked her as she pulled the Doctor's coat tighter around her, sinking into the small degree of warmth it provided. The Doctor was right: it was better than nothing.

“My neck hurts,” Nadine pouted a little, but not out of petulance, simply sad acceptance. “But the Doctor says it will heal quick,” she said with a sure nod that only made her grimace with pain. “Did you see the angel?” she barrelled on ahead, without sign of slowing.

That was good, Hartley decided, it meant she probably had no real lasting scars. “Angel?” she asked quietly.

“She took my hand and held me when the pain was bad,” said Nadine fervently. “She was very nice.”

Hartley's eyebrows were raised high, and she turned to look at the Doctor for an explanation only to find him smirking in that self-satisfied way that usually drove her crazy. She met his eyes, and the smirk only widened. Withholding a huff, Hartley looked back at Nadine.

“I'm glad,” she said aloud, and Nadine smiled around a loud yawn.

“We should let you get some rest,” said the Doctor suddenly, watching as Nadine stubbornly blinked her eyes open, determined to stay awake.

“You're not staying?” she asked them sadly. Hartley smiled, feeling affection strong and warm in her chest.

“We need to go home now,” the Doctor replied quietly. “Hartley needs a hot bath and some clean clothes.”

“She can borrow my clothes!” Nadine insisted.

Hartley leant down to Nadine's level, reaching out to gently brush her hair out of her pretty eyes. “Thank you, Nadine, but I really need to go home now,” she said apologetically. “I'm so tired that I just want my _own_ bed and my _own_ clothes. I feel better when I have all my own things around me. You understand?”

Nadine reluctantly nodded her head. “Will you come back?” she asked hopefully.

Hartley stood back up straight, glancing cautiously over at the Doctor only to find him smiling easily. “Sure,” he said, sounding like he really meant it. “You'll see us again.”

“When?” Nadine pressed stubbornly.

The Doctor's smile widened. “When you're not expecting it,” he told her mischievously, shooting her a wink that was just enough to make her giggle. He looked back up to look at Yvette who had so far been silent, simply watching her daughter talk with happy relief sparkling in her eyes. “Back to the fight, I suppose?” he asked her conversationally.

“Always,” Yvette swore ardently.

The Doctor gave a low, wry sort of smile. “I'm not usually one to endorse violence,” he began slowly, “but keep doing what you're doing. Something tells me that eventually, some time in the not-so-distant future, the Jaffa are going to be free of Goa'uld enslavement, once and for all.”

Hartley saw the comment for what it was – the kind of promise only a time traveller could make – and smiled down at her shoes, contentment filling her veins.

“Thank you for saving my Nadine,” said Yvette, the most warm Hartley had seen her yet. “You are welcome to sanctuary here, any time.”

“Thank you,” Hartley told her. “I hope we see you again.”

“As do I.”

The sky was an inky black now, the stars glittering high above them like the most beautiful blanket in existence. Two moons could be seen through the trees, one large and magnificent, the other smaller in comparison, but no less gorgeous.

“TARDIS is this way,” chirped the Doctor as he began walking confidently in one direction.

“How do you know?” Hartley countered skeptically.

He gave an affronted little scoff. “I always know,” he said, and although Hartley knew that was utter bullshit, she didn't argue the point.

“You were good with her,” she began a few minutes into their walk, still shivering from the cold. The Doctor's coat was keeping the wind off her wet clothes though, which was helping a little. He looked over, confusion swimming in his eyes. “Nadine,” she elaborated through chattering teeth. “You were really great with her.”

“So were you,” he replied. It _wasn't_ an answer to the question she purposefully _hadn't_ asked, and they both knew it.

“I guess we don't often come across that many children in our travels,” she continued, not _quite_ fishing for information, but certainly still hoping for some. “They're few and far between.” She considered her own words. “Which is a good thing, I s'pose.”

“You like kids,” the Doctor said, and it wasn't a question.

“Yeah,” she agreed. “Always have. Kids are honest; they're genuine. You never have to wonder what they're thinking. They're the only people in the world who're _truly_ innocent, filled with so much potential. They can still be anything they wanna be,” she smiled, a little wistful. “I think it's beautiful.”

The Doctor was silent and she could practically hear him thinking from beside her, his thoughts loud but also wordless. She waited patiently for him to sort them into some sort of order.

“I have kids,” he said, the words spoken suddenly with an edge of careful detachment. Hartley felt shock like a solar flare in her chest, but she forced her expression to remain impassive, saying nothing and not reacting in any way. She knew it wouldn't take much to spook the Doctor, cause him to rethink his sudden urge to share. “Or I _had_ kids, I s'pose,” he corrected himself, like an afterthought. “Not anymore.”

A thousand possible replies burned in Hartley's head. What could she say to that? What did he want to hear? What did he _need_ to hear? What did _she_ need him to know?

“I'm sorry,” she said, quiet but heartfelt.

“I carry them with me. They're a part of me,” he told her distantly, like he wasn't aware he was saying anything at all; lost in another time, seeing something she never could. “I won't ever forget them. But life has to go on. Without them.”

Hartley pressed her lips together, heart bleeding for him, this alien she was tied to throughout the whole of time and space.

She wanted to know their names – who they were, what they liked and disliked, whether they'd ever been to Earth, and if he thought they might have liked her – but she knew instinctively that that was more than the Doctor was ready to give.

Before she could talk herself out of it, Hartley reached out and caught his hand in her own, gripping tightly and leaning into his side. He ran cooler than most humans did, so he wasn't a source of warmth, but he was strong and unyielding beside her, and so was she beside him, and it was exactly what both of them needed.

“Thanks for telling me,” she whispered, meaning every word. She squeezed his hand, dragging her thumb over his cool, smooth skin, feeling a pulse of wistful sadness before it was hidden away where she couldn't reach.

She spied the TARDIS in the distance, filled with a rush of warmth.

“Come on,” she said, glancing up at the Doctor from under her lashes, a gentle, understanding smile gracing her face. “Let's go home.”


	32. Smith & Jones

**SMITH & JONES**

_"The glitter in the sky looks as if I could scoop it all up in my hands_

_and let the stars swirl and touch one another,_

_but they are so distant, so very far apart, that they cannot feel the warmth of each other,_

_even though they are made of burning."_

Beth Revis, “Across the Universe”

* * *

“And your mum says that your sister says hello, and that she misses you,” her dad told her. Hartley looked up from the salad she was pushing around her plate, eyebrows raised in skepticism. Jacob could sense her disbelief as well as he always could, and he smiled. “She really does,” he insisted. “She's happier since she got married.”

“Oh, I'm sure she is,” Hartley said with a roll of her eyes. “How _was_ the wedding we weren't invited to, anyway?”

“Your mother quite enjoyed it,” Jacob told her, taking a final bite of his lunch before pushing the plate off to the side. “She said it was a beautiful ceremony.”

“Who's the guy, again?” Hartley asked, a reasonable question.

“Someone in the government,” he said, a small, polite smile on his face, as though he wanted to keep his manners even when the subject of conversation wasn't even there. “He's running for office, you know?”

“Is he loaded?”

“You know she doesn't care about that sort of thing,” her dad scolded her lightly.

“Are we talking about the same person?” Hartley asked, voice sharper than typical. That was usual, when they got talking about the black sheep of the family.

“She seems to really love him,” said Jacob, ignoring the bitter edge his daughter held in her eyes. “I went round to their new place for tea a few days ago.”

“She actually let you into her house?” Hartley scoffed. “She wasn't afraid you'd infect it with your _morality_ , or something?”

“Hartley,” he said, just as scolding as before. Hartley inhaled deeply, letting it soothe her irritation. She couldn't help it; when it came to her sister, there was just something intrinsically frustrating, something about the topic of her and their relationship that made her defensive and bitter. It didn't help that her sister felt much the same.

“How is she?” she asked reluctantly, the words spoken through gritted teeth.

“Happy,” said Jacob with a small smile that flickered after a moment, giving way to a worried frown. “I don't know about her new husband, however,” he continued truthfully. “He's a little … weird.”

Hartley picked up her glass, taking a generous sip of the champagne within. “Weird how?”

“Dunno,” said her dad with a grimace. “Something about him just doesn't sit quite right.”

“Did you say something?”

Jacob gave a laugh that was a little less amused and a little more hysterical. “I'd have been thrown out faster than I could say my piece,” he said wryly. He knew how lowly Hartley's half-sister thought of him. Besides, he was never one to rock the boat.

“Do you think he's dangerous?” Hartley asked, frowning over the rim of her champagne flute. They may not have gotten along even at the best of times, but she was still her sister, and she would always care about her.

“I don't know,” said her dad honestly. Before Hartley could press for more, he changed the subject. He never did care for the dark and gloomy – particularly while they were enjoying one of their usual lunches. “We've spent this whole time talking about Earth and its dull affairs,” he said, voice laced with playful disapproval. “We're _hardly_ interesting. I want to know how things are in space.”

“It's not strictly _space_ where I spend all my time, y'know,” Hartley told him dryly, but she couldn't mask the smile sitting at her lips.

“Have you met _Hans Christian Andersen_ yet?” he asked eagerly.

“Not yet, but I'll have to get onto the Doctor about that one.”

“Get me a signed first-edition copy of _The Ugly Duckling_ , will you?” he pleaded. “It always was my favourite.”

Hartley laughed, quiet and loving. “Sure, dad,” she told him, and he grinned back, the conversation sliding onto lighter topics with ease.

The father and daughter had barely finished their drinks when the door to the parlour burst open. Her dad jumped, blinking up at the source of the interruption in shock.

The Doctor stood above them, a wild, distracted look to his eyes. “Are you done yet?” he asked Hartley hopefully, the blue of his suit glinting in the warm lights above.

“Must you be so impatient?” she countered, shooting him a look for his rude interruption. He blinked back, utterly unaffected. He wasn't often _intentionally_ rude, but when he was he was usually oblivious to it.

“I've found plasma coils, in the city,” he explained in a hurry, practically bouncing on the tips of his toes with impatience. “Rather important we check it out.”

“What's a plasma coil?” asked Jacob curiously, turning in his chair to look at the Doctor properly.

“Uh, sort of a … like an electric charge, I s'pose, except, really, nothing at all like an electric charge,” the Doctor explained it poorly. “Oh, never mind. But the longer we wait, the more opportunity there is for it to turn into something … _sinister._ ”

Hartley rolled her eyes, gathering the napkin on her lap, folding it and placing it on the table between them. “I'd better go before the Doctor pops a blood vessel or something,” she couldn't help but smile in soft amusement. “I'll come by the same time next week?” she offered, leaning across the table to meet her dad's eyes.

Jacob cocked an eyebrow, the expression thick with skepticism. “And how long will that be on TARDIS time?” he asked coyly.

The Doctor and Hartley exchanged a glance. She swept to her feet, leaning down to press a warm kiss to her dad's cheek. “Same time next week?” she repeated, deciding it was safer not to answer. Their lifestyle could be a bit unpredictable. She didn't want to go around making promises she couldn't absolutely keep.

“Sure, darling,” said her dad softly, grasping her hand in his warm, weathered grip and squeezing. “Stay safe until then.”

“I'll do my best,” she swore, barely getting enough time to smile at him before the Doctor snatched ahold of her hand and began to yank her back through the labyrinthine halls of her parent's old house. “Doc,” she huffed around a tiny laugh.

“Bye, Jacob!” he yelled over his shoulder, remembering his manners at the very last second. But they were out the door before they could hear her dad's reply.

The TARDIS stood tall and blue in its usual parking spot at the very back of her parent's sprawling garden. The Doctor unlocked it, pulling her inside and dematerialising his ship before she could so much as ask where they were going.

“I was hoping to have a piece of cake before I left, y'know?” she couldn't help but complain, leaning back against the railing of the console room and cocking a brow at the Doctor in a move that made her look strikingly like her dad.

“Why?” he asked distractedly.

“Because sometimes humans like to eat sweet things after their meals,” she retorted. “It's this strange phenomenon known as 'dessert',” she joked wryly.

The Doctor pulled away from the controls long enough to shove a hand into the inside pocket of his jacket, fishing free a small lollipop wrapped in clear plastic. “There you go,” he grinned proudly as he handed it over.

Hartley couldn't help but smile, taking it from him as she grinned back in affectionate amusement. “All right,” she relented, wrapping it and sticking the deep red sweet onto her tongue. It tasted like cherries, and she smiled around the little white stick. “Where're these coil things, then?” she asked, hopping up onto the jump seat and kicking her legs in the space below.

“The hospital,” he told her, the TARDIS shuddering all around them as it diligently took them to where they needed to be.

“And what could cause a plasma coil?” she pressed, curious about the answer without really knowing what 'plasma coils' even were.

“Nothing naturally occurring – in this era of Earth's history, anyway,” he said, lifting his leg to hook his foot around the zigzag plotter, struggling to keep his machine under control. The time rotor bobbed up and down in a repetitive motion, but the TARDIS gave no indication she was struggling.

“Meaning it's extraterrestrial,” she concluded.

“Must be.”

Concern mingled with curiosity in her gut. “Is anyone in danger?”

The Doctor didn't appear too worried, but even he couldn't know everything. “That's what we're here to find out,” he said just as the ship gave a loud, wheezing groan and then a violent shake as they materialised.

“So, what's the plan, exactly?” she asked around her lollipop, shoes slapping against the grating of the console room floor as she plucked her jacket from over a pillar of coral and threaded her arms through the sleeves.

“Hadn't thought that far ahead, to be perfectly honest,” he admitted with a self-conscious tug at his ear.

“You're impossible.” Hartley rolled her eyes, but the action was born of fondness rather than exasperation. It was something of a routine between them now, something familiar and warm between them – as reliable as the sun rising in the east (on Earth, anyway – she supposed these Earth-centric idioms could prove to be something of a hassle).

“S'pose I could always admit myself with some kind of illness,” the Doctor mused, reaching up to stroke his chin absentmindedly. Hartley bit her lit to smother a laugh at the gesture.

A thought occurred to her suddenly, though, and she frowned. “And what if they decide to run some tests and discover your alien DNA?” she asked. “Or have you forgotten that a key part of human physiology is only having one heart?”

He waved away her concerns with a lazy flap of his hand. “UNIT would intervene before they did anything _too_ heinous,” he assured her.

“For that to be in any way comforting, you'll need to tell me what UNIT is,” she said with yet another roll of her eyes.

“They're my employers!” he announced with a beaming grin, pushing open the doors to reveal a tall hospital building standing before them. It looked just like any other hospital Hartley had ever seen; large and utterly unassuming. The only thing even slightly abnormal about it were the thick, dark clouds gathering in the sky above it – but then again it _was_ London, so how abnormal was that, really?

“Your _employers_?” she repeated dubiously, leaning back against the TARDIS and watching as he locked the doors after them.

“What?” he asked primly, straightening his tie with his free hand, an afterthought.

“ _You_ have a _job_?”

“On occasion,” he shrugged, slipping the key and his both his hands into the pockets of his suit pants. The sky was beginning to grow dark, the daylight slipping away. “They're a branch of government,” he began to explain as they carefully crossed the busy road and made their way towards the looming building. “Stands for the _Unified Intelligence Taskforce_.”

“And they hired _you_?” she asked as she sidestepped a woman in a wheelchair holding a cigarette that Hartley was fairly certain she shouldn't have been.

“You could sound less surprised,” the Doctor grumbled. “I'm a very hireable person, I'll have you know.”

“Oh yes, of course you are,” she agreed in a tone that was clearly placating, and he shot her a less-than-impressed stare from the corner of his eye. This only made Hartley's smile widen, pleased with her teasing. Stepping into the air-conditioned temperatures of the hospital, the pair of travellers found themselves at the end of a long line leading to the reception desk. “Go on, then, what is it that UNIT does, exactly?” she pressed, seeing that they had plenty of time to discuss it.

“They're the Earth's first defence against extraterrestrial threats and incursions,” he explained factually, and Hartley got the impression it was something that had been fed to him before, maybe on a brochure of some kind. “They needed an alien expert, ergo me.”

“So, you _used_ to work for them.”

“No, I still do,” he argued before pulling a thoughtful frown. “I mean, technically. I never formally resigned, so I s'pose I'm still on the pay roll. I'll probably have backdated pay... Money... What would _I_ do with money?” he mumbled, glancing down at his hands as if they held the answer.

“But if they needed you, how would they contact you?” she asked, keeping him on track. She knew how his mind tended to wander. “'S not like you have a number they can call.”

“They're creative,” he shrugged, unperturbed. “They haven't needed me in ages, though. I guess I'm doing a good enough job of keeping the Earth safe on my own,” he added with a proud sniff.

Hartley laughed at him, unabashedly teasing. “Yeah, that's probably it.”

He rolled his eyes, a tiny hint of a smile growing on his mouth, but any reply was interrupted by the nurse at the reception desk clearing her throat. They both looked over at her, neither having realised she'd been waiting for them to finish.

“Hi,” said the Doctor with an abundance of enthusiasm that contradicted his next words, “I'm John Smith, this is my wife, Hartley Smith. I've been having stomach cramps, so we thought we'd come check them out.”

Hartley bristled at being called his wife, but he didn't so much as blink at his own lie. She sure would've liked to have been informed of the backstory before they'd gotten to the lying part, but she had grown used to the Doctor's impromptu ways over the years, enough so that she took it in her stride.

The nurse didn't seem deterred by his cheerfulness, blinking at him apathetically before handing over a clipboard holding a small stack of paperwork. “Fill this out and a doctor will be with you soon,” she said, tone full of boredom. Hartley didn't need to be an Empath to know this woman absolutely hated her job.

“Brilliant,” the Doctor said brightly, snatching the clipboard and moving over to the chairs sitting off to the side. The waiting area was full of sick, coughing patients and people wearing heavy looking casts. Hartley hoped she wasn't going to catch anything – she may have been immortal, but she wasn't immune to the flu. “You wanna do the honours?” the Doctor asked as they took a seat, handing off the papers to Hartley, who cocked an eyebrow at him dubiously.

“You want _me_ to fill out _your_ admission papers?”

“Obviously,” he said, producing a fountain pen from one of his bottomless pockets and holding it out to her pointedly. He shook it when she didn't immediately take it from him. “Oh, come on, we're just making all the information up anyway,” he complained. With a huff she snatched the pen, glaring at him halfheartedly as she propped the clipboard on her knee to work.

“Wife, huh?” she asked, voice indifferent – a far cry from the storm of emotions raging within her chest.

“Best lie to use at a hospital,” he told her flippantly, digging in his pockets again, nose crinkled as he searched. “This way they'll let you stay with me overnight. Here,” he added, holding out his hand. Bemused, she held out her own palm, and with a wry grin he dropped a small ring into her waiting hand.

She blinked down at it in surprise. It was a bright golden band with a large glittering diamond sitting at the crown. It was ostentatious at best, and her eyebrows shot up at the sight of it.

“Is this real?” she hissed incredulously. The thing looked like it cost a small fortune.

The Doctor seemed confused by her reaction. “I guess,” he murmured, taking it back and holding it up to the light with a trained, critical eye. “Yup, it's made of diamond from the Kallangur System, about a hundred thousand lightyears from Earth – that's halfway across the entire galaxy,” he told her casually. “And it's ninety-ninth century, by the looks of it,” he added with a sniff. “Good period for jewellery – and also interior design, funnily enough. They call it the Pandora renaissance,” he said, tossing it back to her like it were some kind of unimportant trinket he'd won from an arcade, rather than a priceless jewel from the distant future.

Gasping, Hartley hurried to catch it in careful hands.

“This looks more expensive than every piece of jewellery I've ever touched, _pooled together_ ,” she admitted, still holding it gingerly, like it were a bomb that would explode in her hands if she applied too much pressure. That made her think of the last gathering of diamonds she'd been near – that factory last year with Rose and those thieves – and her heart was suddenly in her throat.

“And?” asked the Doctor blithely, leaning around her to get a good look at a passing basket of patient files being carted towards the office. She shook her head, coming back to the moment.

“Well, for starters, I'd _never_ wear something so ostentatious,” she said honestly. It was beautiful, there was no denying it, but it wasn't something she could ever bring herself to wear. She didn't like gaudy jewellery, preferring more subtle accents to her accessories.

“Good thing nobody here knows you, then,” he told her, turning his attention back to her with an impish grin. She sent him a flat expression. “We're _undercover_ ,” he reminded her dryly, lowering his voice so a passing doctor wouldn't overhear. “Doing things we normally wouldn't do is sort of the whole _point._ ”

She still didn't put the ring on, and with a huff he snatched her left hand, holding it for a beat before slipping the ring onto her fourth finger with a chastising look. She'd never worn anything on that finger before, and the sudden weight of a massive diamond against it felt significant, heavy on her soul rather than her skin.

“I thought you humans all loved big, pretty, shiny things,” he complained with another sniff, fishing another ring from his pocket and slipping it carelessly onto his finger.

His was simple, a plain gold band, nothing ostentatious about it at all. She narrowed her eyes at it in irritation. It was the principle of the matter, as far as she was concerned.

“I never was one for big, pretty, shiny things, myself,” she finally responded dryly, shaking off the odd sensation within her chest and focusing back on the present.

“What _do_ you like, then?” he muttered thoughtfully, like she were some kind of complex riddle for him to solve. But it was also somehow more than that – it was more than a thirst to win, or an urge to solve her mystery. It was a knowledge that once he did there would only be more to discover; and that thrilled him.

It made her feel special, it always had, like she were something precious and rare. Like the stone in the ring on her finger.

She wasn't sure how telling him what kind of jewellery she preferred would help him in his quest to understand all things Hartley, but she indulged him, just as she always would.

“I like things picked out with care,” she told him as she looked away from the glittering stone on her finger and focused on the forms on the clipboard. “Something like this just feels...unnatural, somehow,” she said, but from beside her the Doctor was silent. Either he was mulling over her answer or he'd become distracted. She didn't mind either way, her attention on bullshitting her way through the paperwork in her lap. “Middle name?” she muttered to herself before smirking and writing ' _Meredith_ '.

“John Meredith Smith?” The Doctor asked dryly, leaning over her to get a better look at what she was writing down. “Really?”

“Shut up and help me pick a fake blood type,” she mumbled back. The Doctor snorted in reply, sinking down in his uncomfortable chair and settling in for the long haul.

* * *

Hartley awoke to fingers carding tenderly through her hair. Sighing in pleasure at the feeling, she tried to burrow deeper into her covers only to find she wasn't laying in a bed like she'd assumed, but instead was uncomfortably hunched over.

She lifted her head with a small grunt of confusion and the hand snapped back in shock, like its owner had been caught doing something they shouldn't have. Blinking blearily up at the Doctor, her waking brain took a moment to recall where they were.

His focus was now on the book in his lap, a big thing full of crosswords that she'd picked out from the shop in the lobby the night before. She knew a Doctor with an idle mind was no laughing matter. It was best for everyone that he had something to occupy himself with; even if it was trivial word puzzles.

He was almost finished, it seemed, with only a few pages left to go.

“Good, you're up,” the Doctor said cheerfully, twirling a pencil in his nimble fingers like they hadn't just been carding sweetly through her hair. He didn't want to bring attention to it, she could tell. “Who's a villain on _Coronation Street_ with the last initial of F?” he asked keenly.

Still bleary-eyed, Hartley yawned loudly, stretching her back until it popped and then relaxing back in her plastic chair, rubbing away the sleep in her eyes. “Frank Foster?” she suggested, and the Doctor gave a loud ' _aha_!' before scribbling the answer down, keen eyes scanning the rest of the clues. “Did you spend all night doing that?” she asked, picking up his untouched cup of water and taking a deep sip.

“As if I was going to _sleep_ ,” he snorted like the idea were preposterous. Hartley rolled her eyes at him, undeniably fond.

“Anything I missed?”

“Breakfast.” He reached over to his bedside table and blindly swiped a small cup from it, holding it out for her to take. “Saved you some jelly.”

“They give out jelly with breakfast?” she asked doubtfully even as she took it. It was blue – her favourite.

“They do when you're as foxy as me.”

“How many times have I told you not to call yourself that? It's embarrassing.”

“One of the answers in the last puzzle was 'Flux Capacitor',” he said like she hadn't even spoken, something she was too used to by now to be bothered by. “These humans – honestly...” he tutted.

Smiling, Hartley shook her head and grabbed the small plastic spoon from the table, ripping off the foil covering the tub of jelly and digging in. It was a poor choice of breakfast, but it was better than nothing, and it tasted delicious.

“So, nothing to report about the Plasma Coils?” she finally asked once the small tub was completely empty, leaning down to throw it into the small bin placed under his bed.

“Nothing out of the ordinary, other than those occasional shocks,” he told her, gesturing pointedly to the metal side rails of his bed where she'd shocked herself no less than three times the night before.

“Worth sticking around?” she asked, not really wanting to admit that she was getting antsy, that she wanted to climb back into that wonderful blue box and go find some real fun. The Doctor was right about one thing, linear time could be so very _dull._

“Give it another day or so,” he said, finishing the crossword he was on and moving onto the next page, already scanning the clues with a practised eye.

She just barely stopped herself from groaning aloud at the thought of spending an entire second day sitting in this God-awful chair, instead giving another sigh and slinking deeper into the plastic seat, her feet propped up on the bottom rails of the Doctor's bed. After a moment she realised the Doctor wasn't staring at his puzzle anymore, but rather at her, an impish glint to his dark eyes.

“What?” she asked, already defensive.

“You're not getting _bored_ , are you?” he teased mirthfully.

She shot him an unimpressed frown, but couldn't find it within her to lie either. Before she could come up with a suitable reply, the curtain surrounding the bed was pushed back and a group of young-faced doctors came into view. A gruff, older man in a suit stood off to the side.

“Now then, Mr and Mrs Smith, a very good morning to you both,” the stiff man said, kind but also removed. He held a practised bedside manner, one that only came from years of experience working in a hospital. Hartley smiled at him politely, the Doctor's teasing forgotten. “How are you today?” he asked the Doctor, a stern look on his face.

“Oh, not so bad. Still a bit, you know, _blah_ ,” the Time Lord told him casually. Hartley knew he didn't spend a lot of time as a patient in a hospital, so she shouldn't have been surprised that he was so bad at pretending to be sick. Could a Time Lord even fall ill? Or did their 'superior biology' prevent it? Was there some kind of Gallifreyan-disease he could catch? It was an interesting thought.

“John Smith, admitted yesterday with severe abdominal pains,” said the doctor in charge, eyes sweeping over the gathered students until he landed on a pretty young woman with dark skin and kind, compassionate eyes. “Jones, why don't you see what you can find? Amaze me,” he added dryly, looking like he very much doubted she could.

Jones stepped forwards, unhooking a stethoscope from around her throat. “That wasn't very clever, running around outside, was it?” she asked in a scolding but somehow still friendly tone.

Both Hartley and the Doctor blinked at her in confusion. “Sorry?” the alien asked with a furrowed brow.

“On Chancellor Street this morning?” she said with raise eyebrows, as though it might jog his memory. “You came up to me and took your tie off,” she reminded him.

“Really?” the Doctor murmured, eyes narrowed with interest as he turned, glancing over at Hartley as if she had the answers. She could only lift her shoulders in equal bewilderment. “What did I do that for?” he wondered aloud.

“I don't know, you just did,” the student doctor laughed, bemused by the strange response.

“Not me. I was here, in bed,” he responded. His hand reached out, grasping onto Hartley's, his long fingers curling around hers as he held up their connected hands like they were proof. “Just ask the wife,” he said, and Hartley was quick to nod, confirming his answer.

The young doctor rocked back on her heels, eyeing them both with curiosity.

“Well, that's weird, 'cause it looked like you,” she said, growing uncertain. “Have you got a brother?”

There was a beat that might not have seemed significant to anybody else, but to Hartley it was heavy with the unsaid. She tightened her grip on the Doctor's hand, thumb stroking over his cool, smooth skin, a silent motion of comfort, telling him she was there and that she wasn't leaving any time soon.

“No, not any more,” he answered the woman after just the barest hint of hesitation. He lifted his shoulders in a shrug, and Hartley held his hand tighter. “Just me.”

“As time passes and I grow ever more infirm and weary, Miss Jones,” the woman's boss said dryly, and Jones looked away, chastised by the comment.

“Sorry. Right,” she said meekly, putting the ends of the stethoscope in her ears and leaning down to the Doctor's chest. Hartley gripped his hand tighter in anxiety, but he was utterly calm, merely squeezing back like a human _wasn't_ about to discover he had two hearts beating away inside his chest.

Jones pressed the device against his sternum and quickly the polite expression on her face melted away, replaced by one of blank shock. Slowly, she moved the stethoscope across his chest, pressing it on the opposite side of his ribcage, the shock on her face only growing. Her eyes danced between the two travellers in stunned bewilderment, and Hartley could only roll her eyes in exasperation when the Doctor winked at her playfully.

“I weep for future generations,” the man in charge said dryly, and Hartley took a moment to frown up at him in disapproval. “Are you having trouble locating the heart, Miss Jones?” he continued in the voice of an overworked employer.

“Er, I don't know,” Jones replied stiltedly, standing back up straight and taking the stethoscope from her ears. “Stomach cramps?” she suggested, but it was weak at best.

“That is a symptom, not a diagnosis,” the man said with all the exasperation of a kindergarten teacher. “And you rather failed basic techniques by not consulting first with the patient's chart,” he added in vague reprimand, and Jones averted her eyes abashedly.

He reached out for the chart, picking it up only for it to shock him with a sharp zap. Dropping the chart onto the bed by the Doctor's idle feet, he glanced at his hand with a frown. “That happened to me this morning,” Jones told him with a matching frown.

“I had the same thing on the door handle,” another student piped up.

“And me, on the lift,” said another.

“That's only to be expected,” the man, Stoker – Hartley suddenly caught sight of the name stitched into the front of his coat – said in a bored drawl. “There's a thunderstorm moving in and lightning is a form of static electricity, as was first proven by...” he trailed off, met with nothing but blank expressions from his class. “Anyone?” he asked, looking frightfully disappointed by the lack of answer.

“Benjamin Franklin,” the Doctor piped.

Stoker glanced down at him, surprised by his interjection. “Correct,” he said mildly.

“My mate, Ben,” the Doctor continued on thoughtfully, eyes on the ceiling as he lost himself in memories. “That was a day and a half. I got rope burns off that kite, and then I got soaked...”

“You just can't help yourself, can you?” Hartley said fondly, reaching out to pinch him on the arm, a familiar snicker of exasperation sitting comfortably on her lips.

“And _then_ I got electrocuted,” he continued, turning to her with wide eyes. “Remember that day?” he asked eagerly, a shit-eating grin on his stupid, handsome face. “You were _so_ cross with me...”

“I wouldn't have been if you'd just let _go_ of the bloody thing when you were told,” she argued, unable to help from falling into easy banter with him. It was like breathing, she'd found, bickering with the Doctor. It was a way to tell each other they cared without any of the vulnerability of it. It was how they communicated.

She never thought she'd enjoy bickering with someone so much in her life.

“Moving on...” Stoker spoke up from behind them, awkward and uncomfortable. “I think perhaps a visit from psychiatric,” he added in an undertone that both travellers still heard, before moving to the other end of the room quickly.

Hartley blinked, having forgotten they'd even been there. That tended to happen – these days they could get so wrapped up in one another that they could sometimes forget other people existed. Hartley struggled to feel bad about this new habit of theirs. She supposed that was what happened when you were the only other person in the room who shared these adventures with him. It was unavoidable, really.

Jones looked back at them as she left, a curiosity written clear as day across her face. The Doctor only shot the medical student a wide, impish grin, mischief dancing in his eyes. The woman's kind gaze slid over to Hartley, who sent her a much softer smile in return. She smiled back at them, bemused by the strange couple, before she turned to continue working, putting the pair from her mind.

“You're nothing but trouble, you are,” Hartley told the Doctor, punching him playfully on the shoulder.

“You're only just figuring that out?” he quipped, lifting a hand to his shoulder and cringing as though she'd actually done any damage. “And would you stop hitting me? I'm in a hospital bed for Rassilon's sake!”

“Keep it up and you'll actually need one,” she replied, faking irritation, but the Doctor only grinned back at her widely, and she begrudgingly smiled back, rolling her eyes in exasperation and hitting him once more in the shoulder before sliding deeper into her uncomfortable seat and kicking her legs up over the armrest and settling in as well as she could. “So, how much longer are we gonna spend here, exactly?” she asked conversationally, glancing over at the Doctor, who was fiddling with the cuffs of his hospital pyjamas. “If I have to suffer _another_ night in this bloody chair, I'm gonna go crazy.”

“You haven't already?”

“Did you _want_ me to hit you again?”

“Oh, you're getting worse than me.”

“At what?”

“Dealing with boredom,” he replied dryly, leaning over to his folded suit and digging around in its fabric for a moment before producing a handful of scuffed change. “Go get something from the vending machine,” he told her, shaking the coins in his hand so they rattled.

Huffing, she held her own hand out for the change, and he tipped it onto her palm with a pleased grin. “What d'you want?” she asked, climbing to her feet and stretching her back which cracked with a satisfying pop.

“Something with chocolate,” he answered distantly. She called a murmur of assent over her shoulder before turning the corner and heading down the hall towards the machines.

There was a line, and she paused behind a pair of young boys bickering over what to get. After a long five minutes they finally chose and scurried off with their treats in hand. She stepped up to the machine, running her eyes over the options. Deciding quickly, she got herself some Maltesers, while she picked out a large Flake for the Doctor, pocketing the extra coins and turning around to head back to the room, only to be stopped by a wall of people, all standing at the window and gaping out into the pouring rain with slack-jawed expressions.

“What's going on?” Hartley asked them warily. A short man in a white coat raised a shaking hand to the window.

“The rain,” he said in a gasp. “It's going _up_.”

_Oh,_ she realised with a frown, noticing it now. The rain was indeed pouring upwards, disappearing into the clouds above them rather than sinking into the earth beneath them, as it logically should have been. But Hartley knew by now that 'logical' was a relative term.

“What the––” Anything she'd been about to say was stolen from her, the entire hospital giving a violent, powerful jolt. Everybody in the hallway was thrown sharply to the side. The building beneath her rocked, like the whole thing had been strapped to a rocket or ship of some kind. The sensation wasn't enjoyable, like it was on the TARDIS. Instead it was painful, her side slamming into the wall, creating a bruise she knew would heal before the day was through.

It may not have been pleasant, but it did mean one thing – the adventure had finally begun.

Making her way across the hall wasn't an easy feat while the floor under her feet was rocking so violently, like a ship on stormy seas, but she was persistent, gripping tightly to the wall as she struggled her way back to the Doctor.

The shaking stopped abruptly, and as soon as the floor was steady Hartley took off, booking it to the Doctor's room, dodging the people surrounding her, all of them in a scared panic that she could understand.

“What was _that_?” she asked the Doctor once he was in sight, casually doing up the buttons to his shirt like nothing particularly shocking had happened.

“What we've been waiting for,” he told her calmly, none the worse for wear.

She turned when somebody in the corner screamed, her fists raised in preparation for a fight. There was no danger, but Hartley did see that rather than the London skyline sprawled out before her she saw millions of stars in the distance, along with the ethereal glow of the Earth, hanging in space like the most breathtaking Christmas ornament she'd ever seen.

“Are we on the moon?” Hartley asked him, starkly calm in contrast to the panicking humans surrounding them. The Doctor threaded the loop of his tie around his neck.

“Seems so,” he hummed.

“Brilliant,” she grinned at him slyly. “You've been promising to bring me for ages.”

“Yeah, for cocktails in the thirty-second century,” he argued as he motioned for her to turn around. “Something tells me we won't be getting any cocktails today.”

“Ugh,” she grunted, spinning so she was once again facing the windows, giving him privacy to finish changing. “I hate when I know you're right.”

She just _knew_ he was grinning, and she was suddenly glad he couldn't see her, for he'd surely spot the growing smile on her own lips.

“All right now, everyone back to bed, we've got an emergency but we'll sort it out,” a mildly familiar voice called to the panicking people of their room. Hartley looked over to see that pretty student doctor barrel into the room, hurriedly ushering people back into their beds. “Don't worry,” she said reassuringly to a young woman with wet cheeks.

She and another young doctor moved over to the windows, and Hartley tried valiantly to ignore the sound of the Doctor zipping his fly from behind her.

“It's real. It's really _real,_ ” the same student doctor was saying in amazement. “Hold on.”

“Don't!” cried her friend. “We'll lose all the air.”

“But they're not exactly airtight,” the woman, Jones, said logically. The Doctor reappeared beside Hartley, nudging her pointedly. When she turned her hands automatically moved up to his askew tie, deft fingers adjusting the knot. “If the air was going to get sucked out it would have happened straight away, but it didn't. So how come?” Jones continued, and as soon as Hartley's hands left the Doctor's chest he ripped back the curtain, startling the pair of women by the windows.

“Very good point,” he said cheerfully. “ _Brilliant_ , in fact. What was your name?”

“Martha,” Jones told him, her eyes shifting between the alien and his companion warily.

“And it was Jones, wasn't it?” he murmured, wandering over to the pair, hands tucked casually into his pockets. Hartley trailed after him, electric eyes sweeping over the rocks and craters stretched out before them. “Well then, Martha Jones, the question is, how are we still breathing?” the Doctor ploughed ahead blithely.

“We can't be!” Martha's doctor friend wailed, and Hartley could feel the annoyance radiating off the Doctor in waves.

“Obviously we are, so don't waste my time,” he snapped at her, and she gave another sob of distress.

Full of compassion, Hartley stepped closer to the woman and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, shushing her gently. She may have been acting unhelpful and inconvenient, but she was just scared and distressed – as anyone rightly would be if they were taken to the moon without their consent.

“Martha, what have we got?” the Doctor asked the other student succinctly. “Is there a balcony on this floor, or a veranda?”

“By the patients' lounge, yeah,” Martha's answer was almost automatic.

“Fancy going out?”

Martha didn't even hesitate. “Okay,” she agreed, and the woman Hartley was holding gave another sob of terror.

“We might die,” the Doctor warned her.

“We might not,” Martha countered.

“Good,” he sounded pleasantly surprised by her answer. “Come on,” he said suddenly, turning around with a bounce. “Not her, Hart, she'd only hold us up!”

Huffing at his callousness, Hartley turned to the crying woman. “It'll be okay,” she promised her, rubbing her consolingly on the shoulder. She waited an extra beat for the woman to nod her head up and down, before turning and rushing after the Doctor. He and Martha were only a few steps ahead, and she caught up with them easily, slipping into her place beside the enigmatic Time Lord.

The balcony was only a hall away, and they hesitated barely a moment before pushing the doors and stepping out into the open.

Hartley took a deep, careful breath in, shoulders relaxing when she found it was possible. “We've got air,” Martha said in equal relief. “How does that work?” she asked curiously, tentatively wandering further out onto the balcony until her hands were braced on the railing.

“I wouldn't look a gift-horse in the mouth,” Hartley told her, sliding into place beside her on the railing, staring out over the beautiful surface of the moon, bathed in the light of the stars and their home planet.

“You're right, I s'pose,” Martha agreed breathlessly. Hartley took another deep breath, just glad that – for now – she could. “I've got a party tonight,” Martha added conversationally. “It's my brother's twenty-first. My mother's going to be really, really...” she trailed off suddenly.

Hartley felt a wave of sadness and looked over to see the faint gleam of tears glistening in her eyes.

“You okay?” the Doctor asked her, more than a little bit awkward.

“Yeah,” Martha nodded unconvincingly.

“Sure?”

“Yeah.”

There was a pause. “Want to go back in?”

“No shame in it, if you do,” Hartley added softly, offering the woman an out. She knew it could be overwhelming, knew how scary the whole thing seemed to someone who wasn't used to TARDIS travel. It was an acquired taste, of that much she was sure.

“No way,” Martha said with a vehemence that surprised her. “I mean, we could die any minute, but all the same, it's _beautiful_ ,” she told them in a gushing sort of voice that made Hartley grin.

“Do you think?” the Doctor mused.

“Oh, don't play that,” Hartley complained, bumping his hip playfully with hers, staring out over the Earth without bothering to contain her own awe, “you know it's stunning.” She paused for a moment, then opened her mouth and added, as she stared out at the never ending sea of stars before them, “ _the glitter in the sky looks as if I could scoop it all up in my hands and let the stars swirl and touch one another, but they are so distant, so very far apart, that they cannot feel the warmth of each other, even though they are made of burning_."

There was a beat, the three of them soaking in her poetic words, then finally Martha asked, “what's that from, then?”

“Across the Universe,” Hartley turned to look at her with a cocked eyebrow, surprised she hadn't known. Surely these people _read_. “Beth Revis?” she prompted hopefully. Martha only shook her head, seeming bemused.

“She does that from time to time,” the Doctor told Martha with a sniff, hint of a smile playing at his lips. “You get used to it.”

Martha only looked more bewildered by the situation and people before her, but opted to change the subject rather than press for more. “How many people want to go to the moon? And here we are,” she said, voice drenched in pure wonder, staring out over the silvery dust and darkened craters in unrestrained awe.

“Standing in the Earthlight,” he agreed in a soft, humbled voice. Hartley glanced over at him to find him already staring back at her. She cocked her head curiously but he just shook his head and turned back to the Earth, a faraway glint to his warm, brown eyes. She wondered what was going through his head; wondered if she'd _ever_ know.

“What do you think happened?” Martha asked curiously, an anxious edge to her voice as the awestruck moment naturally faded away.

Hartley pursed her lips, glancing over to the Doctor, who chewed on the question for a long moment before asking, “what do _you_ think?”

Martha paused, weighing her next words carefully. Hartley waited curiously, wondering what the young doctor might come up with. “Extraterrestrial,” she finally said, blurting the word like she thought they might ridicule her for it. The Doctor pasted a pleasantly curious expression on his face, and Hartley tried to mirror it, humming like this were a startling theory. “It's _got_ to be. I don't know, a few years ago that would have sounded mad, but these days? That spaceship flying into Big Ben, Christmas, those Cybermen things,” she paused, and suddenly the gushing quality to her voice faded, replaced by a sad sort of nostalgia. “I had a cousin. Adeola. She worked at Canary Wharf,” she said slowly, and the words were like a knife to Hartley's gut. “She never came home.”

Hartley couldn't bear to look at her, averting her eyes to the silvery, moon-dust filled craters below them, swallowing thickly against the sudden onslaught of emotion. Images flickered behind her eyes, and sounds echoed in her ears, memories she'd long since tried to forget.

Screams surrounding her; the Daleks' emotionless cries to exterminate them; flashes of glistening hazel eyes and wild blonde hair; the crunch of Cybermen's footsteps on the floor; Rose's tears and her voice thick with grief.

She was brought back to the present by a soft weight at her hands, which were tangled together on top of the railing. Blinking back to reality, she glanced over to see the Doctor subtly covering her hands with his. Looking up at his face she saw her own pain echoed inside his deep, endless brown eyes.

“I'm sorry,” he said sincerely, not looking at Martha but instead staring off into the stars. Hartley moved so her hands were grasping his, squeezing back in unwavering support.

“Yeah,” Martha replied distantly, but Hartley understood. She knew how condolences could mean so little after the fact.

“We were there, in the battle,” the Doctor revealed, voice hollow and yet also full of the same remembered pain hers was. She wondered whether enough time would pass that one day she might be able to forget. It didn't seem likely, but then again, neither did immortality.

“That sort of thing,” Hartley added quietly, struggling to keep her head above the flow of memories, “it stays with you.”

There was a long, pregnant pause before Martha said bravely, “I promise you, Mr and Mrs Smith, we _will_ find a way out. If we can travel to the moon, then we can travel back. There's got to be a way.”

The way she tried to take a position of control made Hartley smile, the expression soft on her lips, in great contrast to how she felt just moments ago.

“It's not Smith,” the Doctor said abruptly. “That's not my real name.” Hartley let out a sigh of relief, glad the jig was up.

“Who are you, then?” Martha asked lightly, glancing over her shoulder as the Doctor began to pace the length of the balcony. Hartley was surprised that she didn't seem suspicious, merely curious, her brow pulled down into an inquisitive frown.

“I'm the Doctor,” he answered her succinctly.

“Me too, if I can pass my exams,” Martha smiled, a little ruefully. “What is it then, Dr. Smith?”

“Just the Doctor.”

“How do you mean, _just_ the Doctor?”

“Just the Doctor,” he repeated, beginning to grow exasperated.

“What, people call you _the Doctor_?” she asked, dubious and skeptical.

Hartley laughed, the sound bright and amused. Her earlier dismay had been wiped from her mind like chalk from a board. Compartmentalisation was a simple thing to do these days, something about life with the Doctor made it easy, made it normal, made it a _necessity._

“They do,” she confirmed with an impish sort of grin. “Still trying to convince him to give up his real name to this day. However, no dice.”

“But you're his wife!” Martha exclaimed, shooting the Doctor a scolding look, like she severely disapproved of the way he was treating his companion.

“Ah,” Hartley muttered, quickly twisting the ostentatious wedding ring off of her finger, holding it up to the earthlight for a moment, watching it sparkle with a smile before repositioning it on the index finger of her right hand, where it felt much more comfortable to sit, holding none of the weight of responsibility it had held before. “Not exactly,” she said, chewing on her tongue as she turned back to look at Martha with a sheepish smile.

“What could you possibly need to pretend to be married for?” Martha asked, sounding beyond scandalised before her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Is this some kind of insurance scam?”

Hartley laughed again, watching as the Doctor too removed his fake ring, depositing it carelessly into his bigger-on-the-inside pocket. “We're not scamming anyone,” he assured Martha evenly, but Hartley couldn't help but grin.

“Well, not today, at least,” she muttered, and the Doctor shot her a narrow-eyed glare that didn't bother her in the slightest. “The name's Hartley,” she told the young doctor brightly, holding out a hand to shake with a sincere smile on her lips. “Hartley Daniels,” she added as Martha warily took her hand, shaking it slowly. “And this bloke's name really _is_ the Doctor.”

“As far as I'm concerned, _Hartley_ , you've got to earn the title of 'Doctor',” Martha replied, voice thin and stern, but still altogether kind.

“Well, I'd better make a start, then,” the Doctor chimed cheerfully from behind them, and both women turned to see him crouched on the ground, plucking a pebble from the space between the tiles beneath their feet. “Let's have a look. There must be some sort of––” he threw the stone, and it bounced off of something large and blue, something Hartley had seen enough times before to give it a name.

“It's a forcefield,” she breathed.

The Doctor nodded in affirmation. “Keeping the air in,” he confirmed, brow furrowed in a careful frown.

“But if that's like a bubble sealing us in, that means this is the only air we've got,” Martha said smartly, and Hartley glanced over, surprised by her quick thinking. “What happens when it runs out?” she asked warily, casting a concerned look to the hospital behind her, full of hundreds upon hundreds of sick, injured, _innocent_ people.

“How many people in this hospital?” the Doctor asked in way of answer.

“I don't know,” Martha replied. “A thousand?”

“One thousand people – suffocating,” he spoke grimly, and Hartley was suddenly unpleasantly aware of her breaths and how numbered they were. She would survive – theoretically. She'd wake up again, sure, but to what? The same hospital on the moon, with no air, only to suffocate and die, over and over again?

That sounded like the worst kind of torture, yet also one of the only kinds that was perfect for her and her 'condition'. She just hoped she never had to go through anything like that – the Doctor would get them back to Earth, he would figure out a way to fix it. He always did, and he always _would_.

“Why would anyone do that?” Martha asked, aghast at the thought.

There was a deep, bone-shaking rumble, and Hartley looked up in the same instant as the Doctor, gaping at the starry sky above them. The view was blocked by three massive, hulking ships, hovering over top of them and slowly moving across to the large expanse of moon, like they had all the time in the world to get where they were going.

“Head's up!” the Doctor said, eyeing the ships with narrowed, calculating eyes. “Ask them yourself.”

With muted thuds, the ships all came to rest on the surface of the moon. Hartley watched with bated breath as the bottoms opened up, columns of marching, uniform aliens marching out in perfect synchronisation.

“Aliens. That's _aliens._ Real, proper _aliens_ ,” Martha gasped, staring at the group of approaching beings with unrestrained shock.

“Who've we got this time, then, Doc?” Hartley asked the Time Lord beside her, the tone of voice casual. All in a day's work, she supposed.

“Judoon,” the Doctor said, watching them walk towards the hospital with cautious eyes, full of intelligence. She had no doubt he was calculating their chances of survival even as they stood there. He turned to the pair of women beside him, eyes steely. “We need to get a better look,” he said seriously, gaze focused on a still-recovering Martha. “They'll enter from the front, judging by their angle of approach,” he told them, casting another look over his shoulder at the columns of hulking aliens. “We need somewhere we can overlook the lobby without being spotted.”

“Okay.”

To her credit, Martha took this all in stride, simply nodding her head like this were any other usual task she received in her day-to-day life, turning and leading the way back inside.

“So, on a scale of Slitheen to Daleks, exactly how dangerous _are_ these guys?” Hartley asked the Doctor as they walked, keeping her voice low so Martha wouldn't overhear. There was only so much extraterrestrial input a person could handle at once, after all.

The Doctor looked like he wanted to ask what it was with her and her ridiculous scales, but he kept his mouth shut, and she smiled quietly to herself. “You shouldn't count the Slitheen out that easy,” he said instead. “They might look rather ridiculous, but they could cause some serious damage if they put their minds to it!”

“Why're you defending the Slitheen?”

“I'm not _defending_ the-”

“You're distracting me,” she accused him, shoving a finger against his chest as she narrowed her eyes up at him, daring him to lie. “There's no need,” she continued a beat later, dropped her hand and holding onto the banister as they half-jogged down the staircase towards the lower levels. “Not like I can die, so I'm not particularly afraid for myself. Unless these guys have a torture kink, in which case I _may_ be royally screwed.”

“What are you two on about?” Martha interjected before the Doctor could respond. “Torture kink?” she asked with wide, confused eyes.

“I'm immortal, you see,” said Hartley without concern. “Torture's the only thing that scares me, these days. Death I can handle. Pain? Not so much.”

Martha blinked. “Immortal?”

“Yup.”

Martha only stared back at her like she thought Hartley were completely and utterly certifiably insane.

“Ignore her,” the Doctor said just as they stepped out onto a new floor. Hartley narrowed her eyes at him in displeasure, but he only gave a haughty sniff in return.

Grunts could be heard from below them, and the Doctor held a finger to his lips, creeping towards the glass barrier separating them and the gaping hole into the lobby.

“Oh, look down there, you've got a little shop,” the Doctor continued happily, and from that Hartley knew these 'Judoon' probably weren't interested in world domination – which meant the rest of humanity was safe. Or, as safe as they ever were, which usually wasn't very. Unfortunately, this meant very little in regards to the hospital and its occupants. “I like a little shop,” the Doctor added blithely, smiling down into the room below. Hartley could only roll her eyes at his obliviousness.

“Never mind that,” Martha scolded him from his other side. “What are Judoon?”

“They're like police. _Well_ , police for hire,” the Doctor explained. Hartley watched as they began to wrench off their thick, black helmets to reveal the massive rhinoceros heads within. Their skin glistened moistly under the harsh lights of the hospital, and Hartley grimaced. “They're more like interplanetary thugs, really,” the Doctor sniffed with a hint of disdain.

“And they brought us to the moon?” Martha asked, voice an octave higher than before. Perhaps the stress of it all was finally getting to her, Hartley mused. She wouldn't be the first to crack under the pressure, that was for sure.

“Neutral territory. According to galactic law, they've got no jurisdiction over the Earth, and they isolated it. That rain, the lightning? That was them, using an H2O scoop.”

“Part of the Shadow Proclamation?” Hartley ventured softly.

“Something tells me this bunch are here on less than lawful endeavours,” he told her, voice low and quiet, crouched down behind the frosted glass so he could observe without being noticed.

“What are you _on_ about, galactic law? Where'd you get that from?” Martha asked, and the Doctor paused a moment, meeting her eyes before shaking his head and shuffling away, searching for a better angle. “If they're police, are we under arrest?” she continued stubbornly. “Are we trespassing on the moon or something?”

The Doctor seemed pleasantly surprised by this suggestion. “No, but I like that. Good thinking,” he complimented, and Hartley would have had to have been blind to not notice how Martha seemed to glow at the praise. This regeneration had that effect on people, it seemed. (Hartley wished she were immune, but unfortunately she very much was _not._ ) “No, I wish it were that simple,” he told Martha before turning to speak more directly to Hartley, one eye remaining on the Judoon below. “They're making a catalogue. That means they're after something non-human, which is _very_ bad news for me.”

“And me?” she asked nervously. The last thing she wanted was to be locked up in a cell for the next however many years. She'd almost rather endure the torture – she got bored far too easily to be able to handle being any kind of prisoner.

“They should know you're human,” the Doctor told her. “You still are, at a base level. You're probably safe,” he added with a nod, but she could hear the doubt in his voice. She got the feeling it was something of a toss-up, whether they'd detect her otherworldliness or not.

“Unlike you,” she persisted. The Doctor met her eyes, a dark concern in his gaze that had her on edge. Anything to make the Doctor concerned should have them all quaking in their boots.

“What? Why?” Martha asked, beyond confused, and both travellers turned to look at her. “Oh, you're _kidding_ me,” she hissed, not believing them. “Don't be ridiculous,” she added sternly when the Doctor's expression didn't let up.

Hartley rolled her eyes and turned back to the Judoon, watching as they scanned a little girl and her mother before drawing a big black _X_ on each of their hands.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Martha hissed at the Doctor, who had yet to look away, growing uncomfortable under his stare.

“Give the girl a break,” Hartley told the Doctor offhandedly, still watching the space-rhinos warily. “Knowing about _any_ species of alien is a lot for anyone to handle, let alone getting trapped on the moon with two.”

The Doctor grunted non-committally, then muttered, “come on, then,” when the Judoon looked like they were finished with the lobby full of humans, beginning to move towards the stairs. “I need a computer,” he told Martha as they hurried up the staircase, in the opposite direction of the approaching Judoon, “somewhere I can access the hospital's records.”

“There's a nurse's station through there,” Martha said immediately, mind working fast. Hartley was understandably impressed.

“Take us,” the Doctor nodded.

People were panicking, rushing through the halls without watching where they were going, parents cradling their small children in shaking arms, like that would be enough to keep the Judoon from getting to them.

There was a door at the end of the corridor and Martha pointed to it wordlessly. The Doctor pushed it open, ducking inside without another word, leaving the women standing in the hall. “Go keep an eye on the Judoon,” Hartley instructed Martha, who looked lost, unused to the Doctor's typical operating speed. “Tell us when they reach the next floor – give us time to work around them.”

Martha looked surprised by the order, but she didn't argue, nodding her head and scurrying back down the hall towards the stairs where she would be able to see the Judoon when they arrived.

“She's quick, that one,” Hartley said as she slipped into the nurses' station, the Doctor typing away at the computer. She moved over to his side like she were lost in the current of him, pulled to his side, always. It was where she belonged.

“Yeah,” the Doctor muttered back distractedly, not really listening. She understood; the life of every person in this hospital weighed on his – on _their_ – shoulders. It shouldn't have had to, but it was the way it was, the cards they'd been dealt. They were the only people in the building with the skills and know-how to save them all. “I can't get into the system,” the Doctor suddenly huffed, growing frustrated.

Hartley was surprised. “Have they locked you out? Can they actually _do_ that?”

“Why couldn't they?”

“They don't exactly have nimble fingers,” she said playfully, wiggling her own digits in his face to prove her point.

With an exasperated huff and a contradicting smile on his lips, he pushed away her wriggling fingers, fishing the sonic from his jacket pocket and aiming it at the screen. Its buzzing filled the room, the sound familiar and calming to Hartley, like her favourite song playing on the radio. She relaxed against the back of the Doctor's chair, watching as the screen before them glitched.

“They've reached the third floor,” Martha burst back into the room only to stop short at the sight of the glowing device in the Doctor's hand. “What's that thing?” she asked, wandering closer to get a better look.

“Sonic screwdriver,” the Doctor answered distractedly.

“Well, if you're not going to answer me properly,” Martha huffed. Hartley couldn't help but giggle at the stunned, slightly offended look pasted across the Doctor's face.

“No, really, it is,” he said, helpless. “It's a screwdriver, and it's sonic. Look,” he added, waving it in her face.

“What else have you got, a laser spanner?” Martha joked wryly.

“I did, but it was stolen by Emily Pankhurst, cheeky woman,” the Doctor told her flippantly, as if the whole sentence weren't utterly mad. Hartley smiled fondly.

“He sulked for a week,” she divulged to the young student doctor. Martha could only gape back at her in pure bewilderment. She didn't know what to make of them – but that was hardly unusual.

“Oh, this computer!” the Doctor exclaimed before Martha could voice the confusion bubbling at her lips. “The Judoon definitely have locked it down – even despite their … limitation,” he said, shooting Hartley a small smirk. She echoed it, holding up her hand and wiggling her fingers again, and his smirk melted into a smile. “ _Judoon platoon upon the moon_ ,” he added, turning to look at Martha with that smile locked into place.

“You're an idiot,” Hartley told him with a hint of thinly-veiled affection, but she was ignored, which was probably for the best.

“Because we were just travelling past. I swear, I was just waiting for this one to finish tea with her dad,” he explained to Martha with a thrust of his thumb at Hartley, who nodded in confirmation. “I wasn't looking for trouble, honestly, I _wasn't_ , but I noticed these plasma coils around the hospital, and that lightning, that's a plasma coil. Been building up for two days now, so I collected Hart and we checked in. Thought something was going on inside; turns out the plasma coils were the Judoon up above.”

“ _I_ wanted to go scuba diving in the Cigar galaxy, but _somebody_ can't keep his nose out of trouble,” Hartley added thoughtlessly. Martha could do no more than gape at them as if they were utterly barmy. Were they being weird? It was growing harder and harder to tell.

“Good thing we did come,” the Doctor argued stubbornly, oblivious to Martha's bewilderment. “At least now, with us here, these people have a fighting chance.”

She had to admit he had a point, watched as he huffed again and swept at his hair, which he'd run his hands through enough times already that it was sticking up crazily, making him look rather wild in appearance. She liked it; it made him look boyish and young, even despite his ancient eyes.

“But what were they _looking_ for?” Martha finally asked, dismissing their easy banter, not knowing what else she could possibly do.

“Something that looks human, but isn't,” the Doctor told her, returning to his persistent tapping at the keyboard. The computer beeped, and Hartley cast the door an anxious glance, terribly aware of the Judoon on their way as they spoke.

“Like you, apparently,” Martha said, dry and unconvinced, smirk on her lips. Hartley rolled her eyes.

“Like me,” he agreed obliviously before glancing up at her imploringly, “but _not_ me.”

“Haven't they got a photo?”

“Well, might be a shape-changer.”

“Whatever it is, can't you just leave the Judoon to find it?” she asked logically.

“That's a good point,” Hartley agreed.

“If they declare the hospital guilty of harbouring a fugitive, they'll sentence it to execution,” the Doctor explained succinctly, and Hartley rubbed at her forehead as she began to understand exactly how big of a mess they were in.

It was undeniable that they'd been in worse, but somehow that thought was anything but comforting.

“All of us?” Martha gasped, unable to believe the Judoon's cruelty.

“Oh yes,” he nodded. “If I can find this thing first – _oh_!” he exclaimed suddenly, sharp and jarring, causing Martha to flinch back in surprise. Hartley merely stepped away, giving him the space he needed, far too used to his outbursts to be fazed. “You see, they're _thick_! Judoon are _thick_! They are _completely_ _thick_! They wiped the records. Oh, that's clever!”

He had a manic grin on his face, and Hartley couldn't help but roll her eyes at how much he was enjoying himself. Honestly, regular people got their thrills from bowling or rollercoasters; to get the Doctor excited, you have to kidnap a hospital full of people and take them to the moon just to get him interested.

It was as endearing as it was exasperating.

“What are we looking for?” Martha asked, still stunned by his sudden explosion of energy.

“I don't know. Say, any patient admitted in the past week with unusual symptoms. Maybe there's a back-up,” he muttered, picking the whole screen up in his hands, hooking his arm around it and haphazardly aiming the sonic at the back.

“Just keep working!” Martha called, abruptly turning and bolting for the door. Hartley stared after her in vague alarm. “I'll go ask Mister Stoker. He might know!”

“Be careful!” Hartley warned, but Martha was already gone. Reluctantly she turned back to the Doctor, who was busy again attempting to gain access to the files in the computer. “Are we sure the files are worth looking into?” she asked curiously.

“Do you have a better plan?” he asked distractedly.

“No,” she admitted begrudgingly.

“That's what I thought,” he finished, and in retaliation she reached out and mussed his wild hair, messing it up even further. It was soft under her fingers, and the Doctor seemed to twitch under her touch, shoulder muscles tight with tension, and so she quickly yanked her hand away, tucking them both behind her back where they couldn't do anything else so stupid. “Aha!” the Doctor cried abruptly, and she blinked back to the moment, watching as he leapt from the chair and began pushing her impatiently in the direction of the door.

“What?!” she asked in surprise.

“I did it!” he grinned widely. “Told you I would, didn't I? Why do they never listen?” he muttered to himself, and she couldn't help but laugh at him in reply.

They headed through the labyrinth of halls, heading in the same direction they'd sent Martha. “There!” Hartley cried as she caught sight of her familiar face at the end of the corridor. Martha gave a shout of surprise when she ran into them, but the Doctor only grinned back maniacally.

“I've restored the back-up,” he announced proudly.

“I found her!” Martha yelled back.

Both Hartley and the Doctor gaped at her in shock. “You did _what_?” he demanded, a little shrill.

From behind Martha a figure dressed head to toe in leather smashed its way through a door like invention of a handle wasn't something he was informed of.

“Run!” the Doctor shouted, and it was an order Hartley was happy to follow.

The Doctor gripped her hand, an occurrence that was happening more and more as the months went on. Hartley gripped back tightly and moved, running as fast as she could, not bothering to pause and look back at the creepy leather figure nipping at their shadows.

The Doctor seemed to know where he was going in that way he always knew, even when they were somewhere unfamiliar. They made their way through two different floors and across countless hallways, but soon enough the Doctor was shoving them into a large room and sonicking the door after them.

The figure banged against it with everything it had, the wood creaking under the assault. Hartley wasn't convinced it would hold – and neither was the Doctor.

“Get behind there, and when I say _now_ , press the button,” he instructed Martha, pointing a stern finger in the direction of the barrier separating the two parts of the x-ray room they'd taken shelter in.

“But I don't know which one!” she cried in distress.

“Then find out!”

“Doc––” Hartley tried to protest.

“You too, Hart,” he commanded, and as always she was left with nothing to do but obey, knowing it was in everyone's best interest. She slipped behind the protective screen, watching as he grabbed ahold of the x-ray machine and began to use the sonic in hurried, desperate moves.

“I don't know which button!” Martha yelled at Hartley over the loud bangs of the figure against the wooden door, and Hartley tried not to squeak like a helpless idiot.

“I don't know either!” she cried, stepping forwards and running her hands over the controls, searching desperately for something that looked important enough to warrant being pushed.

From the other end of the room the door burst open with a loud smash and the Doctor shouted, “ _now_!”

Acting on a hunch Hartley slammed her hand down on a massive yellow button near the back of the controls. The room flooded with a bright flash of blinding light, hot enough to burn against her eyeballs with all the force of the sun, and she squeezed her eyes shut tight against the force of it.

When she finally looked back up it was to see the leather-clad figure was laid still on the floor, the Doctor standing over it, breathing heavily.

“What did you do?” Martha asked him through the glass.

“Increased the radiation by five-thousand percent. Killed him dead,” he replied stonily.

Hartley uncaringly leapt out from behind the protective screen, rushing towards her companion with a tense expression. There was no way he could have kept himself safe from that kind of radiation, no way he'd have gotten away from that unharmed. “Are you okay?” she demanded, finding it hard not to be cross with him, her heart pounding in her chest. “Please say you're not regen––”

“Hartley – relax,” he told her casually, and she stopped just shy of reaching him.

He was smiling, and he didn't appear to be changing his appearance in any way, so she dropped her hands and settled for eyeing him cautiously.

“It's only roentgen radiation. We used to play with roentgen bricks in the nursery. It's safe for you to come out,” he added to Martha. “I've absorbed it all. All I need to do is expel it. If I concentrate I can shake the radiation out of my body and into one spot,” he said as he began to bounce up and down, like he was preparing for a run. Stepping back, Hartley could only watch with wide eyes while he hopped around like an absolute madman. “It's in my left shoe. Here we go, here we go. Easy does it. Out, out, out, out, out. Out, out. Ah, ah, ah, ah! It is, it is, it is, it is, it is _hot._ Hold on.”

Finally he ripped off his shoe, throwing it hastily into the bin off to the side and turning to face the two humans with a wide, unbothered grin.

“Done,” he announced calmly, rather proud of himself.

Hartley could do nothing more than let out a giggle in pure, hysterical relief, and the Doctor grinned back toothily. “You're ridiculous,” she told him, stepping closer to him, pushing a hand against his chest just to reassure herself that he was _there_ and he was _okay._ He rocked back on his heels, eyes twinkling down at her. “But at least you're still _you_ ,” she added, honest and relieved.

“As if I'm gonna let a little bit of _radiation_ do me in?” He scoffed. “Please.”

Across from them, Martha gave a little yelp of bewilderment, and they turned to look at her expectantly. “You're _completely_ mad. _Both_ of you,” she said in an accusatory sort of voice.

“You're right,” the Doctor agreed solemnly. “I look daft with one shoe.”

And he tore off his other chuck, dropping it in the bin alone with its pair. 

“Barefoot on the moon,” he grinned radiantly.

Martha didn't seem to know how to react. “It's easiest to just smile and nod,” Hartley advised her, and Martha gave another sort of shellshocked laugh before shaking her head to clear it and crouching down next to the figure who'd chased them down.

“So what is that thing? And where's it from, the planet Zovirax?” she asked, breathing finally beginning to slow. Hartley looked down at the lifeless being, frowning at its still, silent form in rare discomfort.

She was used to most forms of life in the universe, no matter how shocking and diverse. But something about this thing set her teeth on edge.

“It's just a Slab. They're called Slabs. Basic slave drones. See?” the Doctor explained, gripping the leather arm with long fingers. “Solid leather, all the way through. Someone's got one _hell_ of a fetish.”

“Can't say I blame them,” Hartley muttered unthinkingly, the joke born from years of being all but locked inside a house with one Jack Harkness: _sexual deviant extraordinaire_.

“I worry about you sometimes,” the Doctor muttered dryly, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips that softened the words. She smiled back, cheeks just slightly pink.

“But it was that woman, Ms Finnegan,” Martha interrupted them before the conversation could get away from them. “It was working for her, just like a servant.”

But the Doctor wasn't listening, concentrating on yanking his sonic free from the machine in which he'd jammed it. He held it up to the light, and Hartley saw that it was completely fried, charred like an over-cooked egg. “My sonic screwdriver,” he whined.

“She was one of the patients, but––” Martha was trying to say.

“Oh, no. My sonic screwdriver.”

“She had a straw like some kind of _vampire.”_

“I _loved_ my sonic screwdriver,” he complained to Hartley, who nodded sympathetically in return.

“Doctor?” Martha called impatiently.

“Sorry,” he snapped back into focus, tossing the charred gadget over his shoulder like garbage, making Hartley roll her eyes. “You called me _Doctor,_ ” he realised with a wide, cheeky grin.

“ _Anyway_?” Martha muttered, having no time for his antics. “Miss Finnegan is the alien. She was drinking Mister Stoker's _blood._ ”

“Funny time to take a snack. You'd think she'd be hiding,” the Doctor said flippantly.

“Why would she be drinking his _blood_ , though?” Hartley asked, pushing him forwards. “There has to be a reason.”

“Why?” he argued, echoing with a hint of challenge.

“Because coincidences are rare,” she replied, the words he'd once said to her said back at him. Her stare was unyielding. She knew she was right.

“ _Yes_ , that's it!” the Doctor exploded with energy once more, and again Martha flinched backwards, startled by the outburst that, to Hartley, was commonplace. “Wait a minute. Yes!” he cried eagerly. “Hart – you're a _genius_!” he told her loudly, and she grinned happily at the praise. “Shape-changer. _Internal_ shape-changer. She wasn't drinking blood, she was _assimilating_ it!”

“...And what does that mean?” she prompted him to explain when it was clear he wouldn't on his own.

“It _means_ that if she can assimilate Mister Stoker's blood, mimic the biology, she'll register as human. We've got to find her and show the Judoon. Come on!” he yelled, leaping over the dead slab and bolting for the door.

Once they were out in the open he was more careful about avoiding detection, creeping low and staying under everyone's radar. Hartley wondered what the Judoon might do to him if they found him. Would they assume he was the target? Would they try take him away, never to be seen again?

None of the options were looking very good, but she knew there was one course of action that got them and everyone else in the entire hospital to safety: they had to find the real culprit. If they could do that, hopefully the Judoon would reverse whatever they'd done to the hospital and they could all go back to their normal lives (which, in their case, may not have been 'normal' by any definition of the word).

“That's the thing about Slabs,” he murmured when they came across yet another slab walking away from them with the accompanying sound of thickened, creaking leather, “they always travel in pairs.”

“Is that why you two travel together?” Martha asked curiously. It seemed like a strange time to ask, but Hartley understood the burning curiosity she must have been feeling over the pair of them. It was only expected that she'd have questions. Hartley knew she certainly would, if the roles had been reversed.

“What?” the Doctor asked distantly, the majority of his attention on scanning the hallway for danger.

“You two,” Martha prompted, eyes sliding from the Doctor to Hartley, her gaze probing and insistent. Hartley could feel her curiosity like a burning flame under her skin, urging her to get answers. She had a right to know who she was working with, and she knew it. “You're partners or something, then? You're his backup?” she pressed.

“Yeah, that's one way to put it, I s'pose,” Hartley agreed mildly, but Martha's eyes were still alight with questions.

“But you said you weren't married.”

“We aren't,” she said quickly.

“You _act_ married,” Martha contradicted her just as quick.

Hartley's cheeks burned. “We're not married.”

“Are you sure you're not even––”

“Humans,” the Doctor interjected with half a sneer, but Hartley was more than relieved by the sharp interruption. “We're stuck on the moon, running out of air, with Judoon and a bloodsucking criminal, and you're asking _personal_ questions?”

Martha rolled her eyes, and Hartley distantly thought that she was slotting into their dynamic rather well, all things considered.

The thought was erased from her mind when the Doctor ushered them out of their hiding place with hurried movements. “I like that: 'humans',” Martha scoffed. “I'm still not convinced you're an alien,” she said dryly, just as they stepped out into the open and directly into the path of a Judoon squadron.

A bright blue light flashed in the Doctor's face and the Judoon holding the weapon announced the Doctor to be, “non-human,” and Martha turned to them with wide eyes.

“Oh my _God_ , you really are,” she gasped, but there was no time for her shock.

“And again!” the Time Lord cried, grasping onto her shoulder and urging her forwards, rushing away from the Judoon just as they powered up their lasers, firing electric red beams at where they'd only just been standing. An extra second or two and they'd have been dead.

“Bloody Judoon,” Hartley cursed, speeding up but also making sure to stay behind Martha and the Doctor – better _she_ get hit than either one of them.

Thankfully, it didn't come to that, and when they burst out into a new ward it was to find the floor quiet, everybody slumped down from what Hartley could only assume was a lack of oxygen. Taking a deep breath, she noticed the air to be considerably thicker than it had been before. It didn't taste right on her tongue and it felt heavy in her lungs, but otherwise she felt fine. Probably running on adrenaline, as per usual.

“They've done this floor. Come on. The Judoon are logical and just a little bit thick. They won't go back to check a floor they've checked already. If we're _lucky_ ,” the Doctor told them quickly, marching forwards.

A girl was laid against the wall, slumped down into a helpless little ball, and Hartley couldn't stop herself from pausing, dropping down to her knees. “Hey, are you okay?” she asked quietly. She was young and small, and she couldn't have been any older than thirteen.

“Hard...to breathe...” the little girl wheezed, her eyes watery and distant.

Hartley's chest squeezed in concern. “You'll be okay,” she swore, all the while knowing she had no right to promise such a thing. She couldn't make guarantees, not at a time like this.

The girl's face scrunched. “How...do you...know?” she rasped.

“Because we're here,” Hartley replied, keeping her voice as confident as she could. “Nothing will happen to you with us here, watching over you,” she whispered.

The girl gave a weak smile before closing her eyes and going slack. Hartley hurriedly checked her pulse, relieved to find her alive and still breathing. She'd only lost consciousness – which was probably for the best, as it would conserve the air. Right now they needed every extra breath they could get.

A few steps away Martha was murmuring with a colleague of hers in low tones, looks of matching concern spread across their faces. “How much oxygen is there?” she was asking him softly.

“Not enough for all these people,” her friend replied. “We're going to run out.”

The Doctor stepped closer, a frown on his face, eyes full of worry. “How are you feeling? Are you all right?” he asked carefully.

“I'm running on adrenaline,” Martha replied.

“Welcome to my world,” he grinned back before raising his eyes to Hartley, who leant herself against the wall calmly, head tilted back against the plaster. “You?” he asked her keenly.

“You know I'll be fine either way,” she waved off his worry like it were inconsequential.

But his eyes remained serious and she knew he wasn't going to take that as an answer. “Are you _okay_?” he asked again, slowly and full of intent, pleading her to be honest. She was warmed by his concern. It made her pulse speed up and she knew _that_ wasn't the way to be conserving air.

“It's the same for me,” she answered him, glad her voice came out even and steady. “Flooded with adrenaline. Y'know, the usual.”

He nodded his head, eyes still worried, but less so than before.

“What about the Judoon?” Martha asked suddenly, holding out hope that the Judoon would be affected too. But Hartley knew things were rarely ever that simple, and the Doctor shook his head with a shrug.

“Nah, great big lung reserves. It won't slow them down,” he told her flippantly. “Where's Mr. Stoker's office?”

“It's this way,” Martha said, turning and leading them further down the hall, then through a smashed doorway. The Doctor went on ahead, scanning the room for danger before deeming it safe and letting the others through. “She's gone,” Martha hissed, staring at the empty room in surprise. “She was _here_ ,” she insisted. Hartley cast her a look, reassuring her in their belief.

There was a corpse over to the side, the man from that morning – Stoker. His skin was ashen, such a deathly bone white that it made Hartley wince, looking away out of something that wasn't quite respect, but maybe closer to disappointment. The Doctor didn't hesitate to crouch down by the body, pressing a hand to the man's cold, stony face.

“Drained him dry. Every last drop,” he murmured, a scowl of distaste sitting low on his lips. “I was right. She's a plasmavore.”

“But what's she doing on Earth?” Martha asked quickly.

“Hiding. On the run. Like Ronald Biggs in Rio de Janeiro,” he answered quickly. Hartley wondered where the hell he'd come up with _that_ analogy. “What's she doing now? She's still not safe. The Judoon could execute us all.” He shook himself out of his stupor. “Come on.”

He climbed to his feet and made for the door, Hartley barrelling after him, only for them both to be stopped by Martha's voice. “Wait a minute,” she called, and both travellers turned to look at her in confusion. She was kneeling by the body of Mr Stoker, her head bowed in respect as she gently used her fingertips to shut his unseeing eyes.

Hartley felt a spike of guilt for not thinking of it herself. It seemed like something she would have done, maybe in another life. What had happened, what had _changed_ in the time when she'd first arrived in the Doctor's life, to now? What had happened to her, that her humanity had begun to slip? Because that was surely what it boiled down to, right? Humanity?

Was her life with the Doctor so intensely _alien_ that she'd lost her human roots? Was that even possible? To _become_ alien? She suddenly hoped not.

Martha was up a moment later, rushing to meet them at the door, and any introspective thoughts Hartley had were gone and replaced by the rush of adrenaline from the situation. The Doctor, oblivious to Hartley's internal debate, turned and led them back out into the hall, his mind a mess of possible timelines and waning options.

“Think, think, think,” he was muttering to himself. “If I was a plasmavore surrounded by space police, what would I do?” Hartley didn't know the first thing to suggest, she wasn't even sure she understood what a plasmavore even _was_. She just spun in a circle, scanning the halls carefully, choosing to be their eyes. Someone had to do it. “Ah. She's as clever as me,” the Doctor suddenly murmured, but she didn't know why, turning back to him with raised eyebrows. “Almost,” he amended proudly.

From the end of the hall there were a series of loud crashes followed by a series of piercing screams. Hartley's pulse kicked up again as the Judoon made their approach. They crept ever closer, like the shadows in the afternoon, growing bigger and closer with every tick of the clock.

“Bloody hell,” Hartley cursed again, gritting her teeth and turning to the other two with wide eyes. “We have incoming,” she hissed. The Doctor sucked in a sharp breath of air, his eyes twitching as his brain worked, before finally he turned to Martha, who stared back at him with absolute trust.

“Martha, stay here. I need time. You've got to hold them up,” he said imploringly. Martha was confused, panic in her eyes.

“How do I do that?” she asked shrilly, willing to trust them without fully knowing why.

“Just forgive me for this. It could save a thousand lives,” he said suddenly, and Hartley gave a puzzled frown. He wasn't exactly the kind of person who apologised often, and certainly not _before_ he did the stupid thing. Which could only mean that whatever was coming next was going to be really, really, _really_ stupid. “It means nothing,” he swore emphatically, and Hartley wondered whether she was imagining the way his eyes flickered over to her, pinning her with a piercing, imploring stare for one long moment before he was looking back at Martha like it had all been in her head. “Honestly,” he repeated, utterly serious, “ _nothing._ ”

Then, in a move that surprised no one more than Hartley, the Doctor took Martha's face firmly in his hands and pressed his lips to hers. Martha's eyes went wide before they slammed shut as she relaxed, pressing herself deeper into the kiss.

Hartley could do no more than gape at them in a kind of horrified shock, eyes wide with disbelief. Irritation flowed through her, anger like a bitter acid in her veins. The strength of it shocked her, and she looked away, squeezing her eyes shut against the force of the unbidden emotions.

Just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over, the Doctor ripping away from Martha and turning to Hartley with a wild look in his chocolate brown eyes. “Protect her!” he ordered her, almost offhandedly, before glancing at the approaching Judoon once last time and bolting down the hall, leaving Hartley and Martha alone to face the oncoming group of intergalactic thugs.

“ _That_ was nothing?” Martha asked breathlessly. Hartley scowled as she watched her stare after the Doctor, watching him disappear around a corner without so much as a glance back at either one of them.

“Honestly,” Hartley huffed in angry exasperation, grabbing a stunned Martha by the arm and dragging her around to face the Judoon, “fate of a thousand humans in the balance and he _still_ finds time for a quick snog. Worse than Jack sometimes,” she grumbled irritably.

“Who's Jack?” Martha asked, blinked at her in confusion.

“Not important,” Hartley replied quickly, not in the mood to open _that_ particular can of worms, and tilted her chin upwards to face the approaching Judoon head on. If she was going to die (again) she was going to go out fighting.

“Find the non-human. Execute,” the Judoon at the front commanded in a guttural grunt.

“What do we do?” Martha squeaked at Hartley nervously.

“Stall,” she said from the corner of her mouth, just as the Judoon came to an abrupt stop in front of them. “Explain who you saw,” she prompted, giving the reluctant woman a delicate push in the aliens' direction.

“Now listen,” Martha began in a shaking voice. “I know who you're looking for. She's this woman. She calls herself Florence.”

The Judoon cared not for her words, holding up his scanning equipment, a blue light shining in first Hartley's face. “Confirmed human,” it announced after a beat.

Hartley was powerless to do anything as it grasped her hand in its meaty pads and drew an _X_ onto the back of it with a thick black marker. It moved on to Martha, who looked to be holding her breath as they faced her.

“Human. Wait,” it said suddenly, beady, slitted little eyes growing even smaller with suspicion. “Non-human traits suspected. Non-human element confirmed. Authorise full scan. What are you?” it demanded from Martha.

Martha didn't seem to know how to respond, mouth opening and closing in a great impression of a fish. The Judoon moved closer, violently shoving their device in her face. The bright light shined in her eyes, making her wince.

“Confirm human,” it finally announced, grasping her hand and roughly drawing the same _X_ onto the back as it had to everyone else. “Traces of facial contact with non-human,” it added gutturally, and suddenly it all made sense. Hartley felt a rush of inexplicable relief. _That_ was why the Doctor had kissed Martha, to transfer a hint of his alien DNA onto her in order to hold up the Judoon, buy them all that extra bit of time. “Continue the search,” ordered the lead Judoon.

The one at the front paused, turning to hand Martha a strange looking sort of booklet, its contents written in what looked, to the medical student, like an utterly unfamiliar, alien language. To Hartley however, it appeared as English, and she rolled her eyes at its legal jargon.

“You will need this,” it told her in a rough grunt.

“What's that for?” Martha squeaked in bewilderment.

“Compensation,” it replied in that rumble of a voice before turning in a sharp movement and joining the others, all of them marching away in a uniform line.

Martha did absolutely nothing for a solid ten seconds, then turned to look at Hartley with wide, befuddled eyes. “What just happened?” she eventually asked, genuinely confused. Hartley supposed it would all be a bit overwhelming. Judoon weren't exactly a nice gateway into the extraterrestrial.

“Not the time to ponder it,” Hartley told her instead, promising that if they had time later, she'd sit down and actually answer the questions burning away in poor Martha's mind. Reaching out, she grasped her arm and yanked her down the hall after the Judoon, knowing without a doubt that they'd lead her to the Doctor.

That was where all trouble headed, in the end; towards the Doctor.

They led them down a long corridor, the clanking of metal armour ringing in their ears. “Through here,” Martha whispered, tugging Hartley sharply to the left and through a door that led into a room filled with the hulking forms of the armoured Judoon.

“Scan him,” one of their recognisable voices said gravelly. “Confirmation: deceased.”

But the words didn't make any sense. Who could have died? The Doctor wouldn't have killed anyone.

Leaning around the Judoon to get a better look at the floor, Hartley felt like she'd been punched in the stomach, the air forced from her lungs in a loud, painful huff. The grief struck her suddenly, along with a climbing panic that filled her very bones.

“Doctor...” she whispered, staring his deathly still, ashen body laying lifeless on the floor in front of the Judoon.

It wasn't possible. For a long moment her mind just couldn't compute.

“No!” the word tore from her lips with a cry, and before she knew what she was doing she'd passed the hulking Judoon, shoving them out of the way with an impressive show of strength. She collapsed to the floor beside the unmoving Time Lord, her hands hovering uselessly over his chest, unsure where to settle or what to do with them. Suddenly nothing in the universe mattered.

“No, he can't be!” Martha's voice called out from behind her, but Hartley only just barely registered it, too wound up in her own storm of grief to process anything beyond the Doctor's body before her. “Let me through! Let me _see_ him!”

“Case closed,” the Judoon above her said tonelessly.

“But it was _her_. She killed him! She did it. She _murdered_ him!” Martha was shouting, but Hartley was too lost in her sorrow to hear it.

Her mind was both too loud and too quiet at the same time, ears were ringing with a high-pitched tone that made her eyes burn with tears. She blinked, but her lids suddenly felt like sandpaper against her eyes. Her pulse was loud and thick, almost deafening to her own ears, beating like drum in her head. She stared at the Doctor's still chest, waiting for it to move again.

“Judoon have no authority over human crime,” said one of the Judoon.

“But she's not _human_ ,” Martha argued persistently. Hartley was glad someone was. She didn't think she could so much as lift her head to argue the point. The fight was gone, faded from her like water on concrete in the sun; just evaporated into nothing. All she knew was an absence of feeling, like her empathic abilities were suddenly working in reverse, blocking every emotion other than shock.

“Oh, but I _am_. I've been catalogued,” an elderly sort of voice said from the other side of the room. Hartley wasn't paying attention, finally her hands had settled over the Doctor's chest. There was no uneven rhythm of double hearts through his suit, no gentle rise and fall of his chest, no hum of gentle emotion against her soul.

Her throat was suddenly thick with an indescribable grief, and she squeezed her eyes shut, folding in on herself as pain wracked her body like a poison.

He couldn't be... It just wasn't possible... Why hadn't be _regenerated_? What had gone wrong? Surely he should be sauntering about, a brand new face with a matching personality for her to break in again from scratch. Why wasn't that happening? He was a _Time Lord_. Time Lord's didn't just _die._ They couldn't. Or, if they could, then the _Doctor_ himself surely couldn't. It didn't make sense.

“But she's not!” Martha was saying from behind her. “She assimi –– Wait a minute!” she exclaimed suddenly, such hope in her voice that it made Hartley's head snap up from where it was bowed over the Doctor's chest. She hadn't remembered putting it there, and it wasn't comforting. He wasn't warm and he wasn't soft. He was cold and dead under her touch. The most unfamiliar thing she'd ever known. “You drank his blood? The _Doctor's_ blood?” Martha was saying.

Hartley watched warily as she stole a scanner from the Judoon, aiming its glowing blue light at the old woman's face. “Oh, I don't mind,” she said, an ugly sneer on her lined face. “Scan all you like.”

“Non-human,” the Judoon announced with a growl.

“But, _what_?” the alien-criminal gasped.

“Confirm analysis,” they continued, each holding up a scanner, the alien now bathed in rich blue light. She winced against its blinding brilliance, but Hartley knew that was the least of her problems in that moment. Because Hartley was going to make her pay like she'd never known. She was going to make her _suffer._

“Oh, but it's a mistake, surely. I'm _human_. I'm as _human_ as they come,” the alien tried to argue, rather weak for someone trying to save their own life. Hartley thought sharply that the Doctor could have done a much better job.

“He gave his _life_ so they'd find you,” Martha spat at the alien, who was eyeing the Judoon cautiously.

“Confirm: plasmavore,” the head Judoon said, and Hartley stared back at the woman with a burning disdain, righteous fury in her veins. The plasmavore he stared back at her arresting officers in confusion. “You are charged with the crime of murdering the child princess of Patrival Regency Nine.”

The plasmavore finally dropped the act, the look of false innocence melting from her face like wax near a flame. “Well, she _deserved_ it! Those pink cheeks and those blonde curls and that simpering voice. She was _begging_ for the bite of a plasmavore,” she snarled.

“Then you confess?”

“ _Confess_? I'm _proud_ of it! Slab, stop them!” she ordered in a sneer.

The Judoon didn't so much as flinch, lifting their weapons and firing at the Slab, which shuddered under the electrocution, then simply turned to dust, burned away into nothing.

“Verdict: guilty. Sentence: execution,” the Judoon announced without feeling.

The plasmavore started, turning and fleeing behind the screen with a shout, fiddling with the controls at her hands. Off to the side, the sign saying 'Magnetic Overload' flashed to life, a deep, alarming red.

“Enjoy your victory, Judoon, because you're going to burn with me. Burn in _hell_!” the plasmavore snarled through the glass, but the Judoon weren't fazed, firing their weapons through the screen, rendering the alien nothing but ash, and something deep and dark within Hartley was satisfied with her gruesome end, believing that she deserved it.

“Case closed,” the space police proclaimed unfeelingly.

Martha dropped down beside Hartley, eyeing the Doctor's unmoving body with distress. “But what did she mean, burn with me?” she asked. “The scanner shouldn't be doing that. She's _done_ something!”

“Scans detect lethal acceleration of monomagnetic pulse,” the Judoon announced, but Hartley had already tuned back out, her focus on the Doctor. She took in his slack face and pale, waxen skin. Whatever this was, she would survive it. But did she want to? What was she meant to do if the Doctor didn't wake up? Where was she meant to go?

The place where her heart should have been ached, like somebody had reached in and scooped out her most vital organ, leaving her insides in painful, unhealed ribbons.

“Well, _do_ something! Stop it!” Martha was begging them desperately. Her voice was distant, like it was coming from miles away, rather than right beside her. Hartley gripped the Doctor's mauve tie, the fabric just as cold as his corpse, not at all comforting on her skin.

“Our jurisdiction has ended. Judoon will evacuate.”

“What? You can't just _leave_ it. What's it going to do?”

“All units withdraw.”

Hartley heard the Judoon's heavy boots stomping around them, and Martha clamoured to her feet, stumbling after them, shrilly demanding they fix it. But her cries fell on deaf ears, as Hartley knew they would.

“Come _on_ , Spacewalker,” Hartley begged the Doctor, reaching out to press a hand against his cold, pasty face. His muscles didn't so much as twitch, and she bit into the flesh of her inner cheeks, panic and grief beginning to overwhelm her. She was sure she was going to drown in in pit of her own sorrow. Was she going to have a panic attack? “Why aren't you _regenerating_?” she demanded as though he might answer, grasping onto the lapels of his suit jacket and shaking, all pretences of staying gentle gone. _She_ was gone. “Regenerate, dammit!” she cried, barely keeping herself together. She felt like her tether to reality was snapping, the air was harder to inhale, thick and watery in her lungs.

Who was she without the Doctor? They were cosmically magnetised, whatever _that_ meant, but she knew enough to know she would be lost without him. It couldn't end like this, she knew it couldn't. The last thing he ever said to her _couldn't_ be 'protect her' as he ran away to face the oncoming danger on his own. It wasn't _fair_.

Martha reappeared over them, collapsing beside Hartley and beginning to tilt the Doctor's head back.

CPR – it hadn't even occurred to Hartley as an option. “It'll be okay,” Martha assured her in breathless gasps. Hartley suddenly realised it wasn't grief making it difficult to breathe, but rather the fact that they were running out of air in the hospital.

Martha struggled for each breath, beginning to pump the Doctor's chest, then pausing to breathe into his mouth.

“Why isn't it working?” she coughed, continuing to pump on one side of his chest.

“Martha,” Hartley gasped, lungs burning like they were full of poison. “Two hearts,” she reminded her, tapping on either side of the Doctor's chest. Martha's eyes widened, but Hartley couldn't manage so much as a smile, coughing again as her windpipe burned from the carbon dioxide surrounding them.

Hartley stared into the Doctor's unmoving expression, taking in his long eyelashes and dashing sideburns, his slightly crooked nose and sharp cheekbones. She could feel her grip on consciousness slipping but fought to keep her eyes open, thinking to herself that she hoped she wouldn't wake up this time, because as pathetic as it probably sounded, a universe without the Doctor wasn't one she was interested in living in.

Then, just when she was sure all hope was lost, the Doctor jerked upwards, taking in a deep gasp of air, much like she did whenever she reanimated after a death. Relief surged through her, but it was distant, a vague passing of emotion that was overridden by her body's desperate need for air.

He sucked in air of his own, wild eyes roaming the room as he recovered. Delirious from the lack of air, Hartley reached out a hand, gently pressing her palm against his chest where she could finally feel his double hearts beating out a beautiful, uneven rhythm through his suit. She thought brazenly that it was the most beautiful thing she'd ever felt.

“You're okay,” she rasped, each breath hurting more than the last.

He was panting, staring back at her with fierce eyes that were at first unfocused, then latched onto her sharply. He roamed her face, which she realised now was wet with tears she hadn't even noticed she'd shed. She attempted a weak, pained smile.

“You're okay,” she coughed again, more to convince herself. She could die in peace, now, knowing that when she reanimated he'd be right there, ready to bicker with her as he always did. “Now – save them,” she wheezed, feeling the strength in her arms give way. She fell directly to the floor, consciousness finally slipping from her like sand through her fingers.

It was different than dying; whenever she was killed, it was always an all-encompassing blackness. There was no sensation, no feeling, no true sense of the passing of time. It was endless and instant in the same moment, terrifying in its brief infinity.

This was completely different. It was rare that she was ever unconscious without being _dead_ , and suddenly she seemed _too_ aware of everything happening around her. Her pulse continued to beat from within her chest, and the linoleum floor of the room was cold against her skin.

She couldn't hear too well, everything muffled, like she were listening from underwater, but she could _feel_ what was happening. Strong hands slipped underneath her, hefting her up off the floor and cradling her against a firm, wiry chest where the uneven rhythm of two heartbeats could be felt through soft, familiar fabric.

Her head hung down, her hair weighty in its freedom, and she felt the Time Lord who held her sway as he moved. It was calming, like being rocked in a hammock, only feeling a thousand times more lovely.

They seemed to be walking for miles, but the swaying was soothing to Hartley, whose breaths were shallow and painful. She supposed it was a rather nice way to die: in the Doctor's arms. If every death could be like this, maybe she wouldn't have feared it so much.

“Come on, come on, come on, please,” the Doctor was muttering from somewhere above her. He was anxious and she tried to reach out with her hands to comfort him, but they remained unmoving, numb from lack of oxygen. “Come on, Judoon, _reverse_ it,” he begged them quietly.

How terrifying it was, to be at the Judoon's complete mercy. All they had was hope. Hope the galactic thugs wouldn't leave a thousand people stranded on the moon without air; a death sentence.

Then suddenly there was the soothing sound of rain and the lingering concern inside of her vanished at its melodic hum. She was moved, lifted higher so her head was cradled against the Doctor's shoulder rather than hanging freely.

“It's raining on the moon, Hart,” his voice washed over her, warm and raspy, and full of a surprising amount of affection, “you'll have to tell me which quote that makes you think of when you wake up.”

She felt something cool brush over her hairline, and she wondered if it was his lips. He held her close, and she wished she could wake up to hug him back.

“See you soon,” he told her quietly, a promise, and she smiled on the inside even as she sank into the final recesses of unconsciousness, that familiar inky blackness dripping through her head as if it were the very rain taking them back to Earth.

* * *

She woke, for once, rather gently. Her eyes blinked open slowly, and everything was peaceful. There was no sharp pain that signalled her respiratory system kicking back to life, and no burn of unused lungs or dusty, stinging eyes. She woke much like she might after a long nap, blinking serenely up at an unfamiliar white ceiling.

“Good!” the Doctor's voice crowed, and she looked over to the side where he was sitting, their roles reversed. Only that morning _she'd_ been the one watching over _him_ in a hospital bed, instead of the other way around. “You're awake.”

“Hey,” she greeted him gravelly, throat flaring with pain. Before she'd even thought to ask, the Doctor was holding out a small cup of water. She took it gratefully, gingerly sitting up against the pillows behind her, sipping the water gently. “I didn't die?” she asked conversationally. He shook his head from where he was watching her, elbows rested on his knees. “That's a nice change of pace,” she hummed.

“You're telling me,” he agreed, just a hint of an impish grin on his lips.

That expression usually meant trouble, and she frowned. “What?” she asked warily, not so sure she wanted to know.

“You were crying,” he said, still with that stupid grin. She was confused, not making the connection for a long moment before finally the memories came flooding back to her.

The Doctor, dead on the floor, hope dwindling into nothing with every beat of her aching heart.

“You were _dead_ ,” she hissed defensively, awake barely two minutes and already completely exasperated by her alien travelling companion. “Of _course_ I was crying,” she huffed, doing her best to glare angrily.

He was still giving her that shit-eating grin, unperturbed, and she quickly drained the last of her water before she could give into the urge to throw it dramatically in his face. “You _care_ ,” he sang, as if it was ever in question. He was wrong about that – she'd always cared about him, right from the very start; it was _him_ who hadn't cared for _her._

“Go on, then,” she said, eager to get the focus off herself before she snapped at him in retaliation. “How'd you do it?” she asked, glancing pointedly out the window where she could clearly see the London skyline, a familiar and calming sight to wake up to.

“I didn't do anything,” he said with a shrug. “Judoon reversed the H20 scoop, brought us back.”

“And everyone's okay?” she pressed hopefully. “The humans are all alive? Martha?”

“All fine,” he assured her, glancing over his shoulder. Hartley noted that the room was empty, and he seemed to realise what she was noticing. “Everyone's being checked over by paramedics and spoken to by police, trying to sort out what happened.”

Knowing the drill, she pushed herself up into a sitting position, rolling out the crick in her sore, stiff neck. “Guess we'd better be off, then,” she said with a deep breath, relishing in the clear, oxygenated air.

“Only if you can walk,” he said, standing to his feet, hands held out around her warily, like he expected her to tip over at a moment's notice.

“I'm fine,” she batted off his cautious hands, rolling her eyes at him fondly. “I heal fast, remember? I'm right as rain.”

The Doctor sniffed, nodding his head and pulling at the lapels of his deep blue suit. “Right then,” he said, waving her through the door. “Off we go.”

The upper levels of the hospital were mostly empty, but the lobby was still full of people rushing about, making sure everyone was okay, officers scanning the room with heavy devices that Hartley could only assume were there to look for clues as to what exactly had happened.

“You alright, miss?” a young paramedic with short hair appeared, a worried look in her warm eyes. “You look a bit pale. Have you had any oxygen?”

“I'm fine, thank you,” Hartley told her gratefully, spotting a younger boy off to the side, still shaking from the whole ordeal. “He could use some, I think,” she told her, and the woman nodded, rushing off to help the boy.

“Come on,” the Doctor said, hand pressed gently against the small of her back. “Let's get to the TARDIS before one of these coppers tries to get a statement,” he told her, eyeing the police around them warily. She understood – they'd had enough police for one day.

Winding her arm through his, she smiled in vague amusement as she pulled him across the road full of pedestrians staring up at the hospital in shock, rumours already spreading throughout the crowd like wildfire.

As they moved towards the blue box, Hartley glanced back at the hospital, feeling the weight of eyes on her back.

Martha was staring at them, a wistful sort of look on her pretty face. Hartley nudged the Doctor, who followed her line of sight to the young medical student. He lifted his hand in a little wave, and Hartley let go of the Doctor to smile at her widely, gathering all of her gratitude for her help and blowing the woman a kiss, pushing it out with the air.

“Come on,” the Doctor said, and she looked back to see him standing in the TARDIS' open doors. She glanced back at Martha, but a truck was blocking her view, so she sighed and followed him into the machine. The door had barely closed behind her before the Time Lord was dematerialising his ship with a beautiful groan.

The TARDIS hummed within her mind, like it were welcoming her home, and she leant her weight against one of the large coral pillars surrounding the room, soaking up its comfort like a sponge in water.

“I think you could use a kip,” the Doctor told her as he piloted the ship distractedly, attention only half on each task.

“I was just unconscious,” Hartley reminded him, and he sent her a chastising kind of expression.

“That isn't restful sleep,” he said, and she did have to admit that she could at _least_ use a shower.

“I'll be in my room,” she said, careful not to agree to sleeping. “You should change out of that suit,” she added as she passed him, and he cocked a curious eyebrow.

“Why?”

“Because you smell like Judoon,” she laughed.

He grinned back, and she beamed as she disappeared into the endless maze of halls filling the infinite ship. Her room was only a corridor away from the control room, and Hartley rubbed a hand down the wood of her door in thanks, slipping inside and heading straight for the bathroom.

The water was the perfect temperature, scolding hot on her cool skin, and she used calming lavender body wash, the scent helping her tense muscles to relax. The steam cleared her foggy head, and she found herself reluctant to leave. Eventually she knew she had to rejoin the real world, stepping from the shower and towelling off, redressing in simple jeans and a white shirt with a mustard jacket, running a brush through her hair.

Going through the motions, she couldn't help her mind from wandering. It settled over thoughts of Martha. The woman was clever, smart and resourceful in a refreshing sort of way. It had been nearly a year since Hartley and the Doctor had travelled with anyone but themselves. She wondered suddenly what it might be like to add someone new into the mix – just as an experiment, to see how the dynamic would work out...

Hartley wondered suddenly what Martha must think of them: a mysterious pair of companions traipsing through the hospital, talking about space travel and immortality, saving them all like it were just another Tuesday – which it really was, for them. Not that Martha knew that.

She would have been left with so many questions, so many things to ask them, and Hartley knew how frustrating it was to be left without answers, particularly where the Doctor was involved. So it was then she marched towards the control room with purpose. Two hours had passed, and the Doctor too had changed his suit, back in his usual brown pinstripes, fiddling halfheartedly with a small device on the jump seat.

She opened with, “we should find Martha,” which, in hindsight, probably wasn't her best approach to the situation.

“Why?” the Doctor sounded defensive, looking up at her with undeserved suspicion in his eyes.

“Because she has questions,” she answered him calmly. “And she helped save all those people. She helped save _you_. I think the least she deserves are some proper answers.”

The Doctor looked like he very much wanted to argue, but was having trouble poking holes in her argument. She knew he knew she was right; she just had to dig it out of him, make him realise what she knew he already saw.

“She deserves _more_ than just answers,” she couldn't help but continue, maybe getting just a little ahead of herself.

The Doctor's brown eyes narrowed at her carefully. “Like what?”

“I dunno,” she murmured, but it was utterly unconvincing; they both knew _exactly_ what she was alluding to.

“You want to take her with us?” he asked incredulously.

“I'm not saying we induct her into Team TARDIS,” she rolled her eyes at his defensive demeanour, “but surely she's earned a trip or two, don't you think?”

“You getting sick of me?” he questioned, aiming for playful but missing by a few notches.

“You know that isn't it,” she said, a stern quality to her voice, and his face dropped into an emotionless mask. He returned to his tinkering, a small wrench held in his hand. “I think it'll be fun,” she continued stubbornly, refusing to let him ignore her. “And besides, I think we could use a little _fresh blood_ ,” she added with a tongue-in-cheek grin.

“Too soon,” the Doctor deadpanned without looking up from his task.

“Yeah, right,” she giggled, “you're laughing.”

“Am not,” he argued, striving for stoic, but he made the mistake of glancing up at her happy, smiling face, and couldn't help the grin that appeared in response. “Fine,” he relented, dropping his tinkering project over his shoulder and pocketing his wrench, bounding over to the console and beginning to once again pilot his ship. “That night, I s'pose?”

“While it's fresh,” she agreed. She popped up beside him, threading her arm through his and pressing her face against his shoulder, squeezing his arm in a warm, affectionate hug. “I'm really glad you're okay, Doc,” she added, voice quiet and sweet, ringing with sincerity. “I don't know what I'd do without you.”

It was a big subject, one she supposed they should eventually discuss; it would be nice to know what would happen to the other, should one of them _permanently_ kick the bucket. They were connected throughout time and space; where did that connection end? It was impossible to tell. For now it remained a mystery, one she was content to never have solved.

The Doctor hummed distractedly in reply, but she got the feeling he was thinking the same – marvelling at their connection, wondering what he'd do without her in his life – and that was enough for her. The TARDIS landed with a judder and he waved her towards the doors.

“Go on, then,” he said. “Turn right and follow it through; you'll find her.”

“How d'you know?” she asked even as she wandered obediently over to the doors.

“She mentioned a party,” he said as he threaded his arms through the sleeves of what she affectionately called his 'Janis Joplin' coat. “From there I just tracked her phone,” he finished blithely.

“Invasion of privacy,” she sang, but his reply was hidden by the creaking of the doors as she slipped out into the night. She grinned at their familiar dynamic, gripping the lapels of her jacket and making a beeline for the mouth of the alley.

Martha was easy enough to spot, mostly because she was surrounded by a large group of arguing people, all of them screaming at one another in the middle of the empty street. Martha looked exhausted and disappointed by the whole thing, and she felt a sympathetic flare for the girl, memories of her own family floating behind her eyes.

Hartley was just wondering what to do to gain her attention when Martha's eyes drifted over to where she was standing, widening in shock at the sight of her. She supposed her mustard yellow jacket was rather difficult to miss.

She smiled kindly, lifting a finger to her pink lips before nodding her head for Martha to follow her back into the alley. Martha took a step forwards and, convinced she'd follow, Hartley ducked back the way she'd come, heading towards the TARDIS where the Doctor was waiting, leant against his machine in a casual slouch.

“That her family?” he asked Hartley idly, referring to the screaming match they could still hear happening a street over. She nodded, and the Time Lord gave a sympathetic grimace just as Martha appeared at the end of the alley, an eager expression on her face.

There was a pause as she chewed on her words, taking in the sight of them standing there with that big, blue, inexplicable box, calm smiles on both of their faces.

“I went to the moon today,” she finally said in lieu of proper greeting.

“A bit more peaceful than down here,” the Doctor commented dryly. Hartley had to agree as a siren flew by along a nearby street, the sound loud and piercing and only adding to the noise that Martha's family were creating with their shouting.

“You two never even told me who you are,” Martha sighed, beginning to wander closer, jacket held in a limp grip.

“The Doctor,” he told her evenly.

“Hartley Daniels,” Hartley added with a little wave and a smile.

“But what sort of species?” she pressed, then hummed, considering. “It's not every day I get to ask that,” she laughed, and Hartley joined her.

“I'm a Time Lord,” the Doctor answered her seriously, the title holding a note of pride.

“ _Right_! Not pompous at all, then,” Martha said, and Hartley gave an appreciative laugh. To the Doctor's credit, he didn't scowl, a tiny smirk of amusement on his lips as he reached inside his suit jacket. “And you?” she asked Hartley. “You're a Time Lord too?”

“Nope,” Hartley shrugged her shoulders. “I'm human, but I wasn't kidding; I really _am_ immortal.”

Martha looked like she seriously doubted that were true, and considering it was a rather lengthy story Hartley decided it was best to just move on.

“You saved the Doctor's life,” she began, the gratitude in her voice palpable. She smiled, trying to convey how much that meant. “Not every day someone can say that,” she added softly.

“And I _do_ have a brand new sonic screwdriver which needs road testing...” the Doctor interjected, pulling out his new sonic with a grin. Hartley plucked it from his fingers, holding it up to the light. She was relieved to see it, shiny and brand new and perfect for their coming adventures, whatever they may be.

“What're you saying?” Martha asked slowly.

“We're saying that we thought you might like to join us on a trip,” Hartley said, looking over at her as the Doctor stole back his sonic, twirling it idly around his long, capable fingers.

“What, into space?”

“Well...” the Doctor trailed off with a shrug, glancing up enticingly at the night sky, the stars mostly hidden by the light pollution of the busy city.

“But I _can't,_ ” Martha said with a sigh. “I've got exams. I've got things to do. I have to go into town first thing and pay the rent. I've got my family going mad...”

“If it helps,” he told her evenly, “I can travel in time as well.”

“Get out of here,” Martha deadpanned.

“I can,” he insisted.

“It's true,” Hartley chimed in with a small laugh.

“Come on now, that's going _too_ far,” she argued.

“I'll prove it,” the Doctor said, pushing off from the blue box, shooting Hartley a wink before stepping inside.

“Here we go,” Hartley said with all the exasperation of the parent of a small child showing off. Martha stared with wide eyes as the TARDIS dematerialised right in front of them, fading into nothing. Martha was nearly shaking, stepping up to where the machine used to be, waving her hand in the empty space as if to make sure it wasn't just a trick of the light.

“It's really gone,” Martha murmured to herself.

“Not for long,” Hartley told her just as the familiar groaning filled the alley, and waved for Martha to move back. She took a shocked step backwards, watching as the TARDIS rematerialised in front of her. The Doctor stepped out a beat later, mauve tie held in hand, his collar askew.

“Told you,” he said smugly. Hartley scoffed at his theatrics, but could help but roll her eyes at him fondly.

“No, but, that was this morning!” Martha argued, logic warring with the proof before her very eyes. “Did you? Oh, my _God._ You can travel in _time,_ ” she gasped as she finally came to terms with it all. “But hold on – if you could see me this morning, why didn't you tell me not to go in to work?”

Hartley walked back over to the TARDIS and leaning up against it beside the Doctor, who was retightening the knot of his tie.

“Crossing into established events is _strictly_ forbidden,” he replied solemnly, but there was an impish glint to his eyes that Hartley was slowly growing used to seeing again, and it made her warm inside. “Except for cheap tricks,” he added.

Hartley giggled brightly, looking over at Martha to find her eyeing the Doctor with a hint of interest that made her experience a flash of wariness. One that she had no business feeling. She told herself she was just concerned for her.

She knew that falling for the Doctor was as easy as diving into the ocean. A rush of inexplicable feeling followed by an immersion of feeling, one you couldn't easily find your way out of. She'd seen it happen to Rose; and they knew how that ended – with nothing but tears.

“And that's your spaceship?” Martha asked, oblivious to Hartley's inner monologue, turning her critical eye to the TARDIS they were leant against.

“It's called the TARDIS,” the Doctor explained as Martha slowly approached, holding out a hand and brushing it down the wood of her clever exterior. “Time and Relative Dimension in Space.”

“Your spaceship's made of wood,” Martha said, rapping on the outside with a cocked eyebrow. “There's not much room,” she added, eyeing him saucily. “We'd be a bit _intimate._ ”

Despite the irritation her words sparked within Hartley, the traveller still smirked in vague amusement, turning to share the expression with the Doctor, who looked positively giddy at the opportunity presented before him. “Take a look,” he said calmly, pushing open the door for her to step through.

Looking ever so slightly wary Martha stepped inside only to gasp in shock, the sound echoing throughout their abandoned alleyway.

“No, no, no,” the poor girl muttered to herself, leaping from the TARDIS and back out into the alley, doing the customary circle around the machine. “But it's just a _box,_ ” she sounded like she were arguing with herself.

Hartley grinned again as she stepped inside her home, walking up the ramp and coming to a stop against the console, crossing her arms and exchanging another grin with the Doctor.There was something rather thrilling about the whole thing, like she were experiencing the wonder of the TARDIS for the first time all over again.

She thought she understood the Doctor a little better, suddenly. She knew now why he wanted human companions; because they could see the wonder he'd become numb to. They helped him remember. She wondered whether she still did that for him, or if her effect had rubbed off over time.

“But it's _huge_!” Martha exclaimed, stepping back into the console room. “How does it do that? It's wood. It's like a box with that room just rammed in...” she trailed off in realisation. “It's _bigger on the inside_.”

The Doctor mouthed the words along with her, and Hartley let out a trilling laugh of amusement.

“Is it? I hadn't noticed,” he crowed, shutting the door after her and shedding his coat, tossing it over the column of coral to his right. “Right then, let's get going!” he cried enthusiastically, leaping towards Hartley, beginning to energetically fly his beautiful stolen time machine.

“But is there a crew, like a navigator and stuff? Where is everyone?” Martha asked smartly, walking deeper into the ship, eyeing everything with fresh wonderment that Hartley soaked up like rainwater.

“Just us,” the Doctor told her without looking up from the controls.

“All by yourselves?”

“ _Well_ , sometimes we have guests. I mean, some friends, travelling alongside,” he explained without making eye contact with either of them. “We had – a while back, there was a friend of ours. Rose, her name was Rose. And we were...together – anyway––” he cut himself off abruptly, and Hartley's expression twisted into something sad. She turned away before Martha could see the look, not wanting her to take it the wrong way.

It may have been almost a year since Canary Wharf, a year since they'd lost Rose, but the wound was still unfairly fresh. The memory of her remained all over the TARDIS. Time moved differently inside the machine, it seemed like it might as well have been mere weeks, and not twelve long months.

“Where is she now?” Martha pressed the Doctor, who answered almost defensively.

“With her family. Happy. She's _fine,_ ” he cut himself suddenly, turning to look at her with a suspicious kind of frown. “ _Not_ that you're replacing her!” he snapped, and Hartley rolled her eyes at his hot and cold behaviour.

“Never said I was,” Martha held up her hands in surrender.

“Just _one_ trip to say thanks. You get _one_ trip, then back home,” he said sternly, jabbing a finger at her strictly. “I'd rather be on my own,” he added with a sniff.

“Except for _you,_ that is?” Martha asked, turning to look at Hartley, who had thus far remained silent.

“Doesn't matter how much _thinks_ he wants peace and quiet,” Hartley said, aiming for lighthearted and hopefully hitting it. “He's stuck with me,” she finished cheerfully.

The Doctor looked up at her, sadness slowly melting from his eyes, replaced with easy happiness. That's what it was like when they were together; easily happy. If only everything in life was a simple as their friendship.

“Are you _sure_ you two aren't a couple?” Martha asked them suddenly, a suspicious tinge to her voice. Hartley looked away from the Doctor, realising with a jolt that they'd been staring for an odd amount of time.

The Doctor's head snapped around at the questioned accusation. “'Course not!” he argued with a cringe. “We're just companions,” he told her in a more even voice, this time much more convincing. “Travelling companions.”

It was dangerously close to a brush-off, but Hartley wasn't going to acknowledge that. It didn't matter, after all. The Doctor was her best friend – her _only_ friend – and nothing was going to come between that. Certainly not something as inconvenient as _feelings._

Martha seemed to perk up. “Good, because I don't tend to like getting kissed by married men,” she said cheekily.

The Doctor whipped around with a grimace. “ _That_ was a genetic transfer,” he told her sternly.

“And if you _will_ wear a tight suit...” she continued, playful and coy.

“Now, don't!” the Doctor snapped.

“And then travel _all_ the way across the universe just to ask me on a date.”

“ _Stop_ it.”

There was a pregnant pause, one Hartley found grossly uncomfortable. “For the record? I'm not _remotely_ interested,” Martha said dryly, but to Hartley it was a bare-faced lie.

She could feel Martha's attraction to the Doctor, like a hum in the back of her mind. She grimaced at it, looking away and wondering when it was a good time to let Martha know about her extra abilities, or whether to tell her at all.

“I only go for humans,” Martha added.

The Doctor seemed convinced, Hartley anything but. “Good!” he grinned, chirpy as ever. “Well, then. Close down the gravitic anomaliser, fire up the helmic regulator. And finally, the hand brake. Ready?” he asked them eagerly.

“No,” Martha answered honestly, and he grinned maniacally before yanking at the lever, sending them into the vortex.

“Off we go!”

The ship jerked to the side, very nearly throwing Martha off her feet. Hartley gripped onto the edge of the console, a seasoned passenger aboard the TARDIS. “Blimey, it's a bit bumpy!” Martha called over the loud sound of the ship dematerialising.

The Doctor grinned like a madman, offering her his hand. “Welcome aboard, Miss Jones!”

“It's my pleasure, Mister Smith!”

And Hartley could only hope that, this time, it wasn't going to end in total and complete disaster.


	33. The Shakespeare Code

**THE SHAKESPEARE CODE**

“ _All the world's a stage.”_

William Shakespeare

* * *

“Is it always this rough?!” Martha shouted over the loud wheezing of the time rotor.

“Always!” Hartley confirmed just as loudly, grinning widely as the ship tossed them to and fro. “And it's a dull day when it isn't!”

“So, we're travelling right now? We're flying somewhere?” she continued, nervous anticipation bubbling in her blood.

“More like some _when_ ,” the Doctor corrected her giddily, leg propped up over the console as he tried to reached around its side without moving from his position. Hartley moved forwards and gripped the lever he was trying to pull, yanking it down for him. He rewarded her with a bright, happy grin.

“But _how_ do you travel in time? What makes it go?” Martha was asking curiously. The Doctor, however, only seemed annoyed by the barrage of questions.

“Oh, let's take the fun and mystery out of everything,” he scoffed. “Martha, you don't _want_ to know. It just _does_.” Then, quick as ever, he was grinning again, his mood swings giving the poor girl whiplash. “Hold on tight!” he shouted as they lurched sideways. Hartley steadied herself against the railing while Martha fell to the floor with a yelp.

“Blimey,” she puffed as the ship eventually fell still. Hartley was quick to crouch down, helping the newest flyer to her feet. “Do you have to pass a test to fly this thing?” Martha asked as she sent Hartley a smile of gratitude.

“Yes, and I failed it,” the Doctor answered breezily. Hartley chuckled, making sure she had everything on her before heading down the ramp towards the doors, coming to a sudden stop beside her. “Now, make the most of it – I promised you one trip, and one trip only. Outside this door, brave new world,” he said, enigmatic at best.

Martha smiled back nervously. “Where are we?” she asked, wound so tight with excitement that Hartley could practically hear the furious racing of her pulse from across the console room.

“Take a look,” the Doctor said rather than give a straight answer, pulling the door open behind him. There was a smug sort of smile on his lips, and Hartley wondered exactly what it was he had up his sleeve to make him look so pleased with himself. “After you,” he waved them through with a smirk.

Martha took a beat to look at Hartley, who nodded her forwards gently, and so with a deep inhale of air mixed with gathered courage, Martha stepped from the safety of the TARDIS and out into the brilliant danger of the cosmos.

“Go on then, Spacewalker,” Hartley said to the Doctor as she pulled her jacket more tightly around her shoulders. “Where've you taken us?”

“You'll see,” he told her, a giddy edge to his voice, the sparkle in his eyes eager and pleased. “It's a good one.”

Eyeing him carefully, Hartley merely cocked an eyebrow and stepped out into their new destination. At first glance it looked like some kind of stock medieval setting. Market stalls were spread out before her, washing hanging on lines over top with children playing some kind of rudimentary in the street.

It was night, roaring fires surrounding them for light and giving off a lovely heat to combat against the chilly bite of the air.

“Oh, you are _kidding_ me. You are _so_ kidding me. Oh, my God, we _did_ it. We travelled in _time_ ,” Martha was still in the disbelief stage, only just coming to terms with what they'd done. “Where are we? No, sorry,” she corrected herself suddenly. “I've got to get used to this whole new language. _When_ are we?”

Hartley opened her mouth to second the question but the Doctor suddenly exclaimed, “mind out!” and grasped them both by the elbows, tugging them closer to the TARDIS just as a man emptied his slop bucked from a window above them. Hartley looked away with a grimace of disgust, trying not to breathe through her nose.

“Somewhere before the invention of the toilet,” the Doctor muttered around a matching grimace. “Sorry about that,” he apologised wryly.

“I've seen worse. I've worked the late night shift at A&E,” Martha said with a small, wistful sort of smile. Hartley tried not to imagine what was worse than this, instead shoving her hands into the pockets of her jeans and carefully stepping around the mess on the ground. “But are we safe?” the medical student asked, suddenly concerned. “I mean, can we move around and stuff?”

The Doctor looked bemused by the question, if not slightly offended. “Of course we can. Why do you ask?”

“It's like in the films. You step on a butterfly, you change the future of the human race.”

“Tell you what then, don't step on any butterflies,” the Doctor said, trying very hard not to sneer the words. “What have butterflies ever done to you?”

“What if, I don't know, what if I kill my own grandfather?” she persisted.

“Are you planning to?” the Doctor asked with a flash of concern.

“No.”

“Well, then,” he shrugged it off, shoving his hands into his pockets and leading the way down the street. Hartley hid a laugh in her palm, heading after the Doctor who looked completely in his element as they strolled down the old time English street.

“And this is London?” Martha asked giddily. Hartley glanced back to see a massive grin on her face as she stared around herself in wonderment. There was a magic to it – slop buckets aside – and Hartley's own lips curved upwards into a giddy smile.

“I think so,” the Doctor chimed, brown eyes scanning the city. “Around about 1599,” he added in a knowing tone of voice, then turned and shot Hartley an expectant look. It was like he were waiting for her reaction to something, but she didn't know what.

“What?” she asked self-consciously, reaching up to pat at her hair.

“Nothing,” he sniffed, but that hint of a smirk remained on his lips, like he knew something she didn't.

“Oh, but hold on,” Martha continued loudly, taking no notice of their exchange. “Am I all right?” she asked, suddenly concerned. “I'm not going to get carted off as a slave, am I?”

The Doctor stopped his leisurely stroll to turn and stare at her in something akin to horror. “Why would they do that?” he asked in confusion. He probably wasn't used to somebody having so many questions. Hartley certainly hadn't; neither had Rose. She wondered suddenly – not for the first time – what the people were like who had come before them.

Had Sarah Jane been the type to pester the Doctor with questions? What about the person before her, or the ones who came after? There was so much she didn't know. She hoped one day the Doctor would open up and tell her about his long history of companions.

“Not exactly white, in case you haven't noticed,” Martha replied, gesturing at her face with a wry smile, oblivious to Hartley's internal monologue.

“I'm not even human,” he told her in an undertone. “Just walk about like you own the place. Works for us. Besides, you'd be surprised. Elizabethan England, not so different from your time,” the words tickled something deep in Hartley's head, but she couldn't for the life of her figure out what. “Look over there. They've got recycling,” he said, gesturing to a man shovelling manure into a wooden pale. “Water cooler moment,” he continued as they passed a pair of men talking over the top of a large water barrel.

“And the world will be _consumed_ by flames!” a man in ridiculous but traditional priest clothes cried to them imploringly as they passed.

“Global warming,” he finished wryly, and Hartley gave a little huff of a laugh, impressed by his quick observations. “Oh, yes, and entertainment. Popular entertainment for the masses. Oh, Hart,” he added, giddy once again, practically bouncing on his toes with excitement, “you're going to _love_ this – because if I'm right, we're just down the river by Southwark, right next to...”

Without much of a thought, his hand found Hartley's, gripping tightly and pulling her after him in a dizzying run. Hartley laughed, reaching out as well, grasping onto Martha's hand and dragging her after them. Their new traveller looked surprised by the action and their excited, childish laughter, but not altogether opposed to it.

Hartley had no idea what the Doctor was so giddy about, she was just thoughtlessly caught up in his whirlwind, as usual – but she didn't regret a single thing.

This statement had never been more true, however, when they stumbled to a rocky stop around a corner. There in the distance sat the round, towering form of a building she'd spent half her life studying, and the other half wishing to be able to visit.

“Oh, yes,” the Doctor crowed, and Hartley felt the breath leave her lungs, surprise leaving her winded, “the _Globe Theatre_!”

Hartley could do no more than grip the Doctor's hand tighter, staring up at the beautiful building in pure wonder. She was awestruck – there were simply no words to describe the sight before her, and the weight it held to her life.

“Brand new. Just opened,” the Doctor continued. “Through, strictly speaking, it's not a globe, it's a tetradecagon. Fourteen sides,” he paused suddenly, looking away from the building to stare at Hartley in impish delight. “Containing the man himself,” he finished eagerly. Hartley was sure her heart was going to give out from how furiously it was beating in her chest.

“Whoa, you don't mean...” Martha gasped.

“Shakespeare,” Hartley tried to say. It came out in more of a strangled squeak than a word, her grip on the Doctor's hand approaching painful.

“Oh, _yes_ ,” he beamed at her gleefully, not complaining for a moment about the way she was crushing the bones in his hand. She wasn't looking at him, too enraptured by the sight before her. But if she had glanced over she would have seen the happy gleam to his eyes, watching her wonderment like a starving man gulping down water, like the TARDIS recharging in Cardiff, like a flower soaking up the sunlight.

He stared at her like _she_ were the most precious thing in sight, rather than most famous theatre in the history of the world sitting brand new, right before their eyes.

She noticed none of this, mind already whirring away with thoughts of what she could _possibly_ say to _Shakespeare_. Martha, however, did notice, eyeing them with something of a disappointed frown that went unseen.

Finally, when Hartley didn't move and nor did the Doctor, for he seemed content to drink in her wonder for eons still, Martha cleared her throat pointedly, and both travellers turned to look at her as if coming out of a daze. The Doctor shook his head like he were clearing it, then cracked a wide, unaffected beam and held out and arm to each woman.

“Would you two lovely ladies like to accompany me to the theatre?” he asked them coyly. Martha gave a wide smile, hooking her arm through the Doctor's with a murmur of consent.

“Not sure I can walk,” Hartley whispered, seemingly frozen where she stood, her knees feeling startlingly weak.

The Doctor laughed, winding his arm around hers and pulling her forwards. “Deep breaths,” he reminded her breezily. “When you get home, you can tell everyone you've seen Shakespeare,” he added to Martha brightly, who grinned back happily before casting a glance at Hartley, who looked vaguely like she might pass out at any moment.

“She okay?” she asked the Doctor warily.

“She'll recover,” he told her, one arm threaded securely through hers. “Been promising to bring her here for years. Just give her a few minutes to process it.”

“You're a Shakespeare fan, then?” Martha asked conversationally as they strolled towards the Globe Theatre, which stood proud in the cool autumn air.

“I don't think it's possible to _not_ be a Shakespeare fan,” Hartley responded faintly.

The Doctor smirked from beside her, leaning over to mutter to Martha, “she's a writer. Shakespeare might as well be her higher power.”

Hartley was still too stunned to speak, gaping up at the theatre growing larger above her the closer they got, barely able to believe she was seeing it with her own two eyes.

“Written anything I would have read?” Martha asked Hartley lightly, arm still tucked through the Doctor's.

“Do you read many children's novels?” Hartley managed to ask around her simmering shock.

Martha could only shrug. “Not really. Actually don't have time to read anything other than medical textbooks, these days.”

“Wouldn't have expected so,” Hartley nodded. Her voice was still weak and growing thinner the closer they got to the most famous theatre in all of history.

“But I studied Shakespeare in school,” Martha continued conversationally. “I always thought he was brilliant. What do you love most about his work?”

Hartley finally looked away from the building above them to gape at Martha like she'd just committed sacrilege. “He's _the_ greatest writer in history,” she said in a defensive sort of a voice, as though Martha had offended her with the innocent question. “ _Nobody_ compares to Shakespeare in way of storytelling and rhyme. He's the _ultimate_ genius. His use of prose – or rather impressive _lack of._ His way with words. Do you have any idea how many words we _owe_ to him? Dishearten, inaudible, pageantry, uncomfortable, swagger; these terms never existed before Shakespeare!” she said passionately, a wild gleam to her bright eyes, startling Martha with their intensity. “Modern English wouldn't be as it is today without him!”

The young doctor looked over at their alien chaperone, blinking at him in pure bemusement in response to the rather strong reaction evoked by her innocent question.

The Doctor was smirking, however, amusement dancing in his eyes. “She's got her Masters in Literature,” he revealed quietly, like it were something of a secret, “so she can get rather passionate about Shakespeare. And literature in general.”

Martha nodded, but Hartley wasn't paying attention anymore, too focused on holding her breath to contain the exclamations of jubilation aching to burst from her lips. She smothered them by biting down on her tongue as they stepped inside the famous theatre.

It was full of people, completely packed, but the Doctor was determined, gently prodding his way through the gathered spectators, dragging his starstruck companion and their temporary passenger along after him. The play on stage had already begun, and they were only two lines in before Hartley knew exactly which piece they were performing.

“It's _Love's Labour's Lost_ ,” Hartley hissed at her companions in barely contained excitement, bouncing on the balls of her feet with hyper enthusiasm bubbling up inside of her.

Martha smiled back before getting distracted by the performance, but the Doctor's eyes remained on Hartley, who stared at the scene in awe, eyes wide and glistening, committing every single detail to memory. Hartley could vaguely feel his eyes on her face but she was too far gone to bother caring, trailing her gaze over each person on stage, absorbing their words like a sponge, taking in the play in the way it was truly meant to be performed.

“Having a good time?” the Doctor finally asked her, the words whispered near her ear. It wasn't enough to drag her attention away from the stage, but in a thoughtless move she unthreaded their arms, instead sliding her hand down to tangle their fingers together.

She gripped his hand tightly, trying to silently conveying exactly how grateful she was for such an experience. It was overwhelming, her excitement and gratitude, and she was happy when he squeezed back just as firmly, grinning down at her dashingly. She finally glanced away from the action on stage to look at him, head tilted back so she could see him properly, and a light flush of pink appeared on her cheeks at the bright, happy way with which he was gazing at her.

“So which one's this, again?” Martha asked from beside them, and Hartley snapped out of her stupor to launch into an enthusiastic explanation.

“It follows the King and his three companions,” she began in an undertone, leaning around the Doctor so Martha could hear her. Their hands remained tangled, however; more of an afterthought than anything else. “They forswear women for three years, fasting and studying. See him there? That's Lord Biron, or _Berowne_ , and he's just about to proclaim that the King himself loves the Princess of France.”

“Blimey, you really do know your Shakespeare,” Martha muttered with a small smile on her face, understandably impressed.

They settled back into silence. There wasn't much longer to go, the play ending in its familiar song and verse, then the cast were lining up across the stage and the crowd went wild, wildly cheering in support of the wonderful performance. Hartley finally let go of the Doctor's hand to bounce on her toes and clap loudly in appreciation. The Doctor rubbed at his eye with a grin.

“That's amazing! Just _amazing,_ ” Martha said a minute later, the cheering yet to taper off. “It's worth putting up with the smell,” she added, and Hartley blinked, having barely noticed the horrible smell of the theatre, as entranced by the performance as she was. “And those are men dressed up as women, yeah?”

“London never changes,” the Doctor said dryly, and Hartley's cheers broke off into amused giggles that made the Doctor's grin widen with pride.

“Where's Shakespeare? I want to see Shakespeare!” Martha cried. “Author! _Author_!” she paused suddenly, turning to look at the travellers warily. “Do people shout that? Do they shout Author?” she asked, self-conscious.

“Author! Author!” a man to their right began to shout, and shortly after the whole crowd had taken up the chant, crying out for the author. Hartley could no longer cheer, her throat closing up with anticipation.

“Well, they do now,” the Doctor told her, but Martha could only grin back happily.

Then he was walking onto stage, and Hartley all but forgot the sea of people surrounding her. “It's him,” she squeaked, hand finding the Doctor's again, his cool skin grounding her to the earth.

It was _Shakespeare_. She'd studied everything he'd ever written, pored over his words like they were air, immersed herself in his worlds and rhyme and lyrics and sonnets. Now here he was, standing before her, real as could be and...surprisingly handsome.

“He's a bit different from his portraits,” Martha said with a hum.

“He's gorgeous, isn't he?” Hartley agreed, noting his wonderful bone structure and unexpectedly attractive beard. “Definitely not what I was expecting,” she added in a thoughtful sort of tone, eyes locked onto the man himself who was preening under the exuberant cries and cheers from the adoring crowd.

“Genius,” the Doctor said a moment later, watched the man bow to his fans. “He's a genius. _The_ genius. The most _human_ human there's ever been,” he gushed, and Hartley squeaked in agreement, holding his hand tighter, on the edge of her proverbial seat with anticipation. “Now we're going to hear him speak. Always he chooses the _best_ words. New, beautiful, _brilliant_ words.”

There was a beat, then Shakespeare cried, “ah, shut your big fat mouths!”

The crowd around them cheered and laughed like this were the funniest thing they'd ever heard in their lives. The Doctor seemed disappointed by this, shoulders sagging at the words, but Hartley only watched, taking in this genius of a man who, for most of her life, she'd known to be long since dead.

But now here he was, so very alive, so very human and so very _imperfect._ It was, ironically, rather perfect. She didn't want the untouchable legend. She wanted the real, honest human behind the words she so loved.

“You should never meet your heroes,” Martha said to them jovially, and Hartley smiled in amusement. That was all they did – fly around and meet their heroes; she'd get the hang of it soon enough.

“You've got excellent taste, I'll give you that!” Shakespeare was yelling to the audience, who were more receptive than any audience that Hartley had experienced back in her time. “I know what you're all saying. Loves Labour's Lost, that's a funny ending, isn't it? It just _stops._ Will the boys get the girls? Well, don't get your hose in a tangle, you'll find out soon. Yeah, yeah. All in good time. You don't rush a genius!”

Suddenly he shot back, as though somebody had slapped him across the face, and his expression went blank for a full second before he was speaking again. The strange occurrence made Hartley curious, but she was too interested in the man's words to bother wondering if something were amiss.

“When?” he cried fulsomely. “Tomorrow night! The premiere of my brand new play. A sequel, no less, and I call it _Loves Labour's Won_.”

Hartley's jaw dropped at the name of the familiarly elusive play. The Doctor stilled from beside her, and she looked over at him to see his expression had gone flat. He glanced away from Shakespeare to look at her, and she cocked an eyebrow, undeniably intrigued.

“Go on, then!” Shakespeare shouted, waving his hand lazily at the crowd. “Go rest, and get prepared for the next instalment!”

The people around them cheered as the man himself and the actors all trudged off the stage, and soon enough the three travellers were swept up in the throng of giddy spectators, pushed impatiently through the doorway leading out onto the street.

“I'm not an expert, but I've never heard of _Loves Labour's Won_ ,” Martha said in a curious tone, and Hartley let go of the Doctor's hand to instead tuck her arm through his, keeping them locked together in the sea of chattering people. The last thing she needed was for them all to get separated in the rush.

“Exactly,” the Doctor told her, hands tucked carelessly into his pockets as they followed the flow of the crowd. “The lost play. It doesn't exist, only in rumours. It's mentioned in lists of his plays but never ever turns up. And no one knows why.”

“Not even you?” Martha ventured with a playful little grin in Hartley's direction. “I'd've thought you'd know everything there was to know about the Bard.”

“This is the one of the greatest mysteries in literary history!” Hartley exclaimed, eyes wild with the excitement of it all. She wanted to start on a rant, tell them all the little known facts of _Loves Labour's Won_ that she'd collected over the years, but she had a feeling there were more important things to talk about than her knowledge of the Shakespearian Archive.

“Well, have you got a mini-disc or something?” Martha asked instead, a cheeky grin on her face. “We can tape it. We can flog it. Sell it when we get home and make a mint.”

Both Hartley and the Doctor turned to look at her with identical, disapproving frowns. “No,” the Time Lord said slowly, deliberately, and Martha winced like she'd been scolded.

“That would be bad,” she surmised, a grimace pulling at her mouth.

“Yes,” Hartley agreed, barely able to imagine what would happen should a recording of _Love's Labour's Won_ appear in modern-day London. It could be catastrophic, she was sure. Besides, it made her feel dirty, the thought of abusing their time travel abilities to make money like that. It was sickening.

She wanted to live through it, experience it with everything she had in the moment, not bottle it up like it were a commodity to sell for cash.

“Well, how come it disappeared in the first place?” Martha asked, having already moved on, and Hartley resolved to do the same. Instead, the question she posed was an intriguing one, and Hartley leant further into the Doctor, eyes wide and imploring.

The mystery dangled before them was almost too much to handle, especially for the Doctor, and he gave a grimace as he seemed to realise the same thing.

“Well, I _was_ just going to give you a quick little trip in the TARDIS,” he began thinly, and Hartley made a point to flutter her eyelashes at him hopefully. She doubted it would work, but she was desperate to try. The alien gave a groan, nudging her with his shoulder in reprimand. “ _But,_ I suppose we could stay a _bit_ longer,” he relented, and Hartley's responding smile was powerful enough to run England's electrical grid for a whole year, stunning him with its brilliance. “Come on,” he grumbled, looking away and already scanning the surrounding buildings to judge where they were.

“We'll have to find him, I s'pose,” Hartley said, relieved when the crowd finally thinned out, giving them space to breathe.

“Should be easy enough,” he replied, subtly tapping his jacket pocket, where she knew the psychic paper lay, ready for use. “I'll go find someone who looks like they'll know, you look after Martha,” he ordered her, and she nodded, unwinding their arms and stepping back against the bricks of a building. “I'll be right back,” he promised them before disappearing around the corner.

“Does he do that often?” Martha asked curiously, leant back against the wall beside Hartley. “Leave you alone like that?”

The answer was no, he didn't. If he had companions and there wasn't any serious, immediate danger, then they usually went everywhere with him. The thing was, however, that Martha _wasn't_ a companion. She was a woman who'd saved the Doctor's life, so they were giving her a thank-you trip. That was all. She wasn't entitled to the same treatment as a full-time companion, and that was just how it was.

But Hartley knew this answer would offend only Martha, so instead she just shrugged and said, “sometimes.”

Martha didn't look particularly convinced. “So, when you say you're not _together..._ ” she began, rather than continue that line of questioning.

Hartley frowned, finding herself annoyed by the question that seemed to always be on the tip of Martha's tongue. “Why do you keep asking?” she asked, glad her voice didn't give away her irritation. “Seriously. It's not a big deal. We're just friends. Companions, we call it.”

“I saw you holding his hand,” Martha sounded kind of accusatory, and it put Hartley on edge.

“I can hold my best friend's hand if I want to,” she argued, but Martha only frowned. Hartley breathed deeply, regaining her cool. “You have a thing for him, right?” she asked bluntly, and Martha flinched like she'd been struck.

“What? No!” she cried defensively.

“It's okay,” Hartley said soothingly. “It'd be out of the ordinary if you _didn't_.”

Martha cringed, leaning back against the wall like she was hoping it would open up and swallow her whole.

“The Doctor...he doesn't do that sort of thing,” she continued, hoping she could get Martha to realise this sooner rather than later. It would save the woman a whole lot of heartache. “At least, not with humans. I've been travelling with him for years now, and the only person I've seen him come even close to that with was...” she trailed off, throat suddenly thick with emotion, beginning to regret saying anything at all.

“Rose?” Martha finished hesitantly, a frown knitting at her brow.

“Rose,” Hartley confirmed with a stilted nod, voice raw and weak. They let silence settle for a long minute, both staring out over the bustling street of Elizabethan London without really _seeing_ it. “She was my best friend,” Hartley finally said, and Martha looked over at her, eager to learn all she could about the enigmatic travellers and their lives. “She was important – to both of us – and even after all this time, the Doctor's still struggling to move on – we _both_ are.”

“I dunno,” Martha disagreed. Hartley frowned at Martha in confusion. “You might not see it, but the way he looks at _you_...” she trailed off.

Her words were disconcerting, and Hartley cringed at the implication. “We're all one another has,” she said as she lifted her shoulders in a stiff shrug. “We're tied together in a way even _we_ don't fully understand.”

Martha only continued to frown. Hartley knew this wasn't the clearest explanation, but it was the truth, and even with all the language at her disposal she couldn't put her and the Doctor's connection into words.

“But, our friendship aside, I have to warn you,” she began, turning to face Martha properly, her eyes wide and imploring. “Don't fall for him. He's handsome and brilliant and clever, but falling for him is the _worst_ thing you can do,” she paused, swallowing thickly. “It'll only end in heartbreak.”

“Know from experience?” Martha asked, voice carefully casual.

But Hartley wasn't fazed. “Experience in watching it happen to others,” she agreed without hesitation.

Martha deflated against the wall, frowning at the dirt beneath their shoes. “I appreciate the concern, but I've got it under control,” she finally said, a steely edge to her voice that made Hartley unsure whether her words were being taken seriously. But she could sense when she wasn't being received, and she gave up with a small sigh.

It was at that moment the Doctor reappeared, an oblivious grin on his face as he bounded into view. “He's over at the inn,” he told them cheerfully. “Got directions from the theatre cleaners.”

He abruptly noticed the rather sombre atmosphere between the two women, smile dropping into a worried frown.

“What happened?” he demanded, voice low and careful.

The last thing Hartley wanted was for the Doctor to find out about the nature of their conversation, so she rolled her eyes and forced a false smile to pull the edges of her mouth upwards. “Martha's still on about using us as a way to make a quick buck,” she lied, forcing a laugh.

“No, no, I get it now,” Martha replied wryly, and Hartley was glad she seemed to be playing along. “No using the time machine as an ATM,” she nodded, her tone lightening as she spoke. She gave a playful salute. “Understood.”

“Don't salute,” the Doctor cringed with very little patience at the act, and Hartley knew Martha Jones had a whole lot to learn about life with the Doctor. “It's this way,” he said, waving them onwards, and with a small smile of shared understanding both women followed his directions towards the inn.

Putting her conversation with Martha to the back of her mind, Hartley focused on the feeling of excitement reappearing in her gut the closer they got to the inn. They were going to _meet Shakespeare_. Seeing him from afar was one thing, but actually _speaking_ with him – it was beyond her wildest dreams; although, she supposed, there wasn't really anything she could imagine that the Doctor couldn't make happen.

The thought gave her a warm, lovely sort of glow in her chest.

“Okay?” the Doctor asked her casually, hands tucked deep into his pockets as they walked.

Hartley was a bundle of nerves, practically vibrating she was so anxious. “What if he doesn't like me?” she asked meekly.

The Doctor snorted. “He'll like you,” he promised, nudging her shoulder with his. “How could he not?” She huffed at his cheesy, reply even despite being ridiculously flattered by the offhanded comment. “Hopefully he doesn't like you _too_ much,” the Doctor added thoughtfully.

She looked over at him in confusion. “Why?”

“Well, I have a feeling that if he asked you to elope, you'd probably say yes,” he said dryly, and Hartley flushed at the implication. “What would that mean for history?” he wondered aloud, and suddenly she could hear the barely-there hint of mirth to his voice, quickly whirling around to send a punch into his shoulder. Yelping, the traveller flinched back and pressed a hand to the newly formed bruise.

“Shut up, Spacewalker,” she grumbled, but the Doctor only laughed. It was impossible not to copy him, smothering her chuckles with her hand.

“Hi,” the Doctor sobered as he greeted the innkeeper, a pretty woman with flowing, yellowish blonde hair wearing a tight red dress over a long white tunic. “Here to see Mr Shakespeare,” he said brightly. The woman looked wary, like she wasn't sure she should tell them where he was. “He's expecting us,” the Doctor lied unflinchingly.

Exasperated, the lady put down the glass she was polishing and nodded them up the stairs to their right. “First door on your left,” she told them, tired but still making an effort to smile sweetly.

“Great, thank you,” Hartley said appreciatively, and she saw her nod before the Doctor tugged her back towards the staircase, his fingers wrapped loosely around her wrist.

“Ready to meet the Bard himself?” he asked her under his breath, glancing back to make sure Martha was trailing after them. She was, an eager look on her face.

“Yeah,” Hartley nodded, rather breathless, and he grinned impishly before bursting into the correct room with a bright smile, oozing his typical confidence.

“Hello!” he greeted the people inside enthusiastically. “Excuse me, not interrupting, am I? Mister Shakespeare, isn't it?” he asked cheerfully, and Hartley stumbled into the room after him, eyebrows raised as she took in the genius before them, splayed casually in his chair like it were any random meeting and this wasn't making Hartley's entire _century._

“Oh, no. No, no, no. Who let you in? No autographs. No, you can't have yourself sketched with me,” Shakespeare told them in the voice of a tired, overworked celebrity. “And _please_ don't ask where I get my ideas from. Thanks for the interest. Now be a good little couple and shove-”

He cut himself off suddenly, and Hartley cocked an eyebrow, following his line of sight to see Martha peeking out from behind them, staring at the brilliant man with a meek but dazzling smile.

“Hey, nonny nonny,” the Bard breathed, a sudden sparkle to his eyes that hadn't been there before. “Sit right down here next to me. You two, get sewing on them costumes. Off you go,” he distractedly ordered the men sitting opposite him.

The innkeeper reappeared, shuffling into the room and setting about collecting the used tankards spread across the table. “Come on, lads. I think our William's found his new muse,” she said wryly, glancing up at them with a smirk before disappearing from the room, taking the grumbling pair of men along with her.

“Sweet lady,” Shakespeare continued breathlessly, eyes drinking Martha in like cool water on a hot day. Hartley expected to feel jealous that his attention was on Martha and not her, but instead she was just amused by the whole thing, watching the Bard stare at her new friend with hot intrigue.

The Doctor was right, it was dangerous for her to catch his attention anyhow. Who knew _what_ she would let happen? If he asked her to bear his children, she'd probably say yes without thinking about it. Not many people could evoke that reaction from her – but this was _Shakespeare,_ after all.

There were only two seats opposite the man, and the Doctor was quick to insist Hartley take the one remaining.

“Such unusual clothes. So fitted,” the Bard said silkily, leering at Martha like any typical male.

“Er, verily, forsooth, egads,” Martha floundered, glancing over at the other two travellers in dismay, suddenly lost.

“No, no, don't do that. Don't,” the Doctor was already shaking his head, and Hartley lifted a hand to her throat in the universal 'cut it out' motion. The Time Lord fished out his psychic paper and showed it to the author before them. “Sir Doctor and Dame Hartley of TARDIS, and this is our companion, Miss Martha Jones,” he said with all the ease of an honest man, and though Hartley was surprised be the unexpected title, she didn't show it.

Shakespeare looked between the paper at the Doctor for a long few moments, then smirked like he knew something the rest of them didn't. “Interesting, that bit of paper,” he said wryly. “It's blank.”

The Doctor grinned like Christmas had come early and he dropped the paper, beaming at the poet with unhampered glee. “Oh, that's _very_ clever. That proves it. Absolute genius,” he said happily.

Hartley smiled, impressed again and again by the man. “No, it says so right there,” Martha spoke up suddenly, confusion in her veins as she gestured to the psychic paper. “Sir Doctor, Dame Hartley, Martha Jones. It _says_ so.”

“And I say it's blank,” Shakespeare countered smugly.

The Doctor gave a distracted grimace. “Psychic paper. Er...long story,” he said in an undertone before glancing over at Hartley in disgruntlement. “Oh, I hate starting from scratch,” he muttered to her, but she had to disagree.

There was something exciting about introducing somebody to their mad, crazy, impossible world and all of the wonders it held. But she supposed that was a bit too flowery of a concept to explain to someone like the Doctor.

“Psychic?” Shakespeare jumped in. “Never heard that word before, and words are my trade. Who are you exactly?” he leaned forwards in his chair in renewed interest. “More's the point, who is your _delicious_ blackamoor lady?” he asked, staring at Martha hungrily.

Hartley had to roll her eyes. He may have been – as far as she was concerned – the most brilliantly brilliant man in human history, but he _was_ still a man.

“What did you say?” Martha blinked in surprise.

“Oops. Isn't that a word we use nowadays? An Ethiop girl? A swarth? A Queen of Afric?”

Martha's eyes were wide with shock, and she gave a hysterical little laugh. “I can't believe I'm hearing this,” she said mildly, turning to look at the others, both of whom grimaced.

“It's political correctness gone mad,” the Doctor muttered, and Hartley shot her an apologetic smile. This sort of thing was a bit of a hazard when it came to their travels, but she'd get used to it. If she stuck around, that was. “Er, Martha's from a far-off land,” the alien continued quickly, thinking on his feet as always, like he were born doing it. “Freedonia.”

Shakespeare looked more than intrigued, and he leaned forwards to ask more, only for somebody new to burst into the room in a flurry. He wore a thick gold chain around his neck, and his clothes were ostentatious at best.

“ _Excuse_ me!” he began loudly, though he seemed the opposite of apologetic. “Hold hard a moment. This is _abominable_ behaviour. A new play with no warning? I _demand_ to see a script, Mister Shakespeare. As Master of the Revels, every new script must be registered at _my_ office and examined by _me_ before it can be performed.”

“Tomorrow morning, first thing, I'll send it round,” Shakespeare said flippantly, like this man and his demands were of no consequence.

“I don't work to _your_ schedule, you work to _mine._ The script, _now_!” the man snapped furiously.

“I can't.”

“Then tomorrow's performance is cancelled.”

“It's all go around here, isn't it?” Martha mumbled to Hartley under her breath.

“I'm returning to my office for a banning order,” the man continued without pause, ignoring the traveller's words. “If it's the _last_ thing I do, Love's Labours Won will _never_ be played.” With that he dramatically tossed his coat and left, disappearing down the stairs in a heavy-footed march, leaving the others in somewhat of an awkward silence.

At that moment the maid from before wandered in, four tankards balanced on a wooden tray. “Thought you and your friends might enjoy a spot of ale,” she said with a kind smile, handing one off to each of them.

“Thank you, Dolly,” Shakespeare said, and the innkeeper flushed a dark pink as she scurried out through the door.

“What are you going to do?” Hartley asked him as the Doctor leaned past her to deposit his tankard on the desk, where she noticed it was untouched. She lifted her own to her mouth, taking a deep sip of the mulled beer, humming happily at the taste. It was warm, heating her up from the inside out.

“Nothing I can do,” Shakespeare told her with a heavy sigh. “If he gets a banning order, then there's no hope.”

Hartley wanted to remind him that there was _always_ hope, but decided to keep her mouth shut in favour of gulping down another mouthful of ale.

“Well then, mystery solved,” Martha said in a cheerful voice, changing the subject before things could get dreary. “That's Love's Labours Won over and done with. Thought it might be something more, you know, _mysterious._ ”

A pained, masculine scream drifted through the open window and like a bullet the Doctor had thrown himself out the door and back down the stairs. Hurriedly placing her half-full tankard on the desk beside his, some of it sloshing over the side and wetting her fingers, Hartley barrelled after him, her pulse racing in her ears.

“Help me!” a woman was screaming, hovering over the man from before, the one in expensive garb. He was doubled in two, clutching at his throat like there was something lodged in his airway.

“It's that Lynley bloke!” Martha exclaimed.

“What's wrong with him?” the Doctor wondered aloud before seeming to realise it was a rather time-sensitive issue. “Leave it to me. I'm a doctor!” he yelled to the gathered crowd, leaping fluidly over a bale of hay and racing towards the man who had dropped to the ground, his face turning purple as he writhed.

“So am I, near enough!” Martha called, hurrying over to the Doctor's side where the man was now fully collapsed, still and lifeless in the dirt.

Hartley knew she wouldn't be of much use and instead faced the crowd, acting as a barrier between them and the action. Whatever it may have been, it was probably safest to keep the public away from the body. Who knew what the cause might have been, or if it were in some way contagious?

“Mister Lynley, come on. Can you hear me? You're going to be all right!” Martha was saying behind her, but it was for naught.

There was no energy coming from the man. Absolutely no emotion. Even unconscious people emitted _something,_ some kind of insight into their dreams. But from Lynley there was nothing, and Hartley doubted they were going to be able to bring him back. He was gone.

“What the _hell_ is that?” Martha exclaimed abruptly, and Hartley glanced back over her shoulder to see water gushing from Lynley's mouth in a torrent.

“I've never seen a death like it. His lungs are full of water. He drowned. I don't know, also something like a blow to the heart, an invisible blow,” the Doctor muttered, eyeing the wound with careful confusion.

He looked up at Hartley and she met his gaze without flinching. A silent conversation passed between them, and she wondered how it was that she could so clearly see what he was saying without them using any words.

_These people can't suspect anything is amiss_ , he was telling her as he scrambled for a plan.

_Do what you need to do,_ she responded with a subtle nod of her head, _we'll play along._

“Good mistress,” the Doctor began suddenly, voice low and deliberate as he climbed to his feet and walked closer to the innkeeper, who was staring at the sight with wide eyes, “this poor fellow has died from a sudden imbalance of the humours. A natural, if unfortunate, demise. Call a constable and have him taken away.”

“Yes, sir,” the one called Dolly replied obediently. A younger woman in the same innkeeper's clothes appeared by her side, eyes wide and disconcertingly innocent.

“I'll do it, ma'am,” she offered and Dolly nodded her appreciation before turning back to the scene.

The Doctor returned to his spot crouched over the body with Martha and this time Hartley joined them, crouching by their side, wondering briefly if there was anything she could have done. She knew it was ridiculous. How was she supposed to have known the man would die? The guilt was pointless and damaging, so she pushed it away and focused on the mystery before them.

“And why are you telling them that?” Martha asked the Doctor in an undertone.

“This lot still have got one foot in the Dark Ages. If I tell them the truth, they'll panic and think it was witchcraft,” he explained.

“Okay, what was it then?”

The Doctor paused, long and considering, then told her in a reluctant voice, “witchcraft.”

“What?” Martha hissed, eyes going wide in her surprise. Hartley shushed her softly, one arm wrapping around her shoulders and gently pulling her to her feet, hoping to make the action look like she were just consoling her. “I-I could do compressions,” Martha valiantly tried to argue.

“He's gone,” Hartley shook her head. She didn't need to be an Empath to know that, and Martha knew it just as well, her shoulders sagging in acceptance as she allowed Hartley to lead her away from the body. “Go distract Shakespeare,” she added, giving the younger woman a task. “Looks like you're getting your historical mystery after all.”

Martha didn't look all too pleased but she still did as she was told, moving over to Shakespeare's side and conversing with him in low tones. The Doctor was still examining the body, and Hartley crouched down to his level, keeping her eyes on the task as she reached up to gently shut the man's open, unseeing eyes.

“Witchcraft?” she asked the Doctor in an undertone, her skepticism clear.

“For lack of a better word,” he murmured, peeling back the man's lips to get a look inside of his waterlogged mouth. His teeth were yellowed and blackened, and he smelt of garlic and death.

She hummed. “Alien?”

“When is it not?”

“Touché.” They lapsed into silence, and Hartley frowned at the poor man. “Should I follow the body?” she asked quietly, but the Doctor was already shaking his head.

“Whatever it was, it didn't hang around,” he assured her. “Come on,” he finally said, nudging her to her feet and sweeping the courtyard with wary eyes, “we should get inside.”

“Whoever it was… You think they're watching?”

“I wouldn't bet against it,” he admitted, palm pressing securely to the small of her back, the cool of his hand meeting her skin even through the layer of her jacket. They made their way back to Martha and Shakespeare, who nodded at them and began to lead the way back up into the inn.

The walked in silence, the quiet deafening, and Hartley wondered what Shakespeare must have been thinking. Did he know anything? Was he involved? She could only hope and pray that he wasn't.

“I got you a room, Sir Doctor,” the innkeeper reappeared as they came to a stop in Shakespeare's vacated room, and they turned to look at her politely. “You and your wife are are just across the landing, with Miss Jones off to the right.”

That took a moment to process. “What?” Hartley asked, stomach fluttering with shock as she blinked in pure bewilderment at the strange assumption the woman had made. The innkeeper only smiled at them before turning and wandering back down the stairs like she hadn't just made Hartley more uncomfortable than she'd felt the entire past six years combined. “But, but we're not...” she stammered, staring after the retreating woman, mouth inexplicably dry.

The Doctor had stilled from beside her, and she abruptly noticed his hand hadn't moved from her back on the journey upstairs. Once the woman's words were said, however, he'd dropped it like she'd burned him. She shuffled away, closer towards Shakespeare who was eyeing them, warm eyes sparking with intelligence.

“Poor Lynley,” he spoke up, presumably to fill the silence that had followed. “So many strange events. Not least of all, this land of Freedonia, where a woman can be a doctor?” he asked deliberately, staring directly at Martha who took it in stride.

“Where a woman can do what she likes,” she said without blinking.

Shakespeare smiled vaguely, eyes sliding from Martha to the Doctor, who was leant against the fireplace, face devoid of emotion. “And you, Sir Doctor. How can a man so young have eyes so old?” he asked, his own eyes glittering with a hurricane of thoughts that Hartley found herself fascinated by.

“I do a lot of reading,” the Doctor replied flatly, not even attempting to make it sound believable.

“A trite reply,” the Bard mused. “Yeah, that's what I'd do.”

There was a beat, and then his eyes slid across to land on Hartley, lips quirking upwards at the corners.

“And you, a woman with a heart so large it is her very namesake,” he told her, voice lilting and smooth, and Hartley's brow furrowed deeply at the way he was looking at her – like he could see _through_ her. “I think such blinding compassion hides a feeling of loss and confusion.” She didn't say anything, and his eyes narrowed as he leaned closer, gaze piercing through her like a blade. “Do you deny it?”

Swallowing, she admitted, “I don't.”

Shakespeare smiled as if she'd made a joke, then his keen eyes finally slid back to Martha. Hartley felt like she could breathe again, drooping with relief once the focus was off of her.

“And you?” he asked Martha curiously. “You look at them like you're surprised they exist. The Doctor, he's as much of a puzzle to you as he is to me. And the Heart, I think you covet what she seems to already so effortlessly hold.”

Shakespeare wasn't trying to be mean, Hartley could see that. He was simply saying what he observed, much like Sherlock Holmes might. The comparison to one of the most famous literary figures in all of Earth's history made her lips curve up into a smile that was immediately abandoned when Martha gave something of a gasp from beside her.

The Bard's words had apparently hit below the belt, and Hartley winced sympathetically.

“I think we should say goodnight,” Martha said roughly, nodding her head with forced politeness before turning and marching from the room in a flurry.

The remaining three sat in silence for a beat, letting the quiet drift, until Shakespeare stood to his feet, slapping his hands against his knees as he moved. “I must work,” he proclaimed. “I have a play to complete. But I'll get my answers tomorrow, Doctor, and I'll discover more about you and why this constant performance of yours.”

Hartley took her cue, pushing off from the wall and moving towards the door. The Doctor followed, only to stop in the archway and peer back at the author through thoughtful eyes. “ _All the world's a stage_ ,” he quoted, and it was enough to get a tiny giggle out of Hartley, who lifted a hand to smother the sound.

Shakespeare's eyes lit up. “Hmm. I might use that,” he hummed. “Goodnight, Doctor, Hart.”

The Doctor smirked, the expression sly and secretive, and suddenly Hartley realised that Shakespeare's thoughts – whatever they may have been, however complex they seemed – all but paled in comparison to the Doctor's.

While the former may have been interesting, the latter was like a river she wanted to submerge herself in; drown herself in, if possible. The force of this sudden understanding winded her. Oblivious to her inner turmoil, the Doctor murmured a distant, “nighty night, Shakespeare,” and wandered back down the hall.

Hartley swallowed back her hurricane of emotion and nodded respectfully at Shakespeare before crossing her arms over her chest and following the Doctor down the narrow corridor towards their room. They walked in silence, but the Doctor paused in the doorway, holding the door open for her to step through. She managed a small smile, and he returned it vaguely, making her feel at least a little better about the whole thing.

“It's not exactly five star, is it?” Martha was already in the room, holding a candle in her hand, exploring the cabinets along the far wall.

“Oh, it'll do. I've seen worse,” the Doctor said blithely as he shut the door after them, hands tucked into his pockets, strolling deeper into the room.

“I haven't even got a toothbrush,” she continued lightheartedly.

“Oh,” the Doctor hummed, patting down his pockets until he finally produced a small toothbrush from his jacket, a smug gleam to his eyes. “Contains Venusian spearmint,” he said proudly, and Martha laughed as she took it, holding it up to the light with a smile.

Hartley took a seat on the very edge of the bed, reaching up to begin untangling the braid she'd thrown her hair up in earlier that day.

“So, magic and stuff,” Martha said, hovering in the middle of the room, watching as the Doctor casually leapt onto the bed, the mattress squeaking beneath him. “That's a surprise. It's all a little bit _Harry Potter_.”

Hartley looked back at the Doctor, who was suddenly smiling. “ _Wait_ till you read book seven,” he said emphatically. “Oh, I _cried._ ”

“But is it _real_ , though? I mean, witches, black magic and all that, it's real?” Martha pressed, not to be distracted.

“ _Course_ it isn't!” the Doctor exclaimed, eyeing her like she were the village idiot, much to the woman's chagrin.

“Well, how am I supposed to know?” she argued defensively. “I've only just started believing in time travel. Give me a break.”

Hartley chuckled at the response, running her hands through her now-loose hair then reaching down to unlace her shoes. “Looks like witchcraft, but it isn't. Can't be.”

There was a pause, and Hartley kicked off both sneakers before shuffling up the bed towards the Doctor, settling into place beside him, casual and thoughtless as could be. Martha looked on, but Hartley didn't much bother to name any of the emotions swirling in the woman's heart.

“There's such a thing as psychic energy, but a human couldn't channel it like that. Not without a generator the size of Taunton, and I think we'd have spotted that. No, there's something I'm missing, Martha. Something really close, staring me right in the face and I can't _see_ it,” the Doctor blathered.

Hartley pressed back against the wall, pondering the mystery before them. The room was silent for a long few moments, each lost in their thoughts.

“Rose would know,” he said suddenly, and the mention of their lost friend's name was enough to make Hartley's insides ache. “A friend of ours, Rose,” he explained to Martha, who was now frowning at them sadly. “Right now, she'd say _exactly_ the right thing. Still, can't be helped. You're a novice, never mind,” he said to Martha flippantly, “I'll take you back home tomorrow.”

“Great,” she snapped, a sour look on her face as she turned and stomped her way towards the door.

“Where're you off to?” the Doctor called after her, confused by her abrupt exit

“My own room!”

“Want me to walk you?” Hartley offered even though she'd already taken off her shoes.

“I can get there on my own, _thanks_ ,” Martha said with just a hint of venom, and the door slammed after her with an unnecessary bang.

Hartley and the Doctor sat in empty silence until the Doctor sniffed loudly. “Strange. Must still be acclimating to being in the past,” he decided with an air dismissal.

But Hartley knew that wasn't the case. It was clear to see that Martha was somewhat jealous her, as well as the memory of Rose. Hartley couldn't for the life of her figure out why. There was no need for them to fight for the Doctor's attention; so why did she think they had to? Hartley had never been someone to turn on her own over a guy, alien or not.

Besides, it wasn't fair – she was here _first._

Such a childish thought floating through her head was enough to have her cringing, and she huffed as she slipped down into the bed so that her head lay flat on the lumpy, stale pillow. The ceiling above her was covered in an array of suspicious looking stains, but she didn't think on it too long, deciding she'd _really_ rather not know.

“All right?” the Doctor asked her gently, and she turned her head to see him already looking at her. While she was distracted he'd slipped down until his head was on his pillow beside hers, and he was laying on his side facing her. The bed was small, barely even a twin by modern standards, yet there was still a carefully placed canyon of space between them.

“Why wouldn't I be all right?” she asked, voice dry as she mirrored him, turning on her side so she was facing him, one hand tucked under the lumpy excuse for a pillow beneath her head.

“Nearly dying will take its toll on anyone,” he said evenly, referring to before, when they'd been trapped in a hospital on the moon, quickly running out of breathable air. Had it really only been a handful of hours ago? Right now, it felt like a lifetime.

“At this point, is it even an adventure if I _don't_ die?” she replied, managing a grin that wasn't as flat as she'd expected it to be. It was easier, now, to make light of her gift even despite all the pain it still caused her. “Besides, _you're_ the one who died this time,” she reminded him wryly.

She absentmindedly reached up to gently rap her knuckles against his chest, right over where she knew his twin hearts to be beating healthily, very much alive.

He caught her hand in his, his skin wonderfully cool and calloused against hers, and she met his eyes in the glow of the candlelight. She expected him to back down, let her go and find an excuse to leave, but instead he only held her hand tightly, gripping it in his and keeping it locked against his chest.

Now she could properly feel the beating of his hearts, and the familiar uneven rhythm was relaxing, like a soothing song played as background noise in her head. Suddenly dozy, her eyelids grew heavy and they drifted shut without her permission. “Not to mention you haven't had a proper sleep in _days_ ,” he continued and realising her eyes had closed, she stubbornly blinked them open.

“Martha's brilliant, isn't she?” she asked instead, voice gentle and tired as she fought against the unwelcome drowsiness.

The Doctor sniffed, finally pulling her hand from his chest only to lay it on the sliver of pillow between them. He began to gently trace his fingertips over the lines in her palm, drawing in soothing little circles that only made the call of sleep all the more strong.

“She's good,” he conceded, and Hartley blinked at him, watching the shadows dancing over his face and noting just the tiniest hint of dark stubble that dabbed at his jaw. “But we have to take her home in the morning,” he added in an attempt to sound stern.

He might have succeeded, too, but Hartley was too tired to bother keeping track. She didn't argue, he was probably right. He'd agreed to one trip, any more than that was too much to ask. They didn't need anyone – did they?

What Donna had said all those months ago suddenly rang in the back of her head. They needed someone else, she'd said, they needed someone to be their conscience. Hartley wondered whether she'd been right, then wondered again whether Martha was the right person to be that for them.

It was too important a decision to make on such little sleep, however, and she returned her attention to the Doctor.

“Why'd you choose this adventure?” she asked him quietly, eyelids fluttering with sleepiness as she tried her hardest not to succumb. The gentle drag of his fingertips across her hand was like a drug, and she fought against the urge to curl into him and just let the world fall away.

She half expected him to lie, turn away and ramble about thinking it'd be fun, but something was off about him. Maybe it was the little bubble of peace they'd stumbled upon, or maybe he was just feeling brave. Either way, he met her eyes in the soft glow of the candlelight.

“I nearly got you killed,” he said the words slowly, deliberately.

“But that doesn't matter,” she argued, the topic of conversation bringing her from her drowsiness slightly as she refocused on the Time Lord in the bed with her.

“It does, Hart,” he told her imploringly. “It _does_ matter.”

It was a far cry from his old attitude to her ability, and she wondered when everything had changed. “But I just wake back up again,” she said softly, the words not quite a test; more a testing of the waters.

“But you still _die_ ,” he replied in an intimate whisper, now staring at the hand he was tracing circles into like it was the most utterly fascinating thing in the entire universe. She felt warm and special with him looking at her like that – and it was only her _hand._ “And that's not fair,” he finished decisively.

As he stared down at her hand, she stared into his face, absentmindedly counting the different shades of brown in his eyes. In the firelight it looked like fresh honey, or single malt whisky, or shards of amber in the sunlight.

“Is it still difficult for you?” she whispered, the urge to know suddenly pressing against her sternum like a weight.

“Is what still difficult for me?” he asked quietly, as if speaking any louder might break the spell that had befallen them.

She lifted her shoulder in a shrug, careful not to disrupt his gently exploration of her palm. “Me being what I am,” she said simply. “You said once that it was hard for you. That I was unnatural, and that being around me gave you a headache.”

The Doctor was silent a moment. “That was a long time ago,” he told her rather than answer.

And he was right – quickly doing the math in her head, she estimated that conversation to have happened roughly two years ago. They hadn't touched on it again since then, and she wondered why. Maybe she'd just been too scared.

But in this single moment now, she felt brave.

“Doc,” she said, soft and beseeching.

He took a moment to gather his thoughts. “It's still there, but it's gone from an inconvenience to a…a comfort,” he whispered.

“How so?”

This time it was him who shrugged. “As long as I can feel that _wrongness_ , you're here, and you're alive,” he said it like it were so simple, like he wasn't making her heart race faster and faster with his every word.

She chewed over her next words, considering what he could mean before she spoke. “Does that mean that when I'm dead, you can't feel me?”

He nodded, expression not quite stormy but certainly close to it. Thinking about it made him sad. “It's like for however long you're not here, I'm completely and utterly alone. Again,” he confessed, and she could feel, suddenly, how vulnerable he felt telling her all this.

So rarely did he let his walls come down, and Hartley smiled softly, reaching up with her free hand to press it against his chest. His hearts thrummed against her palm once again, and she relaxed at the feeling. “I'm here,” she assured him, feeling like it were the right thing to say.

He still had a tight rein on his emotions, keeping them carefully guarded because he knew that if he slipped for even a moment, Hartley would be able to see inside everything he was. And she realised then that the thought of that terrified him, more than he could ever say.

Maybe he was afraid that if she finally saw all of him, she wouldn't like what she found. The thought caused a shard to stab at her heart, and she closed her eyes against the pain.

The Doctor mistook the motion for tiredness, and she felt his smile despite not being able to see it. “Go to sleep, Hart,” he whispered. “I have a feeling you're going to need your rest.”

And so she did, drifting off into the land of dreams to the feeling of the Doctor's hand against hers, his fingertips tracing different sized circles gently over the skin of her inner wrist, almost like it were a language.

Just before she fell asleep completely, she felt his fingers thread through hers until he was holding her hand, and she lost consciousness happily, knowing he'd be there when she woke up.

* * *

It could have been hours or minutes later, but suddenly Hartley was brought from her peaceful slumber by a piercing scream that cut through the calm night air like a bullet. Starting, she barely had time to register the way the Doctor's arms were curled delicately around her before he was leaping towards the door and stumbling out into the hall. Scrambling to her feet, she was a tad slower as she shoved her shoes back onto her feet, blearily tripping out of the room after him.

By the time she made it to Shakespeare's quarters, it was to find the man himself sitting bewilderedly at his desk, Martha gaping out the window and the Doctor crouched over yet another dead body. It was becoming something of a pattern, it would seem.

“Her heart gave out,” the Doctor explained in a hurry. “She died of fright.”

“Doctor?” Martha's voice was faint from across the room, and Hartley stepped around the Doctor to meet her, appearing by her side and glancing out into the night sky, only to see it empty off all but the endless, glittering sea of stars that she so loved.

“What did you see?” the Doctor demanded, approaching slowly, peeking out over their heads to see the same starry nothingness that Hartley did.

Martha swallowed, the sound feeble and foreboding. “A witch.”

They let this hang in the air, neither quite knowing what to say. “A witch,” Hartley finally parroted, reaching up to rub the lingering sleep from her eyes like it might help the whole thing to make more sense.

“I swear,” Martha said quickly, reaching out to point at the large, luminescent moon hanging low in the sky. “It was a witch, on a _broomstick._ ” The Doctor must have looked just as skeptical as Hartley, because Martha suddenly looked irritated. “I'm serious,” she insisted. “It was like something out of the _Wizard of Oz_ , right down to the pointed hat.”

“I believe you,” Hartley assured her, leaning back out the window to eye the sky like the thing might reappear.

“Dolly...” Shakespeare said from behind them, voice faint with grief. The Doctor began to grill Martha about what she'd seen while Hartley moved over to the Bard. He was staring at the corpse of the innkeeper, unbearably contrite.

Reaching up, Hartley grasped Shakespeare by the shoulder, squeezing in sympathy at the look on his face. “Why don't you go get a constable?” she suggested quietly. “Then go splash some cold water on your face?”

“Right,” the man nodded numbly, turning and walking from the room as if on autopilot. The Doctor had finished interrogating Martha and moved over to Hartley, a frown sitting on his handsome face.

“How long was I asleep?” she asked while she watched Martha fetch the sheet off Shakespeare's bed and lay it gently over the body in the middle of the room.

Hartley suddenly couldn't remember the woman's name. Shakespeare had said it not two minutes ago, but it was gone from her memory. Guilt struck her like a whip, and she turned away from the body before tears could form in her eyes.

“About five hours,” the Doctor answered her, sounding distracted. “Something's happening here,” he added, turning to scan the room as if he might find the answer in the knick-knacks lined upon the windowsill. “Something dark.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, glancing back out at the night sky which was slowly lightening in shade, turning more of a pale blue than a navy one as the sun began its slow ascent. “I can feel it,” she murmured distantly.

The Doctor went from thinking desperately about the possibilities to frowning at her, eyes squinted in consideration. “Can you?”

She reconsidered what she'd just said – it'd been unthinking, the words had just come out – but she had to nod. They were true, after all. “It's like a...fog,” she tried to explain, trying to convey what she was experiencing.

Ever since the Game Station, since that fateful day of resurrection, she'd been so susceptible to the things around her. It was a strange sensation, and ever since being back with the Doctor, the odd occurrences were only growing more and more frequent; not the least of which being their encounter with the monster on C.S. Lewis' estate. Her Empathy was becoming less of an occasional habit and more of a building block of her life's foundation.

“Go on,” the Doctor encouraged her. She glanced self-consciously at Martha, but found the woman was busy arranging the sheet around the corpse, chewing on her lip, lost in deep thought.

She tried again. “It's like a fog that has settled over the entire city. It's almost like I can smell it – but that's crazy, right? It's not possible to _smell_ evil,” she said logically.

“Sure it is,” the Doctor told her easily. “Lots of species can smell evil.”

She filed that away for later. “But I'm _human_ ,” she reminded him, a hint of ice cold fear trickling its way into her veins. “Right?” she prompted when he didn't immediately agree. She knew she was, but all the same, it would be nice to hear some confirmation of the fact.

“Yes, absolutely,” he quickly reassured her. “Human as they come. But, it's possible...”

“Possible that _what_ , Doctor?” she demanded, borderline cold. She didn't enjoy his half sentences. She wanted answers, preferably before she had a heart attack from the anxiety.

“Your empathic abilities seem to be growing,” he revealed, quiet and steady and somber, like a doctor delivering bad news to a patient. Hartley's brow pulled down into a frown.

“To the point where I can _feel_ danger, like some kind of screwed up spidey-sense?”

He shrugged. “If you like.”

She wanted to ask more – _needed_ to ask more – but suddenly somebody unfamiliar was bursting through the doors, stalking in like he owned the room, and Martha was heading towards them. It was impossible, then, to keep talking. The last thing they needed was somebody overhearing their private discussion and think they were talking about the very witchcraft they were trying to avoid.

“We'll figure it out later,” the Doctor promised her, attention already wavering, and Hartley exhaled sharply, strands of hair flying away from her face with the puff of air.

The constable and two men entered, hovering over the body of the innkeeper for awhile before finally lifting her up and taking her from the room. Shakespeare eventually reappeared and Martha took a heavy seat in one of the chairs, the sky outside growing lighter with every tick of the clock.

“You okay?” Hartley asked Shakespeare, who was scrubbing at his face with exhaustion.

“Yes, yes,” he waved away her concern.

From beside her the Doctor gestured for her to take a seat, but she declined, instead moving over to the now-cold fireplace, trailing her fingers over the dusty mantle above it. She wouldn't feel comfortable sitting still, idle and vulnerable in a chair. She needed to be on her feet, where she had some hope of fighting back.

“Oh, sweet Dolly Bailey,” lamented the author behind her. Hartley winced as she now recalled the name. “She sat out three bouts of the plague in this place when we all ran like rats,” he told them in a reminiscent voice, taking a seat at his well-used desk. “But what could have scared her so? She had such enormous _spirit._ ”

Hartley opened her mouth to reply, but the Doctor was already saying, “ _rage, rage against the dying of the light_.”

She recognised the quote immediately and despite everything she couldn't help but smile softly at the Doctor. He didn't notice, staring off into the distance, deep in thought.

“I might use that,” Shakespeare interjected keenly.

“You can't. It's someone else's,” the Doctor deadpanned.

“Can we meet him next?” Hartley asked before she could stop herself.

“One famous poet at a time, Hart,” the Doctor rolled his eyes, but a tendril of affection fluttered in the air between them, and Hartley's chest felt tight at its presence. She smiled at him brilliantly, and the Doctor silently marvelled at how bright the expression could be even under such circumstances.

Martha's musings, however, interrupted the thought before it could fully take form.

“But the thing is, Lynley drowned on dry land, Dolly died of fright, and they were both connected to you,” she said, eyeing Shakespeare thoughtfully.

“You're accusing me?” he asked sharply, sitting straighter in his seat. Hartley stepped closer, hands moving up as if to block herself between them. Throwing accusations like that around in times like these wasn't something she'd recommend. Tensions were high enough as it was, and Hartley didn't want Martha to get into more danger than they could pull her out of.

“No,” she said evenly, not rising to the bait. Hartley was admittedly impressed. “But I saw a witch, big as you like, flying, cackling away, and you've written about witches.”

“I have?” the Bard asked in confusion, squinting as he struggled to recall. “When was that?”

The Doctor cringed at the unintentional slip up. “Not – not quite yet,” he muttered to Martha, who might have flushed at the comment.

“Peter Streete spoke of witches,” Shakespeare continued, seemingly oblivious, although Hartley highly doubted that was the case. He was far too intelligent not to catch the small exchange and its significance. She'd put money on him having his own suspicions about them. She was looking forward to seeing what they were.

“Who's Peter Streete?” asked the Doctor curiously.

“Our builder,” he replied with a shrug. “He sketched the plans to the Globe.”

“The architect,” the Doctor hummed before freezing up. “Hold on – The architect! _The architect_! The Globe!” He all but tripped over himself in his haste to get out of his chair. “Come on!” he shouted over his shoulders to the others, who all scrambled to follow.

Martha fell into step with Shakespeare while Hartley sped up to catch up with the Doctor, who was moving so fast that his coattails were fluttering out behind him like flags in the wind. “Doc!” she called, pushing herself faster to keep up. The merchants were beginning to set their carts up along the streets and they eyed the pair curiously as they sprinted by, looking almost alien with their colourful, form-fitted clothes and strange, unfamiliar hairstyles.

If only they knew exactly _how_ alien, thought Hartley brazenly.

“Come on!” the Doctor finally paused, bouncing on his toes as he noticed her trying to catch up. He held out a hand, wiggling his fingers in the air until she caught it in hers. He began running again, pulling her after him, excitable as ever.

She couldn't have possibly helped the smile that appeared on her face in response to the familiar action of running alongside the Doctor.

“Doctor?!” Shakespeare called out from far behind them, but the Time Lord didn't pause again, not until they finally stumbled inside the Globe theatre itself. Skidding to a stop, both Doctor and companion stood still in the centre of the massive, empty theatre.

Hartley felt her heart shoot into her throat. It was beautiful – she hadn't quite noticed to what extent the day before when it had been full of shouting, smelly people. Now though, empty of life, she could appreciate the architecture, the stunning detailing of the columns and the flags hanging at each of the perfectly even, fourteen sides.

“Doctor? Hart?” Martha shouted, and Hartley turned to see she and Shakespeare standing atop the stage, looking down at them in pure confusion. Why had the Doctor raced here in such a rush? And what did the architect of the Globe have to do with the witches? Hartley wanted to know as well.

The Doctor hushed them rudely, finally letting go of Hartley's hand. Her skin felt cool at the loss of contact, but she hid it with an exasperated smile in the Bard's direction.

“He gets like this sometimes,” she revealed in a stage-whisper. “Best to just let him tire himself out.”

The Doctor made a tutting noise at her, but his brain was far too busy trying to figure out the mystery to bother with bickering back. “The columns there, right? Fourteen sides,” he eventually spoke, turning in a full circle to view the whole structure. “I've always wondered, but I never asked. Tell me, Will. Why fourteen sides?”

“It was the shape Peter Streete thought best, that's all. Said it carried the sound well,” Shakespeare shrugged.

“Fourteen. Why does that ring a bell? Fourteen...”

“There's fourteen lines in a sonnet?” Martha suggested, and Hartley turned to smile at her brightly for the fact.

“So there is. Good point,” the Doctor nodded, beginning to pace. “Words and shapes following the same design. Fourteen lines, fourteen sides, fourteen facets. Oh, my _head_. Tetradecagon. Think, think, _think_! Words, letters, numbers, lines!”

“This is just a theatre,” Shakespeare said, rather helpless about the whole thing.

The Doctor broke from his obsessive muttering to stroll towards them. Hartley moved closer as well, grasping the lip of the stage and hauling herself up so she was sitting on its edge. Her inner fangirl gave a little squeak at the fact she was actually sitting on the _stage_ of the _Globe_ , but there were more important things to worry about.

“Oh yeah, but a theatre's magic, isn't it?” the Doctor crowed. “You should know. Stand on this stage, say the right words with the right emphasis at the right time. Oh, you can make men _weep_ , or cry with joy. _Change_ them...” he suddenly trailed off, realisation trickling over him, and Hartley watched his expression, taking note of the sparkle in his eye as he figured it out, just as he always did. “You can change people's minds just with _words_ in this place. But if you exaggerate that...”

“It's like your police box!” Martha exclaimed brightly, and Hartley got the feeling she was starting to finally understand the thrill of the whole thing. “Small wooden box with all that _power_ inside!”

“ _Oh_ ,” the Doctor practically preened at the comparison. “Oh, Martha Jones, I like you,” he grinned broadly, and this time it was Martha who was preening. “Tell you what, though. Peter Streete would know. Can I talk to him?”

“You won't get an answer. A month after finishing this place, lost his mind,” Shakespeare revealed.

“Why? What happened?”

“Started raving about witches, hearing voices, babbling. His mind was addled.”

“Where is he now?”

“Bedlam.”

“What's that?” Hartley asked with a frown, already not liking the sound of it.

“Bethlem Hospital. The madhouse,” he explained.

“We're going there. Right now. Come on,” the Doctor said, leaving no room for argument. He paused before leaving, however, holding out a hand to Hartley. Surprised but not at all complaining, she smiled at him happily as she took his hand, allowing him to help her jump down off the tall stage.

He smiled back, then began to impatiently tug her in the direction of the exit, Martha hurrying after them as quickly as she could.

“Wait! I'm coming with you. I want to witness this at first hand!” Shakespeare called after them, but the Doctor didn't stop, and there was no way Hartley was going to let him run about a madhouse on his own – knowing him, he'd say something to get himself locked up there too, then what would they do?

“Who is this Peter Streete?” the Doctor mused as they all but jogged through the town. “It can't be a coincidence that he's raving about witches when some appear down the road – it's got to mean something. Could they be orchestrating it? Manipulating these people somehow? But how? Can't be Blood control, or it'd be half the people in town-”

“Take a breath,” Hartley told him with a puffing laugh, their fast pace getting to her. It had been awhile since she'd had a good run.

“Martha, what do you-” the Doctor turned to ask for the woman's opinion, only to find she wasn't behind them but rather halfway back down the alleyway, smirking up at a leering William Shakespeare. “Unbelievable,” the alien muttered crossly, turning and marching back towards them with purpose.

“Doc,” Hartley chuckled again, hurrying after him as she held a hand to her stitching side.

“Come on,” the Doctor snapped when they approached the pair, who turned to look at the grumpy Time Lord with raised eyebrows. “We can all have a good flirt later.”

Shakespeare gave a wide, sly sort of smirk. “Is that a promise, Doctor?” he asked playfully.

The Doctor fell silent while Hartley giggled, the sound trilling but beautiful. “Oh, fifty seven academics just punched the air,” the Doctor finally muttered before glancing over at a pink-cheeked, bright-eyed Hartley and adding, “not to mention Hartley.” He rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Now can we move?!”

Hartley glanced over at Martha, who grinned back, both sharing in the amusement before they quickly followed the Doctor through town, all the way to the city wall.

Unfortunately Hartley's good mood wasn't set to last. The closer they got to the madhouse the more ill and unsettled she began to feel. It was like an itch that didn't have a source, or like a buzzing in her head that came from nowhere.

When they finally got around to stepping inside the building, Hartley had turned a faint shade of green and looked about ready to throw up all over the dirty, tetanus-ridden floor.

“Are you okay?” Martha asked her as Shakespeare and the Doctor began speaking with the Keeper, a man dressed in dirtied garb and holding a bloodstained whip like a trophy in his hand. The entire madhouse was like a tangible black smear in Hartley's mind. It was like somebody had poured black ink all over the building, and she could see it, only not with her physical eyes.

“I don't like this place,” she finally replied, voice as chilly as her insides. She suddenly noticed Martha's look of concern and quickly forced a calming smile onto her face. “But I'm okay,” she assured her, no wanting Martha to worry.

“Are you sure?” Martha asked, stepping closer and slipping into medical-mode. Hartley wouldn't have put it past her to try and take her temperature, so she stepped back before the student doctor could touch her.

“I'm really fine,” she promised, unsure whether or not it was a lie. “This place is just...freaky,” she explained lamely.

Martha didn't look totally convinced, but then the group was moving again and the pair had no choice but to follow the others deeper into the dark, creepy building. Martha was right to be worried, but it wasn't a physical issue she was experiencing.

Instead it was something in her gut, something that went beyond illness. It was a feeling in her head, like the hum of a hundred demented voices whispering threats and secrets into her mind.

Her whole head began to ache, and she resisted the urge to drop it into her hands to try and rub away the pain.

“Does my Lord Doctor wish some entertainment while he waits? I'd whip these madmen. They'll put on a good show for you. Mad dog in Bedlam,” said the Keeper with a toothless sneer.

The disgust in Hartley's system was intense, and she had the rare urge to snap at the man leering at them giddily. It was clear he was just looking for an opportunity to further hurt these poor, suffering souls.

“No, I don't!” the Doctor snapped coldly, disgust radiating from his body. The Keeper seemed surprised that his offer was turned down and it sickened Hartley to imagine just how many of the people who came here had agreed to witness such a horrifying thing.

“Well, wait here, my lords, while I make him decent for the ladies,” he said plainly, turning and wobbling his way back down the corridor.

Hartley finally gave in and reached up, rubbing at her throbbing temples. The whispers in her head were getting louder, but she wasn't about to say anything. Best case scenario: the Doctor took her seriously and it distracted him from his task. Worst case scenario: someone overheard and she ended up in a cell of her own.

“So this is what you call a hospital, yeah?” Martha apparently had even more trouble holding her tongue, turning to glare at Shakespeare in disdain, like it were all his fault. “Where the patients are whipped to entertain the gentry? And you put your friend in here?”

“Oh, it's all so different in Freedonia,” Shakespeare sneered back.

“But you're _clever_ ,” she argued. “Do you honestly think this place is any good?”

“I've been mad. I've lost my mind. Fear of this place set me right again. It serves its purpose.”

“Mad in what way?” Martha countered skeptically.

The Doctor was the one to answer, speaking evenly, eyes deep and compassionate as he stared back at the human, who withered under the Time Lord's endless gaze. “You lost your son,” he said gently, and Hartley knew she wasn't imagining the empathy in his eyes, or the hum of shared pain in his hearts.

“My only boy,” the Bard himself confirmed. “The Black Death took him. I wasn't even there.”

“I didn't know. I'm sorry,” Martha apologised, guilt pulling at her mouth.

Shakespeare inclined his head briefly. “It made me question everything. The futility of this fleeting existence,” he told them. “To be or not to be – oh, that's quite good.”

The Doctor turned to meet Hartley's eye. “You should write that down,” he said wryly, and though she tried to manage something of a smile in response, she had a feeling she hadn't totally sold it.

“Maybe not,” Shakespeare mused. “A bit pretentious?”

The Doctor didn't respond, instead he was staring at Hartley, a calculating look in his warm chocolate eyes. Martha was eyeing him curiously, but Shakespeare seemed to catch on quicker than her, stepping closer to the younger woman with a large, charming smile.

This was exactly what the Doctor wanted, and the moment Martha was distracted he slipped closer to Hartley, who was idly tugging at the loose threads of her jumper sleeves, avoiding his eyes.

“What is it?” he asked quietly, hands tucked deep inside his pockets and his head ducked down in an effort to catch her gaze. “Hartley,” he said, the word not quite scolding, but also more than just her name.

She didn't want to tell him, didn't want to be honest about what was happening to her, because telling him made it _real_ , and that made it _scary_. Still, she was helpless but to catch his eyes, and under the weight of his stare she caved. “I don't like it here,” she admitted weakly, but he didn't seem to understand, giving the place a cursory glance.

“Yeah,” he sniffed in agreement. “If the smell wasn't enough to turn you off...” he trailed off with a grimace, but when he looked back at Hartley he found her not to be nodding in agreement, but rather frowning down at her wringing hands. “What is it?” he pressed again, this time not to be deterred.

Hartley sighed, knowing keeping it to herself was a bad idea in the long run. “I feel sick; and there's this...whispering,” she tentatively revealed, keeping her eyes on her long, intertwined fingers.

“Whispering,” he repeated flatly, cocking his head to the side as though to hear it better.

“Not here,” she said with a gesture at the general area, before reaching up to tap loathsomely at her temple, “ _here_.”

She hadn't really expected him to mock her for it, but she was still relieved when his expression dropped into one of concern, shifting closer to her to be heard. “What's it saying?” he asked, serious and imploring. He wasn't calling her crazy, which was a nice comfort against her fear.

“I don't know,” she told him with a sharp exhale of frustration. “It's too...indistinct.” The Doctor's lips twisted into a thicker frown. Her shoulders slumped as she returned her gaze to her hands, idly spinning her signet ring around her finger. “It's not good, though,” she added quietly.

“When did it start?”

“When we stepped into this place.”

“Interesting,” he mused, and Hartley looked back up in time to catch a spark of intrigue glinting in his deep, warm eyes. He looked like he wanted to ask something more but was interrupted by the loud voice of the Keeper who called out from down the corridor, telling them it was finally safe to approach.

The Doctor cast one more thoughtful, considering look at Hartley before stuffing his hands into his pockets and leading the way down the hall.

The man inside the cell was hunched over, a set of dirty, limp rags hanging off his bony, malnourished frame. It felt almost worse inside the small cell and Hartley's nausea doubled, bile creeping up her oesophagus. She swallowed it down and crossed her arms over her chest, trying her best to focus on the task at hand.

“They can be dangerous, my lord,” the Keeper said in warning. “Don't know their own strength.”

“I think it helps if you don't whip them,” the Doctor snapped at him unforgivingly. “Now _get_ _out_!”

With something of a scoff the round man turned and stomped from the room. Hartley had already forgotten about him, focusing her attention on the man before them whom had yet to move from where he was curled in on himself. Despair was consuming him, the strength of it making it hard to breathe.

“Peter? Peter Streete?” the Doctor took it upon himself to crouch in front of the poor man, who was trembling where he lay.

“He's the same as he was. You'll get nothing out of him,” Shakespeare said plainly.

But the Doctor wasn't to be discouraged. “Peter?” he asked gently, placing a hand on the man's shoulder. Like lightning the man threw himself back, bringing his head up to stare back at the Doctor. From where she stood Hartley couldn't see his face, but she had a feeling that was a good thing under such circumstances.

At first Hartley wasn't sure what the Doctor intended to do, but then his fingers went to the poor man's temples, and she understood.

“Peter, I'm the Doctor. Go into the past. One year ago. Let your mind go back. Back to when everything was fine and shining,” the Time Lord said in a steady, smooth voice, the sound lilting in the stale bleakness of the madhouse. “Everything that happened in this year since happened to somebody else. It was just a story. A Winter's Tale,” he told him gently. From beneath his touch Peter gasped, then began to slowly collapse backwards. “Let go. That's it. That's it, just let go.”

Peter shook so hard that Hartley worried for his health, curling into a ball on his dirty, uncomfortable cot.

“Tell me the story, Peter,” the Doctor commanded him gently. “Tell me about the witches.”

There was a lengthy pause, during which Hartley wondered whether it would work at all. And then Peter began to speak, his voice trembling as violently as his body.

“Witches spoke to Peter. In the night, they whispered. They whispered,” he rasped, and Hartley flinched at the use of the word. The Doctor's eyes broke away from Peter to glance up at her, and she met his gaze unsteadily before they both simultaneously looked back down at the broken man before them. “Got Peter to build the Globe to their design. _Their_ design! The fourteen walls. Always fourteen. When the work was done they _snapped_ poor Peter's wits,” he told them in a snarl.

“Where did Peter see the witches? Where in the city?” the Doctor asked imploringly. The man on the bed shook harder, practically vibrating in his terror, and the Time Lord looked up at Hartley again, this time a question in his eyes.

It didn't need to be asked. Despite Hartley's sickness, despite her fear and discontent, she shuffled closer to the man, crouching down at his side. She reached out a hand, gingerly placing it on the terrified man's head. He flinched under her touch, but she didn't give up.

“It's okay,” she whispered to him quietly, running her hand over his clumpy, matted hair. “Tell him, Peter,” she spoke soothingly, like he were a small child in need of simple maternal comfort. Peter continued to shiver, but she wasn't imagining the way he leant into her touch, a mere boy in search of the kindness of which he was so deprived. “Where were they, Peter?” she asked gently, her own voice almost songlike, holding a soothing quality that the Doctor wasn't sure anyone else in the universe could replicate. “Where were the witches?”

The broken man took a deep, shuddering breath and then told them in a broken voice, “All Hallows Street.”

The temperature in the room dropped, the air abruptly icy, and a voice cried, “too many words,” in a sharp, croaky snarl.

Hartley gasped as she laid eyes on the old hag standing beside poor Peter. Her robes were made of bloodied, shredded fabric, and her skin was lined and sagged, her nose large and hooked, eyes beady and dark. The Doctor stepped away from the creature, and almost as an instinct he grasped Hartley's arm, drawing her to her feet and dragging her back beside him as if that would keep her safe.

“What the hell?” Martha gasped as she took in the strange woman's appearance.

“Just _one_ touch of the heart,” the hag said hoarsely, reaching out a crooked finger towards Peter. Hartley fell behind all the action, helpless to do anything but watch as the evil touched the finger to the poor man's chest. Peter gasped raggedly in pain, then went frightfully still.

“No!” the Doctor cried, but it was too late.

“Witch! I'm seeing a _witch_!” Shakespeare was gaping at the hag in disbelief.

“Now, who would be next, hmm? Just one touch,” she was telling them, voice rough but at the same time trilling, enough to make Hartley's skin crawl. “Oh, oh, I'll stop your frantic hearts. Poor, fragile mortals.”

“Let us out! Let us out!” Martha was shaking the bars of the cell, but nobody was coming to their rescue.

“That's not going to work. The whole building's shouting that,” the Doctor told her calmly.

“Who will die first, hmm?” the witch questioned with a sickening cackle.

“Well, if you're looking for volunteers...” the Doctor trailed off, taking a step forwards.

“Then _I'd_ be happy to oblige,” Hartley interjected before he could open his gob and say something even more stupid. She shoved her way in front of him, chin tilted upwards in a show of fake courage. She could do this, she could die again. Death by witch; it'd be a new one.

“No! Don't!” Martha cried in a panic from the cell door, where she was still futilely trying to wrench it open.

“Doctor, can you stop her?” Shakespeare asked him hopefully.

“No mortal has power over me,” she sang, mouth twisted into an ugly sneer.

“Oh, but there's a power in words,” the Doctor said quickly, one arm pressing to Hartley's form, stubbornly pushing her behind him. He'd be damned if he was going to let her die for him once again. “If I can find the right one. If I can just _know_ you...”

“None on Earth has knowledge of us,” the witch spat back.

“Then it's a good thing I'm here. Now think, think, _think,_ ” he muttered, jabbing his fingers against his skull in frustration. “Humanoid female, uses shapes and words to channel energy. _Ah_! Fourteen! That's it! Fourteen – the fourteen stars of the Rexel planetary configuration!” By now the hag had begun to look scared, which Hartley knew boded well for them all. “Creature, I name you _Carrionite_!” he shouted and the witch before them tilted her head back in agony, screaming and vanishing in a flash of bright, yellow light.

The cell was disconcertingly silent, still echoing with the witch's parting screech.

“What did you do?” Martha eventually asked, sounding grateful and wary all at once.

“I named her. The power of a name,” he told her casually, like the feat he'd just achieved was no big deal. “That's old magic.”

“But there's no such _thing_ as magic,” she argued back stubbornly, but Hartley was barely listening, trying to calm the rolls of nausea crashing through her system like waves at a beach. She held a hand to her head, where the indistinct whispering had gotten louder. She strictly kept her gaze away from Peter's lifeless body, the sight of him making her eyes sting.

“Well, it's just a different sort of science,” the Doctor explained, hands again tucked into his pockets. “You lot, you chose mathematics. Given the right string of numbers, the right equation, you can split the atom. Carrionites use words instead.”

“Use them for what?” Shakespeare asked carefully. Hartley understood his wariness. Words were his trade and now suddenly they were a weapon of mass destruction, being used against him and the city he so loved. Still, she wasn't able to ponder it long, the world seeming to suddenly tilt on its axis.

“The end of the world,” the Doctor replied hollowly.

“Doc?” Hartley spoke up, unable to keep quiet any longer. The others turned to look at her in vague curiosity. “I don't feel so well,” she admitted, one hand pressed to her throbbing head, the other holding her rolling stomach.

“Come on,” the Doctor said quickly, at her side in an instant. “We've gotta get you out of here.”

He fished his sonic from his pocket, aiming it at the door. It unlocked with a click, and he returned the futuristic device to his pocket before Shakespeare could get a good look, wrapping his arm around Hartley's shoulders and angling her out of the room.

“We have to have a proper burial for Peter,” she said sluggishly, struggling to get the words out around the headache and pressing illness.

“You barely knew him a full two minutes,” Shakespeare argued from behind her, bemused by her strange demand.

For the first time, she felt disdain for Shakespeare – maybe Martha was right, and you should never actually meet your heroes. “Doesn't mean he doesn't deserve respect,” she muttered at him over her shoulder, but the world tipped sideways. Luckily the Doctor caught her, pulling her tightly against his body, holding her upright.

“What's the matter with her?” Martha asked as they made a beeline for the doors. “Does she have a sort of underlying medical condition?” she pressed, sounding every bit like the young medical student she was.

“Something like that,” the Doctor responded vaguely, and Martha threw her hands in the air in exasperation; mystery seemed to shroud the two like a cloak, and she didn't know how to see around it. The Doctor ignored her, instead looping his arm more securely around Hartley's waist and pulling her tighter against him, ducking his head to speak in her ear. “Just hang on a moment,” he told her gently. “It'll go away once we're out in the fresh air.”

“I need fresh air?” she repeated sluggishly, still managing sarcasm even in spite of the throbbing in her brain. “ _That's_ your prognosis?”

“At least you're still of enough mind to exercise your usual wit,” he muttered, all appearances tired and exasperated, but when she glanced up at him blearily she noted the presence of a small, pleased smile sitting at home on his lips.

The Keeper called out to them as they left, but the Doctor easily ignored him in favour of dragging her out into the light of day. He didn't stop once they were out of the madhouse, instead continuing to lead her away, walking as fast as he dared with a still-sluggish Hartley. Shakespeare and Martha were talking from behind them, but she didn't care enough to listen in, all her focus on trying not to empty what little was in her stomach.

The further they walked from the madhouse the less sick Hartley felt. The sea of nausea in her gut began to recede, the whispering in her head tapered away, and her skull finally stopped throbbing like somebody was trying to wrench it open with a crowbar and sheer willpower alone.

“How're you feeling?” the Doctor waited to ask until they were finally back in the centre of town, heading for the inn that had become sort of their temporary base of operations.

“Better,” she promised with a careful nod, still not totally sure it wouldn't send the world spinning. “What was that?” she asked, keeping her voice low, vaguely aware of Shakespeare and Martha behind them, talking easily with one another, thankfully paying neither of them any attention.

“It's a long story,” the Doctor told her vaguely, and she pulled away from where she'd been tucked surreptitiously into his side.

“And one I think I deserve to know,” she responded, voice flat and uncharacteristically cool, daring him to contradict her.

The Doctor nodded, and she knew he understood that whatever it was, it had to be explained. “Once this is over,” he promised, keeping his arm thrown over her shoulders, tucking her back into his side.

There was something strange about the action, something tender but wary, like he was worried that if he didn't she might float out of reach, never to be touched again.

And it scared her.

“I must have a wash,” Shakespeare proclaimed before she could press the Doctor any further, directing their attention to him. “Once in my quarters, we can discuss what _exactly_ you know of these…Carrionites, Doctor,” he added thoughtfully, and the Time Lord nodded, though Hartley could tell by the distant gleam to his eyes that he was too absorbed by his thoughts to really process what he was agreeing to.

The inn was mostly quiet. They weren't disturbed as they made their way up the narrow flight of stairs and towards Shakespeare's room, where the Bard set about filling a bowl with water to wash up with.

“May I have something to drink?” Hartley asked, and he nodded, gesturing off to the side where a large jug of water sat on his desk. Nodding her gratitude, she poured herself a tankard of the water and drank it down greedily, finding herself dehydrated.

“Go on, then,” Martha prompted the Doctor, who was already beginning to pace the room, brow furrowed in concern. “Tell us what you know that we don't.”

“Won't be able to fit the length of that lesson into your lifetime,” the Doctor quipped, and Hartley managed a smile of amusement aimed into her tankard. Martha shot the alien a clearly unimpressed sort of a look, and he tugged at his ear with a sigh. “The Carrionites disappeared way back at the dawn of the universe. Nobody was sure if they were real or legend,” he began to explain.

“Well, I'm going for real,” Shakespeare interjected dryly, and Hartley had to agree.

“But what do they want?” Martha asked.

“A new empire on Earth,” he replied stonily, coming to a stop against the desk next to Hartley, who finally put down her tankard, listening intently. “A world of bones and blood and witchcraft.”

“But _how_?”

The Doctor shrugged, his eyes scanning across the room until they came to a rest on Shakespeare, who was drying his face with a towel. “I'm looking at the man with the words,” he said, and the Bard paused in his surprise.

“Me?” he asked in confusion, growing defensive. “But I've done nothing.”

“Hold on, though,” Martha spoke up smartly, and Hartley busied herself with pouring another glass of water. “What were you doing last night, when that Carrionite was in the room?”

“Finishing the play.”

There was a weighty silence, and then the Doctor looked up, understanding now glinting in his chocolate eyes. “What happens on the last page?” he asked slowly.

“The boys get the girls. They have a bit of a dance. It's all as funny and thought provoking as usual,” he replied evenly, then a sudden confusion appeared on his face, and he frowned at the floor heavily. “Except those last few lines,” he added thinly. “Funny thing is...I don't actually remember writing them.”

“That's it!” the Doctor shouted, and from beside him Martha jumped. Hartley smiled, too used to it to be bothered. “They _used_ you. They gave you the final words like a spell, like a _code_. Love's Labours Won. It's a _weapon._ The right combination of words, spoken at the right place, with the shape of the Globe as an _energy converter_!” the Doctor babbled furiously, lips peeled back in his enthusiasm. “The play's the thing!” he quoted from Hamlet, and as Hartley finished the last of her water she smiled again, putting a hand over her mouth to keep the liquid in. “And _yes_ , you can have that,” he added cheekily, before whirling around in a rush. “We need maps!”

“Maps?” Shakespeare repeated in bewilderment.

“Of the city, so we know where we're going,” he explained impatiently.

“Right,” the man nodded, turning and digging through a chest full of loose sheets of parchment until he came across a smaller piece. He stared at it for a beat before holding it out to the Doctor, whose foot was tapping anxiously against the wooden floorboards.

He took it eagerly, spreading it out on the desk and reaching into his pocket, pulling free his wholly unnecessary glasses – although Hartley had to admit, she wasn't exactly complaining. “All Hallows Street,” he muttered to himself, running his fingers over the crudely drawn map as he searched.

“There,” Hartley said quickly, spotting it towards the middle.

“Brilliant,” the Doctor cheered, standing up properly and turning to his companions. “Martha, Hartley, we'll track them down. Will, you get to the Globe. Whatever you do, _stop_ that play.”

“I'll do it,” Shakespeare agreed, thrusting out his hand to shake. “All these years I've been the cleverest man around. Next to you, I know _nothing_.”

“Oh, don't complain,” Martha jested.

“I'm not. It's _marvellous_ ,” he replied happily, and Hartley grinned widely, pleased by the words. “Good luck, Doctor.”

“Good luck, Shakespeare,” the Doctor grinned widely, hastily grabbing his coat and hightailing it to the door. “Once more unto the breach!” he called over his shoulder

“I like that!” Shakespeare called out after them, but they were already halfway down the corridor.

“This way!” the Doctor shouted, all but bouncing on his toes as he led them through the dwindling foot traffic. “Left!” he called, making a sharp turn that Hartley and Martha very nearly missed. They raced after him, shoes slapping against the stones beneath their feet. “All Hallows Street!” the Doctor crowed when they reached it, spinning in a wide circle to survey the area, “but which house?”

“The thing is, though, am I missing something here?” Martha said, and the Doctor whirled around to look at her. Hartley kept scanning the street, searching for a house that looked like it might belong to homicidal, alien witches. “The world didn't end in 1599. It just _didn't_. Look at me. I'm living proof.”

“Oh, how to explain the mechanics of the infinite temporal flux?” the Doctor wondered impatiently.

“Duh; _Back to the Future_ ,” Hartley answered him distractedly, pushing herself up on her toes to get a good look in the windows to her right.

“Look at that, someone's getting it.” She wasn't looking, but she could hear the proud grin in his voice. “She's right, it's like _Back to the Future_.”

“The film?” Martha asked in surprise.

“No, the novelisation,” he snapped sarcastically.

Hartley sent her elbow into his side, and he grunted at the impact. “Rude,” she scolded him lightly, most of her focus still on the rows of near-identical houses running down the street in uniform lines.

“ _Yes_ , the film,” he continued as though she hadn't interrupted. “Marty McFly goes back and changes history.”

“And he starts fading away...” she finished in almost a bored tone, only to freeze strongly enough that Hartley stopped looking for the witches, turning to watch Martha with sympathy in her eyes. “Oh my _God_ , am I going to fade?” she demanded anxiously.

“You and the entire future of the human race. It ends _right_ now in 1599 if we don't stop it,” the Doctor told her solemnly, and once he'd decided the woman looked properly terrified he turned away, returning to searching the street. “But which house?”

From across from them a door creaked open, the sound loud in the still night air, almost everybody in town at the Globe for the night's show.

“Ah. Make that _witch_ house,” the Doctor said with a cheesy grin.

“What have I said about the puns?” Hartley muttered from the corner of her mouth as they slowly approached the house.

“To not waste time making them while we're in life or death situations,” he mumbled back monotonously as they crossed the threshold, like a child reciting the classroom rules to a teacher. Hartley couldn't help but smile.

“Are you _sure_ you two aren't married?” Martha asked from behind them, and Hartley felt that same flash of irritation as before.

“For the last time-” she began, but the Doctor nudged her in the arm and she fell obediently silent, turning to see a beautiful young woman staring at them, a smirk sitting comfortably on her lips.

“I take it we're expected,” the Doctor said evenly.

“Oh, I think Death has been waiting for _you_ a very long time,” the witch replied slyly, pretty but cold eyes shifting from the Time Lord to the immortal beside him. Hartley shifted her weight to the balls of her feet, some deep instinct within her telling her to run. It was something she had to consciously fight. She had to stay. She had to help. “Though even longer for your companion, it would seem,” the witch added with a dark purr, and Hartley felt her skin begin to prickle.

Before the Doctor could say anything, Martha was speaking up, a sort of smugness to her voice that Hartley knew didn't bode well for them. “Right then, it's my turn. I know how to do this,” she said haughtily, stepping forwards and levelling the witch with a glare. “I name thee _Carrionite_!”

The woman gasped theatrically, then broke off into amused snickers.

“What did I do wrong? Was it the finger?” Martha asked, wilting with disappointment.

“The power of a name works only once,” the witch said conversationally, cloak brushing the ground as she strolled leisurely closer. “Observe. I gaze upon this bag of bones and now I name thee Martha Jones.”

With a gasp of her own Martha collapsed backwards into the Doctor's arms. Fear hit Hartley like a bolt of lightning. To her immense relief their new friend wasn't dead but merely unconscious. Her chest still moved with breath and her energy still burned within Hartley's consciousness. She was fine.

“What have you done?” the Doctor demanded, making sure Martha was safely situated on the floor before glowering at the so-called witch with thunderous fury.

“Only sleeping, alas. It's curious,” she mused aloud. “The name has less impact. She's somehow out of her time.” She switched targets, turning to look over Hartley with narrowed eyes. “Shall I do you next, Immortal One?” she asked sweetly. “I would so _love_ to kill the Heart of the Storm.”

Hartley could only tilt her head up and wait for death to come. She wondered if it would kill her permanently, or if she'd wake up as usual. Perhaps she wouldn't die at all, but rather pass out like Martha. That would be a nice change of pace.

The witch laughed and watched as the Doctor stood slowly to his feet, edging in front of Hartley like a Time Lord shield. She was touched by the action, but at the same time irritated. Why was he always so heedlessly putting himself in danger? Stubborn, bloody alien.

The witch seemed merciful, letting Hartley keep her consciousness. She turned her attention to the Doctor, who scowled at her in warning.

“As for you, Sir Doctor,” she continued blithely, only to pause abruptly, staring at the alien with intrigue. “Fascinating. There _is_ no name. Why would a man hide his title in such despair?” she pouted prettily, and Hartley pressed a hand against the Doctor's spine, ready to shove him out of the way if necessary. “Oh, but look,” she added suddenly, that devious sparkle reappearing in her eyes. “There's still one word with the power that aches.”

“The naming won't work on me,” he told her evenly.

“But your heart grows cold,” she pouted again, “the north wind blows and carries down the distant... _Rose_.”

It may not have affected the Doctor, but to Hartley it was like she'd been hit in the stomach, air rushing from her lungs in a painful burst. She stepped backwards with the force of it all, wrapping her arms protectively around her middle. The Doctor didn't seem to notice her reaction, already storming towards the young witch, towering over her almost threateningly.

“Oh, _big_ mistake,” he snarled, fury dripping from his voice. “Because that name keeps me _fighting._ ”

The witch shifted back, the movement so subtle that Hartley nearly missed it. The Doctor was on a warpath now; he wasn't about to let this go.

All at once he dropped his fury, seeming to sense that it was of no help in the situation. He needed information, and that was what he would focus on next.

“The Carrionites vanished,” he began again, smooth and insistent. “Where did you go?”

The witch turned, hair flipping as she walked away from the Time Lord, creating careful space between them. “The Eternals found the right word to banish us into deep darkness,” she told him primly.

“And how did you escape?”

“New words,” she answered simply. “New and _glittering_ , from a mind like no other.”

“You mean Shakespeare,” Hartley said from behind the Doctor, and the witch peered around him to narrow her eyes at her, that dark smirk still flickering at her lips. Like she knew something Hartley didn't.

“His son perished,” she explained liltingly. “The grief of a genius. Grief without measure. Madness enough to allow us entrance.”

“How many of you?” the Doctor demanded, cold and detached.

“Just the three. But the play tonight shall restore the rest. Then the human race will be purged as pestilence. And from this world we will lead the universe back into the old ways of blood and magic.”

“Hmm. Busy schedule. But first you've got to get past _me_ ,” the Doctor proclaimed, and Hartley felt her insides twist with anxiety.

“Oh, that should be a pleasure,” the witch leaned into him, reaching a hand up to caress the side of his face. Fury ran white-hot though Hartley's blood, stunned by the hag's gall to touch the Doctor. “Considering my enemy has such a _handsome_ shape,” the witch simpered, batting her lashes.

Hartley couldn't see the Doctor's expression but she could only imagine how he was grimacing in discomfort. “Now, that's one form of magic that's _definitely_ not going to work on me,” he said, flat and unaffected.

“Ah yes, I see now,” she purred, and Hartley took a step forwards, prepared to drag him from her clawed grasp if it came down to it. “I see where your heart truly lies…where it was always meant to lie.”

“Stop it,” the Doctor snarled, but she only leant closer, that large smirk widening like a predator who had their prey right where they wanted them.

“A heart so heavy it can't be contained by you yourself,” she sang sweetly, one hand trailing down over his chest. “A heart so large, so burdened, it takes another to carry the weight.” Her smirk grew wider, and the Doctor was frightfully still. Victory glinted in her eyes. “Another whom was quite aptly named, don't you believe?”

“Stop it now, while you still can,” he hissed at her, and she let out a loud cackle. Hartley had never been more confused. She felt like the witch was speaking in words only the Doctor understood, but she got the feeling they were talking about _her_ while they did it.

“Oh, we'll see!” the witch sang, reaching up and yanking a small thistle of hair from the Doctor's head. She danced backwards and out of reach, holding the hair up triumphantly. 

“What did you do?” the Doctor demanded, throwing a hand up to the place she'd snatched the hair from.

“Souvenir,” she purred coyly.

“Well, give it _back_.”

But the windows behind her blew open as if by magic and she flew out of them, hovering in the air outside the window, grinning at her success. Hartley hurried forwards, coming to a stop beside the Doctor and staring out at the witch in disdain.

“Well, that's just cheating,” he muttered bitterly.

“Behold, Doctor. Men to Carrionites are nothing but puppets,” she said slyly, taking his clipping of hair and beginning to wrap it around a small wooden doll.

“Please tell me that isn't a voodoo doll,” Hartley muttered to the Doctor in a desperate undertone. He didn't respond, focusing on glaring at the witch in frustration.

“Now, you might call that magic. I'd call that a DNA replication module,” he said harshly, and the woman gave a coy little smirk.

“What use is your science now?” she snarled, grinning victoriously as she stabbed the little doll with a needle, and the Doctor collapsed with a loud cry of pain, then went frightfully silent. The witch cackled again, flying out of view as the windows slammed such of their own accord.

“Dammit, Doctor,” Hartley hissed, dropping to her knees heavily enough to bruise, but she didn't care. Grunting, she turned the Doctor over, hands hovering uselessly over his body. “C'mon,” she said, pressing her palms to his chest, pushing down like it might rouse him. “At least regenerate!” she ordered him in a hiss, shaking him in an attempt to force him awake.

Her heart was racing and her skin felt clammy. She was too panicked to begin crying, for which she was grateful.

“Oh my _God_! Doctor! Don't worry, I've got you!” Martha, now conscious, appeared by her side, slipping into doctor mode as she leaned down to listen to his breathing. “Hold on, mister,” she said suddenly, skepticism in her voice. “Two hearts?”

The Doctor's eyes slipped open, and he gave a cheeky little grin. “You son of a _bitch_ ,” Hartley cursed him fiercely. He sat up, looking utterly unharmed.

“Language, please, Hartley,” he scolded her lightly, but just as he was getting to his feet he yelled out in pain. “ _Ah_! I've only got one heart working!” he exclaimed as he leant his weight against his friends, who both eyed him warily. “How do you people cope? I've got to get the other one started. Hit me! Hit me on the chest!” Martha seemed unsure, looking to Hartley skeptically. The immortal, however, didn't argue, slapping him as hard as she could on the chest, glad for the opportunity to do so. “Dah! Other side!” he shouted in a hurry, leaning forwards, and not wanting to miss out on the fun, Martha slapped him too. “Now, on the back, on the back. Left a bit. Dah, _lovely_!”

He leapt to his feet, a wide, unaffected grin on his face.

“There we go. Badda booma!” he laughed, turning to look at the women. “Well, what are you standing there for?” he asked them impatiently. “Come on! The Globe!”

Hartley was infuriated by the Doctor's antics but knew there were more pressing matters at hand. She resolved to chew him out about it later and instead booked it after him, barrelling down the rickety staircase and out into the frosty English night.

“Are you sure you know where you're going?” she yelled at the Time Lord up ahead who appeared no worse for wear considering he'd just been voodoo doll-ed by an ancient, alien witch.

“A little more credit, Hart!” he yelled back as they ran, the locals around them sending them bemused looks. “I'm a Time Lord – I have a perfect sense of direction!”

“No – she's right!” Martha yelled, sounding puffed from the run. “We're going the wrong way!”

“No, we're not!” the Doctor argued as they turned a corner. It was a miracle Hartley had fast enough reflexes to shoot out an arm and grasp ahold of the Doctor's coat, just barely stopping him from tumbling headfirst into the Thames. There was a beat, then the Doctor was legging it in the opposite direction. “We're going the wrong way!” he conceded as he ran, and despite it all, Hartley and Martha managed to share an exasperated grin.

When they finally turned the corner and saw the Globe, it was to the sight of an eerie, unnatural red glow hovering overtop. Citizens were running away from it, screaming in terror.

“I told thee so! I _told_ thee!” a preacher was proclaiming righteously, waving a bible in their faces.

Hartley darted around him and headed for the theatre, ignoring the growing stitch in her gut from all the running. “Stage door!” the Doctor ordered them, and instead of taking the main entrance as before they went around the side, slipping into the back rooms of the theatre where there were no guards.

Hartley wasn't sure what she'd find inside, but as they tripped through the doors she was met with the sight of Shakespeare slumped across a bench, hand pressed to his head, eyes bleary and dazed.

“Stop the play. I think that was it!” the Doctor scolded him with delay. “Yeah, I said, _stop the play_!”

“I hit my head,” the Bard groaned.

“Yeah, don't rub it, you'll go bald,” the Time Lord responded bitterly. From the other side of the wall there were a series of loud, terrified screams and the Doctor snapped to attention. “I think that's my cue!” he yelled, reaching down unthinkingly to grasp Hartley's hand, yanking her after him.

“ _Now begins the millennium of blood_!” the Carrionites were chanting over the sounds of the spectators' horrified screaming. “They come. They _come_!”

  
The younger witch held a crystal ball out into the glistening red light, and bat-like creatures appeared as if by magic, flying in a mesmerising circle before shooting up into the dark night sky.

“What do we do now?!” Hartley shouted, at a loss.

The Time Lord whirled around to face Shakespeare, who was gaping at the sight in muted, sinking horror. “Come on, Will! History needs you!” the Doctor yelled furiously over the white-noise of the screams filling the theatre.

“But what can _I_ do?” the poet yelled back wildly.

“Reverse it!” the Doctor bellowed.

“How am I supposed to do _that_?!”

“The shape of the Globe gives words power, but you're the wordsmith, the one true genius. The only man clever enough to do it!”

“But what words? I have none ready!”

“You're William Shakespeare!”

“But these Carrionite phrases, the need such precision!”

“Trust yourself,” the Doctor lowered his voice, but he was still heard over the roaring noise of the singularity before them. “When you're locked away in your room, the words just _come_ , don't they? Like magic. Words of the right sound, the right shape, the right rhythm. Words that last _forever_. That's what you do, Will. You choose perfect words. Do it. Improvise!”

There was a beat where Hartley thought he might back down, might give up and let this happen, but then he opened his mouth and the Bard began to speak the right words, the perfect words to save them all.

“Close up this din of hateful, dire decay, decomposition of your witches' plot. You thieve my brains, consider me your toy. My doting Doctor tells me I am not! Foul Carrionite spectres, cease your show! Between the points-” he cut off suddenly.

“Seven six one three nine oh!” the Doctor supplied in a hurry.

“Seven six one three nine oh!” Shakespeare parroted. “Banished like a tinker's cuss, I say to thee-”

He stopped, and the pair of men floundered for an answer. “Expelliarmus!” Martha surprised them all by shouting.

“Expelliarmus!” Shakespeare repeated, and the Doctor grinned like a madman.

“Good old JK!” he crowed.

“Can't go wrong!” Hartley agreed passionately.

From above them the Carrionites began to screech in agony, and lightning struck from within the glowing cloud above.

“The deep darkness! They are consumed!” the younger witch shrieked her sorrow.

From behind them the doors to the stage flew open, and hundreds of pages were sucked out by the wind, disappearing up into the tornado above them. “Love's Labour's Won,” the Doctor sighed wistfully. “There it goes.”

There was a great flash, then a deafening bang, then everything faded into an all-encompassing silence that began to turn awkward very quickly. Hartley wondered what might happen next. She thought the crowd might keep screaming, or try their best to run, but instead when happened shocked her. The spectators all began to clap, starting off slow and escalating into wild, exuberant cheers.

Hartley could only gape at them, wondering exactly what was happening.

“They think it was all special effects?” Martha asked, in a state of disbelief.

“Your effect is special indeed,” Shakespeare grinned coyly.

“It's not your best line.”

The crowd continued to cheer, growing louder and more sincere with each passing moment. Hartley was confused, but she wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth, awkwardly dipping into a bow along with Shakespeare and Martha, who both grinned shyly under all the attention.

She couldn't help but notice the Doctor had slunk off, but she knew he'd find his way back eventually. For now she was content to simply share the stage with the eternally magnificent Shakespeare, something almost nobody in the whole of history could ever say they had done.

* * *

That morning found Hartley rummaging through the chests in the back of the theatre, fruitlessly searching for a surviving copy of Love's Labour's Won.

“I doubt you'll find one,” the Doctor appeared out of nowhere, and Hartley gasped in surprise, spinning around and holding a hand to her racing heart. He smiled down at her, but the expression held a grim sort of edge. “Not like you could do anything with it, anyway.”

“I don't want to sell it,” she said, offended by the mere suggestion.

“Then why d'you want it?” he sounded confused, like she wasn't making sense.

“To read it, of course,” she rolled her eyes at him in exasperation. “It's the _lost_ _play._ Besides, I want to know what happens next, and I missed the show.”

The Doctor was suddenly smiling, and her brow furrowed as she looked up at him in bewilderment. “Leave it to you to have the _least_ nefarious intentions of the entire human race,” he said, tone of voice soft and fond. Her cheeks warmed under his affectionate gaze.

She decided to change the subject, reaching across and picking up a ruff from where it lay off to the side. “Gotta say, I was expecting the Bard to look a lot less handsome,” she commented idly, tossing the piece of vintage garb up to the Time Lord, who caught it with deft fingers. “Think we'll be able to convince him to wear this?”

“I think _you_ could convince a fish to buy water,” he replied wryly, but when she glanced over at him, she saw he was grinning back at her fondly, and she mirrored the expression without a second thought. “Tell you what, though,” he started as he brought the ruff up to his neck, hooking it around his throat in a casual move that made Hartley giggle, “these are some brilliant props.”

“I know,” she gushed, returning to the prop basket, digging through it if only for a chance to run her fingers over the authentic Elizabethan props. “I'm struggling to comprehend that we're really, actually _here_ ,” she said, picking up a large animal skull of some kind, holding it out in front of her with a grimace.

“Well, I've been promising to bring you for years,” he sniffed. “And I _am_ a man of my word.”

Hartley laughed, rolling her eyes at him as she tossed the heavy skull towards him. He caught it, holding it up and peering into the empty eye holes. “Tell you one thing,” she said, climbing to her feet and dusting the dirt off her jeans. “We'll be coming back. Maybe during the Jacobean era? I'd love to watch _The Tempest_ live. Oh! And _the Winter's Tale_!”

The Doctor rolled his eyes, “you're such a nerd.”

“That's rich coming from you, Mr Doctor-of-Everything,” she replied lightly, and the Time Lord gave a wide grin.

“Come on,” he said rather than banter back, “let's go find Martha before she steps on a butterfly or something.”

Hartley laughed, accepting his hand. He pulled her gently to her feet and they made their way through the doors, back out onto the main stage.

“Good props store back there!” the Doctor called as they wandered out into the open, hands laden with props. “I'm not sure about this though. Reminds me of a Sycorax,” he sniffed as he stared down at the starchy animal skull.

“Sycorax. Nice word,” Shakespeare nodded. “I'll have that off you as well.”

“I should be on ten percent,” the Doctor muttered.

“How're you feeling?” Hartley asked Shakespeare, arms crossed over her chest as she eyed him thoughtfully, wondering absently whether he had a concussion. “Is your head okay?”

“It's still aching,” he replied, lifting a hand to rub at his temple.

“Here, I got you this,” the Doctor said with a cough, taking the ruff off his own neck and leaning forwards to fasten it around Shakespeare's. “Neck brace. Wear that for a few days till it's better...although, you might want to keep it,” he added thoughtfully. “It suits you,” he threw a wink at Hartley, who grinned so wide her cheeks hurt.

“What about the play?” Martha asked curiously.

“Gone. Hart looked all over – she was rather eager to find out how it ended,” he told her, casting a glance over at Hartley who only shrugged meekly under the attention. “But no, every single copy of Love's Labours Won went up in the sky,” he finished with a click of his tongue.

“My lost masterpiece,” Shakespeare sighed forlornly.

“You could write it up again,” Martha suggested.

Both Hartley and the Doctor grimaced at both the thought and the paradox it could potentially create. “Yeah, better not, Will,” the Time Lord told him mildly. “There's still power in those words. Maybe it should best stay forgotten.”

“Oh, but I've got new ideas,” Shakespeare mused. “Perhaps it's time I wrote about fathers and sons, in memory of my boy, my precious Hamnet.”

Martha paused, frowning in confusion at the words. “Hamnet?” Martha echoed in confusion.

“That's him.”

“Ham _net_?”

“What's wrong with that?”

“ _Anyway_ , time we were off,” the Doctor interrupted before that line of conversation could go any further. “I've got a nice attic in the TARDIS where this lot can scream for all eternity,” he said, scooping the crystal ball up from where it lay by Shakespeare's side, “and we've got to take Martha back to Freedonia.”

“You mean travel on through time and space.”

There was a pregnant pause, and Hartley's eyes went so wide she was surprised they didn't fall out of her head. “You what?” the Doctor asked weakly.

“You're from another world like the Carrionites, and both the dear Martha and empathetic Hart are from the future,” he said casually, like he wasn't completely throwing them all for a loop. “It's not hard to work out.”

“That's...incredible,” the Doctor looked stunned. “You are incredible.”

“We're alike in many ways, Doctor,” Shakespeare said with a hint of a smile, calm and accepting of this information as he turned to look at Hartley, his grin widening and his eyes shining with the kind of knowledge that only he could possibly hold. “Your empathy knows no bounds. Continue to spread it across the stars. This world – nay, all worlds – shall always be in need of their Heart.”

Hartley blushed bright pink when the Bard took her hand, bringing it to his lips in a chaste kiss. “You know, they say never to meet your heroes,” she said quietly, squeezing his hand tightly before letting go with a hint of reluctance. “But you turned out to be pretty darn great, Shakespeare.”

“You can call me Will.”

“Nah,” she shook her head with a grin. “You'll always be Shakespeare to me.”

The author smiled before he spun around to look at Martha with sparkling eyes. “Martha, let me say goodbye to you in a new verse,” he said smoothly, taking her hands in his and gazing deeply into her eyes. “A sonnet for my Dark Lady,” he began. Hartley gave an audible gasp, slapping the Doctor on the arm to draw his attention to what was happening. He batted her off silently, and it was all she could do not to squeal at what was happening before her very eyes. “Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate-”

“Will!” he was interrupted by the shout of his name. They all turned to the entrance to the Globe to see two men trip into view, ecstatic grins on their faces. “Will, you'll never believe it. She's _here_! She's turned up!”

“We're the talk of the town,” said the second one, dark eyes glinting with excitement. “She heard about last night. She wants us to perform it again!”

“Who?” Martha asked in confusion.

“Her _Majesty_. She's here,” he replied in a hoarse whisper, and there was a loud fanfare. Hartley turned to stare at the entrance with wide eyes, heart practically in her throat as she watched a woman float inside. Expensive garb trailed along the ground after her, the whole outfit shining with more jewels than Hartley had ever seen on one person alone.

“Queen Elizabeth the First!” the Doctor exclaimed, grinning brilliantly at her Majesty.

“Doctor?” the Queen hissed his name like it tasted of poison on her tongue.

The Doctor blinked in surprise. “What?”

“My _sworn_ enemy.”

“What?”

“Off with his head!”

“ _What_?”

“No time,” Hartley shifted into adventure mode at the drop of a hat, moving instinctively. “Away we go!” she called, grasping ahold of the Doctor's elbow and dragging him hastily in the opposite direction.

“See you, Will, and thanks!” Martha called to Shakespeare, and then they were running, bolting through the streets of Southwark.

“Stop that _pernicious_ Doctor and his _simpering_ little Heart!”

Although shocked by the shouting, they could do no more than squeak as the Queen's guards raced after them. “This way!” Hartley called, shoving Martha down the side street where she knew the TARDIS to be waiting.

“Stop in the name of the Queen!” one of the guards bellowed from behind them.

“What have you done to upset _her_?” Martha demanded as they ran – quite literally – for their lives.

“How should I know? We haven't even met her yet,” he replied, fishing his key from his bottomless pocket and shoving it in the lock of his ship, shoving the door open for the women to leap through. Hartley slipped inside, the ship's welcoming hum soothing her racing pulse. “That's time travel for you. Still, can't _wait_ to find out!” He paused in the doorway, half leant out of the blue box. “That's something to look forward to,” he said cheerily.

Over his shoulder Hartley spied the guards notching an arrow, and in one smooth move she grasped the lapel of the Doctor's coat and forcefully yanked him back inside the ship, the door slamming shut after him with a note of finality.

“Off we go then!” the Doctor crowed, bounding around on his way up to the console where he began to put them into flight, sending them straight into the vortex. The ship jolted violently to the side as they took off, and Martha let out a shriek much like that of someone on a rollercoaster, grabbing onto the railing to keep herself upright.

The TARDIS continued to judder, that wonderful groaning surrounding them, but finally the journey evened out and the ship came to a stop as the Doctor set them adrift in the vortex.

“You got a bathroom in here?” Martha asked as she stretched her hands high over her head. She was still flushed and grinning from their brush with danger, and Hartley smiled too, knowing the feeling well.

“Through that door, then to the right,” the Doctor told her distractedly. “Follow the hall until you come across it. Should turn up sooner or later.”

“You can't give me more direct instructions?”

“She likes to move it around,” he shrugged.

“She?”

“The TARDIS.”

Martha looked like she had a storm of questions behind her pretty eyes, but Hartley made a cutting motion at her throat, knowing the answers would take too long to explain in the time they had. “Go on through,” she encouraged her, and though still curious Martha nodded and disappeared, winding her way deeper into the ship.

“Setting a course for London, 2007,” the Doctor spoke almost robotically, beginning to manipulate the controls with a natural instinct.

Hartley let them lapse into silence, the quiet peaceful and unobtrusive. There were a lot of things she wanted to ask. Now that they had a moment alone she had a multitude of questions burning at her tongue, but she was struggling to translate them into verbal queries. Eventually she stopped trying to force the words out and instead let them come naturally.

“What did the witch mean?” she asked slowly, carefully. “About having a heavy heart and needing another to carry it? About one so aptly named? She was talking about me, right?”

“Is it so surprising?” he countered innocently. “You're my companion – my _friend_ – and if anyone's gonna share the brunt of the load, of course it'd be you.”

“Is that why they call me the 'the Heart'?” she asked persistently. “Is that why I have this title, spread throughout the whole of time and space?”

“I wouldn't get too hung up about it,” he shrugged again. “Truth breeds legend. Easy enough to hear a name and think it's a title – particularly when the name's also a common noun,” he sniffed casually, but she couldn't help but notice he wouldn't look at her, eyes trained solely on the console before him.

It was an explanation she'd heard countless times before, one she new held truth, but that also held further questions. Surely there was more to it than just her name, otherwise why would all the people and creatures they encountered think the same thing, like she were some kind of cosmic legend, as famous as the Doctor himself?

“Is there something you're not telling me?” she pressed, stubbornly refusing to let it go.

He finally looked up, meeting her eyes from around the side of the bobbing time rotor. “There usually is,” he replied honestly. This she couldn't argue, rolling her eyes at his attempt of deflection.

Shooting him her most stern expression, she waited with a tapping foot for him to continue. He huffed, loud and annoyed, though she got a feeling he was putting more energy into it than usual. Like a performance for her to see.

“I don't know much more than you,” he told her, certainly _sounding_ sincere. “If I did, I'd tell you.”

She wasn't sure she believed that to be true, but she wasn't going to argue, deciding just to drop it. She knew he would only continue to be stubborn about the whole thing – that was just who he was, and she'd accepted it a long time ago. He wasn't so unlike herself, in that respect. Usually, if he was keeping something to himself, it was for the right reasons, so with a sigh she hopped up onto the jump seat with a squeak of its springs.

“What happened in the madhouse today?” she asked instead, stubbornly set on getting her other answers.

The Doctor wiped his hands down his face exhaustedly, but Hartley refused to let up, staring at him expectantly, patient as she awaited an explanation. “I'll have to run some tests-”

“But you already know,” she interrupted him, not in the mood to pussyfoot around the issue. Everybody always said that his eyes looked old and she knew what they meant, but never so much so as in that moment. The glint to his chocolate eyes was weary and haunted, like a man who'd lived too long. “It's my...extra synaptic engram, right?” she pressed, recalling the words he'd used all that time ago, on the planet of the birds, when Rose was still with them. “It's my empathy.”

“It is,” he admitted. “But it's developing quickly. _Too_ quickly.”

Hartley swallowed this information slowly, getting used to the weight of it sitting on her chest. “Am I in any danger?” she finally asked, even and measured.

“I doubt there's anything in the known universe that could do any lasting damage to you, Hart,” he assured her, stepping just a little bit closer. “You're eternally safe.”

She struggled to find the strength to be happy with this answer. “Yeah,” she agreed lamely, shoulders lifting in a shrug. “It can be scary, though,” she murmured quietly.

“I know.”

She looked up to see sympathy etched into his face, the feeling clear in his warm eyes, and she gave him a smile for his kindness. “Will I ever learn how to control it – more so than I already can?” she asked, hopeful but not about to put money on it.

“In time,” he promised, and she smiled back with more sincerity.

She wanted to keep talking, wanted to expand on the subject, delve deep into the nuances of empathy and telepathy. She wanted to learn everything there was to know, everything the Doctor was able to share – but she knew these things, as the Doctor said, would come in time. And time was something she sure had a whole lot of these days.

“Martha was pretty great today, wasn't she?” she said instead, much to the Doctor's relief. But then his expression shuttered, sensing her ploy from a mile away.

“No,” he said instantly, shooting her a glare that lacked heat from where he stood up against the console.

Hartley rolled her eyes. “I didn't even suggest anything-”

“No,” he deadpanned again.

“Come _on_ , Doc,” she complained, bringing her legs up to curl underneath her, getting comfortable. If history was any indication, they could be arguing about this awhile. “Don't try and tell me she doesn't deserve it.”

“What we _agreed_ to was _one_ trip,” he reminded her sternly.

“Are you saying you _didn't_ have fun today?” she asked innocently.

He sighed. “Hartley-”

“What's the harm in letting her stay for another trip?” she fluttered her eyelashes at him, and he let out a loud, frustrated exhale. She tried another tactic – this one more to the heart of the issue. “I keep thinking about what Donna said,” she confessed.

The Doctor looked up, eyes distant for a moment as he thought back to that night in the snow outside Donna's house. Then his vision cleared and he narrowed his eyes. “About needing another person?” he asked tightly. Hartley didn't respond. “I thought we were doing fine on our own,” he said with sulky eyes.

She felt a tinge of his hurt before he hastily covered it up, hiding it where she couldn't find. “We have,” she assured him, feeling guilty for her thoughtless words. “It's been amazing. Better than amazing, even. Really, really sensational. I wouldn't trade it for the world-”

“Usually _I'm_ the one rambling on like an idiot,” he said around a smirk, and she cut herself off before she looked any more like a total nutter, cheeks blushing a rosy pink.

“What I'm _trying_ to say,” she began again, slowing her words and keeping her panicked concern reined in, “is that I'd just like to have another friend. I'd like to reconnect with humankind again. And since I think Martha's pretty fantastic, she's probably a good place to start.”

The Doctor was silent, face turned away from her as he processed the request. Inexplicably nervous, Hartley shuffled her feet awkwardly and twisted her signet ring around her finger, trying not to analyse the Doctor's body language too much, knowing it would only drive her to madness.

But she didn't get to hear his reply because the sound of footsteps on the grating met their ears. Hartley turned to see Martha padding towards them, a smile on her face.

There was another pregnant pause, neither woman sure what to make of the Doctor, who had yet to turn around, still angled away from them, frowning pensively. He looked up rather suddenly, and Hartley could only stare back, helpless but to wait with bated breath. She didn't like the thought that she had to ask _permission_ for anything, but it was _his_ TARDIS, so what could she say?

Just when she was so sure he wouldn't agree, brush her plea off and dump Martha back in 2007 London as if nothing had ever happened, he spoke up.

“Just one trip. That's what I said. One trip in the TARDIS, and then home,” he told Martha steadily. “Although,” he said, looking over at Hartley and catching her gaze. Hope surged in her chest. “I suppose we could stretch the definition...” he trailed off, and Hartley's responding smile was stunning enough to make both his hearts skip a beat. “Take one trip into past, one trip into future. How do you fancy that?” he continued as smoothly as he was able.

Martha glanced over at Hartley, who looked back with that million-watt grin, and she returned the expression happily. “No complaints from me,” she told them giddily, and Hartley just knew it was the start of something _brilliant_.


	34. Gridlock

**GRIDLOCK**

“ _Hope is being able to see that there is light despite all of the darkness.”_

Desmond Tutu

* * *

“How about a different planet?” the Doctor offered with a slightly maniacal grin that Hartley couldn't help but match. His excitement palpable, like a feeling buzzing in the air around her head.

Martha's eyes widened with excitement, and she leant towards him eagerly. “Can we go to yours?” she asked hopefully. Immediately the mood of the room crashed, all but falling to the floor and shattering into bits.

Inhaling sharply, Hartley looked at the Doctor to find his expression had dropped into something flat and detached. Pain that wasn't her own prickled at her skin. It lasted a moment that was just short enough for Martha not to notice before he was grinning again, bouncing on his toes like the moment had never happened.

“Ah, there's plenty of other places,” he said brightly dismissively, dancing around the console with all his usual enthusiasm.

“Come _on_ , though,” Martha argued, stepping closer to the alien who just carried on flying his ship. “I mean, planet of the Time Lords. That's _got_ to be worth a look. What's it like?” she asked eagerly.

“Maybe we shouldn't-” Hartley began to say, measured and wary.

“Well, it's beautiful, yeah,” the Doctor spoke over her, and she turned to look at him in surprise. He was wearing a frown, brow furrowed down at the console. There was pain in his eyes, and Hartley wondered how Martha couldn't look at him without seeing it.

Maybe it was that she just didn't _want_ to.

“Is it like, you know, outer space cities, all spires and stuff?” she continued blithely, stepping away from him with a faraway look, just imagining the planet of the Time Lords. Hartley had wondered about it too, wondered what the place was like that had made the Doctor who he was – but she'd never been brave enough to ask him, too afraid of what damage she might cause if she did.

“I suppose it is,” the Doctor said noncommittally, feigning attention on the console.

“Great big _temples_ and _cathedrals_!” she mused, heedless of the impact her words were having.

“Yeah.”

“Lots of planets in the sky?”

Hartley wanted to bring a stop to the train of thought, stop the Doctor from hurting at her words, but suddenly the look in his eyes wasn't one of guilt-ridden agony but rather a thoughtful nostalgia. He gave up the pretence of flying his ship, instead looking up to the arched ceiling of the console room, expression wistful in a way that made Hartley's heart bleed.

“The sky's a burnt orange, with the Citadel enclosed in a mighty glass dome, shining under the twin suns,” he began to tell them, a heartbreaking kind of yearning in his voice that had Hartley's eyes burning with tears. He turned his head in her direction but his eyes never strayed from above, where she knew they weren't just seeing the ceiling of the TARDIS but something else altogether, something she never, ever could. “Beyond that, the mountains go on forever. Slopes of deep red grass, capped with snow...” he trailed off quietly.

Hartley wanted to do something, anything to help him, but before she could try Martha was speaking.

“Can we go there?” she asked, innocently oblivious.

Hartley reached up, gently curling her fingers around the Time Lord's arm, holding firmly, a silent reassurance that he wasn't alone – not really. And if she had anything to do with it, he never would be again.

“Nah,” he crowed suddenly, such an explosion of energy that both Hartley and Martha shifted backwards in surprise. Her hand slipped from his arm as he bounced wildly around the console, setting them on a course for a new destination. “Where's the fun for me? I don't want to go _home_. Instead, this is _much_ better. Year five billion and fifty-three, planet New Earth. Second hope of mankind. Fifty thousand light years from your old world, and we're slap bang in the middle of New New York. Although, technically it's the _fifteenth_ New York since the original, so it's New New New New New New New New New New New New New New York,” he chirped, pulling his coat back on and directing his human companions towards the doors.

Hartley attempted to catch his gaze, just make sure he was okay, but he stubbornly refused to meet her eyes. Disappointment curled in her gut, sadness pulling at the corners of her mouth. She wished she could help him; but even with an Empath by yours side, grief had to be dealt with alone.

“It's one of the most _dazzling_ cities ever built!” the Doctor continued brightly, pressing his hand to the small of Hartley's back, the steady weight of it bleeding through the yellow faux-leather of her jacket.

The pair were corralled out onto the new planet only to be met by a heavy downpour of rain. The smell it gave off was odd, almost apple-like, but not at all appealing – like fruit that had rotted over time.

“Oh, that's _nice_ ,” Martha cried sarcastically, flinching at the brush of the cold rain. “Time Lord version of dazzling,” she added to Hartley in an undertone.

“Nah, a bit of rain never hurt anyone,” the Doctor argued, persistently cheerful. Hartley snorted as she flipped up the hood of her jacket, protecting her face against the sleeting rain. “Come on, let's get under cover!” he called, leading them through to the mouth of the alley they'd landed in.

“Are you _sure_ we're on another planet?” Martha asked skeptically, arms wrapped around herself tightly to combat the chill of the weather.

“Of course it is!” he cried indignantly, offended by the question.

“We wouldn't lie,” Hartley rolled her eyes.

Martha frowned skeptically. “Well, it _looks_ like the same old Earth to me – on a Wednesday afternoon.”

The Doctor huffed. “Hold on, hold on,” he said, pulling out his sonic and aiming it at a nearby monitor. “Let's have a look.”

The screen flickered to life to show a pretty human woman behind a desk, looking very much like a news reporter of the twenty-first century might. “... _And the driving should be clear and easy, with fifteen extra lanes open for the New New Jersey expressway_ ,” the woman informed them in a chirpy, artificial voice.

Then the picture shifted to reveal a breathtaking city, cars flying in and out of the image, spires climbing up high into the sky.

“That's stunning,” Hartley admitted, reaching out a hand to touch the screen as if she might be able to reach through and touch the skyline, but then the screen flickered and the news reporter reappeared, telling them something uninteresting about the weather.

“Oh, _that's_ more like it,” the Doctor said primly. “That's the view we had last time. This must be the lower levels, down in the base of the tower. Some sort of under-city,” he mused, glancing upwards.

It was impossible to see anything through the torrential downpour, and the rank smell of it was beginning to make Hartley's feel woozy. Despite this, their surroundings were interesting. Sometimes to experience the real culture of a place, you had to go down to its underbelly.

“It's still cool,” she assured the Doctor, running her eyes over the immediate area.

She wasn't particularly street-smart – everything she knew she'd either learned from a book or the Doctor himself. She'd been relatively sheltered growing up in that big house full of old money. She didn't know what the real world was like; or she hadn't, until she'd started travelling. So she wasn't lying, it _was_ cool to see the city beneath the city, the kind of place people didn't usually like to talk about, or even write about in anything other than the fantasy novels she held so dear.

Martha, apparently, didn't feel quite the same. “You've brought me to the slums?” she asked, wholly unimpressed.

“ _Much_ more interesting,” he sounded defensive. “It's all cocktails and glitter up there. This is the _real_ city.”

She smirked. “You'd enjoy anything.”

“That's me. Ah, the rain's stopping,” he said as the heavy rain began to let up, slowing to nothing more than a drizzle. “Better and better,” he grinned like Christmas had come early.

“When you say last time,” Martha began as they stepped out onto the street, her eyes darting between the eccentric alien and his human companion, “was that...you two and Rose?”

The Doctor hesitated, the silence thick with tension. “Er, yeah,” he finally murmured. “Yeah, it was. Just Rose and I, though. Hartley wasn't with us for awhile in there,” he added quickly, eyes sliding across to rest on Hartley's for a moment before he looked away, almost guilty, which made Hartley wonder what exactly he had to feel guilty about.

“You're taking me to the same planets that you took her?” Martha asked carefully, tone implying that this clearly was not acceptable.

It was growing more awkward by the minute, and Hartley wrapped her own arms around her waist, the material of her jacket slick with rainwater. The air was cold against her wet skin and it made her shiver.

“What's wrong with that?” the Doctor asked, thoroughly confused.

“Nothing,” Martha shrugged. Hartley didn't need to be an Empath to spot the lie. “Just, ever heard the word _rebound_?” Martha muttered with a hint of bitterness in her heart.

Hartley didn't regret wanting Martha to come along, but the attitude they were receiving was staring to grate on her. She opened her mouth to say as much only for a piece of what looked like wall to suddenly peel back to reveal a dirty but grinning man in a stained white coat, interrupting her retort.

“Oh! You should have said. How long you been there?” he asked them in a thick Brooklyn accent. “Happy. You want Happy!” he declared brightly. It wasn't a question.

More hatches opened up all around them. Hartley stared in bewilderment as all the newly appeared people began to shout at them, holding out packets of something small and colourful. She'd always disliked salespeople and the way they pressured her into buying things she didn't need.

She looked up at the Doctor to find him frowning deeply. “No, thanks,” he told them, the words dripping with forced politeness.

“You want some Tired?!” asked one of the salespeople to Hartley's left. “Or how about a little Glee?”

She was confused, some part of her wondering whether these people somehow knew she was an Empath. Because why else would they be shouting emotions at her like a menu list? Martha, on the other hand, seemed to understand perfectly. “Are they selling drugs?” she asked, voice thin with shock.

The Doctor shook his head. “I think they're selling _moods_ ,” he finally said, lips pursed in blatant disapproval. Hartley understood now, and she couldn't help but feel the same sense of distaste at the idea.

“Same thing, isn't it?” Martha countered smartly, and Hartley couldn't help but agree with the valid point.

  
A stranger walked listlessly into view, head ducked against the mist of rain still clinging to the air. Her sudden appearance made Hartley stop, peering at the newcomer with concern lacing her insides. The way her young shoulders we slumped made Hartley sad, not to mention the waves of grief that were rolling off her like a bad smell.

All the merchants began to shout over one another in a desperate attempt to gain the woman's business. The newcomer looked uncertainly between the stalls before floating over to the one closest to the trio of curious travellers.

“And what can I get you, my love?” the woman behind the counter asked, her tone sugary sweet.

“I want to buy Forget,” the stranger replied, thready at best.

“I've got Forget, my darling. What strength? How much do you want forgetting?” the merchant asked keenly. Hartley tried to piece together what was happening. Forget wasn't an emotion – and the realisation of what that meant made dread drop into her gut.

“It's my mother and father,” the weary woman revealed, quiet and heartbroken. “They went on the motorway.”

“Oh, that's a swine,” the merchant said, and for the first time there was a note of genuine sincerity to her saccharine voice. “Try this. Forget Forty-three,” she added, handing over something that looked like a small, black sticker. “That's two credits.”

Hartley knew the Doctor wasn't going to be able to resist sticking his nose into the situation, and she was promptly proved right. “Sorry, but hold on a minute,” he interjected, edging closer to the skittish woman. “What happened to your parents?”

“They drove off,” she said miserably.

“Yeah, but they might drive back,” he countered gently.

She was already shaking her head. “Everyone goes to the motorway in the end. I've lost them.” The pain she was feeling was almost too much for Hartley to bear. She wondered what life here must be like here, for someone so young to have such a heaviness on their heart. She thought that the weight of it threatened to crush her into nothing.

“But they can't have gone far. You could find them,” he said, innocently hopeful, and the woman looked convinced for maybe a fraction of a second before she abruptly pressed the small sticker to the side of her neck. “No, no, don't,” the Doctor begged, hand outstretched to stop her, but it was already too late.

There was a beat, and none of them were quite sure what to expect next.

Then the girl smiled, happy and unbothered, such a sharp contrast to how she'd felt only moments before. The emotions rolling from her now were different, and Hartley was surprised to find that she could tell the difference between what was genuine and what was manufactured – like the difference between acoustic and electronic music. It had a different sound – or maybe it was closer to a taste.

She felt it in a way that went beyond her physical senses; in a way that transcended logic.

“I'm sorry, what were you saying?” the young woman asked them pleasantly, blinking up at them with hazy eyes.

“Your parents,” the Doctor's voice was steely. “Your mother and father. They're on the motorway,” he reminded her tersely.

“Are they?” the nameless girl asked without so much as a glimmer of recognition in those pale eyes, “that's nice.” A few seconds ticked by, her face and heart dazed, like she'd inhaled too many chemicals, or downed an entire bottle of happy pills. “I'm sorry, I won't keep you,” she murmured before wandering off with sloppy, uncoordinated steps.

They watched her go in silence, their reactions ranging from concerned to disgusted. “So that's the human race five billion years in the future?” Martha demanded, the one towards the end of the scale, a judgemental grimace on her face. “Off their heads on chemicals?”

Hartley stared after the girl, opening her mouth to argue with Martha on her behalf, feeling herself grow protective over the poor girl. She'd felt the pain she'd been in. She was hurting, the kind of hurt that saturated your ever fibre. Knowing the strength of her pain, Hartley couldn't find it in her to blame the girl for her actions.

Only she never got far enough to say anything in the nameless girl's defence – a piercing scream rang through the alley they were stood in, and Hartley whipped around fast enough to give herself whiplash.

A man had grabbed Martha from behind, and Hartley felt his desperation like a bullet. Martha was struggling wildly in an attempt to get free while a woman stood beside them, a gun trained on the Doctor, dismay in her heart.

It had been over a year since she'd seen Jack, over a year since she'd trained with him, but her body was as lithe as ever, limber from all her activity, and with one well-aimed kick the woman was crouched, holding her bruised leg in pain, her shaky fingers still clenched tightly around the grip of her weapon.

The man she was with darted to her side, but his arm was still hooked threateningly around Martha's neck. Moving more with instinct than with knowledge Hartley leapt at him, ignoring the Doctor's shout from behind. Everyone was yelling over one another, shouting in a desperate attempt to be heard, but Hartley was only focused on saving Martha.

In that moment it was her only concern.

The man gave a cry of despair when she gripped his arm, twisting his wrist until he let Martha go. In a heartbeat the woman was on top of her, coming to her partner's aid, and a strangled yelp left Hartley's mouth as she attacked, pinning her arms uselessly to her sides.

“Let her go! You let her go this _instant_!” the Doctor was screaming, his voice full of an authority that bled swiftly into panic.

Turning in her attacker's hold, Hartley took in the Doctor's wide eyes and Martha's alarmed stare, but she had no time to do anything before she felt something smooth and cool press to her neck. There was a flush of cold through her veins before her vision went black and she slumped forwards to the ground. She was caught by a pair of strong, unfamiliar arms just as she surrendered to unconsciousness.

When she finally came to it was to the jarring sounds of gentle laughter and soft, cheerful music. Absently she smiled, her first thought that she must have fallen asleep on the couch in the recreation room again, and that the Doctor and Rose were giggling over something or other.

It was a beautiful, peaceful few moments – like her own tiny slice of self-made perfection. Such a shame it had to come to an end.

Remembering where she was and what had happened, Hartley flew upwards with a gasp, hands held out in preparation of a fight and her eyes still blurry with sleep. The laughter came to a stop but the music kept playing, something futuristic and techno with no distinguishable beat. Blinking her eyes until the blurriness faded, she was finally able to see where she'd been taken.

It wasn't what she'd been expecting: maybe a kind of creepy torture dungeon, or some kind of villain's evil lair. It ended up being neither of those things.

It was a small room, maybe about two by four metres, and it was full of the kind of survival supplies that suggested whoever these people were, they were planning to be in this room for a long time to come. Glancing up, she saw the man and the woman from the alley staring at her, trepidation in their eyes.

“Oh good,” the woman said, smiling sweetly, “you're awake.”

Hartley could only stare back at her, utterly confused. The unnamed woman neither laughed nor scowled, she just continued to stare, as if waiting for her to react. Sensing that she was going to need some prompting, Hartley cleared her throat.

“ _Where_ am I? _Who_ are you? _Why_ did you kidnap me?” she asked shortly. Her tone was steely, but she believed it to be justified.

“I'm Cheen,” the woman introduced herself, still smiling like they weren't holding Hartley against her will in a tiny room that smelt of rank oil and stale biscuits. “This is Milo,” she added warmly, reaching out to brush her hand across her partner's arm. “We're on the motorway.”

Hartley waited for one of them to elaborate but neither did, just casting one another a lovey stare across the cab of the vehicle they were in. “I have no idea what that's supposed to mean,” Hartley finally said, her frustration palpable.

The couple seemed surprised that it had to be explained, but Hartley considered it to be simple kidnapping etiquette. She had a right to know why they'd taken her. Telling her was the very least they could do.

“We just needed access to the fast lane,” Cheen began, slightly put off by the hard look in Hartley's usually-soft eyes. “We're really, really sorry about the way we had to do it,” she apologised, and Hartley's angry resolve wavered at the sincerity she felt emanating from her skin. “We were desperate.”

Hartley considered them both carefully. “So, you're _not_ going to try and harvest my organs?”

Cheen and Milo looked aghast that the thought had ever even crossed her mind. “Why would we do that when we could just buy synthetic ones?” asked Milo, genuinely confused by her question. “They're going for barely three credits, these days.”

“If you know where to look,” Cheen added, and the two smiled at one another as though it were some kind of inside joke.

Hartley was more confused than she'd been in a long time – nothing they were saying seemed to make any sense – but she figured that may have been the drugs taking their time wearing off.

She was thrown for a moment before she remembered in more detail where exactly she was in time. “Future,” she muttered to herself, “right.” She glanced back up to see the one called Cheen still. Smiling sweetly. She was making it very difficult to be angry at her. “What's the motorway?” Hartley asked with a great deal more patience than she'd had before.

Now Cheen shared a look of deep confusion with her partner. Maybe they were beginning to realise that she wasn't from around here; or maybe they just thought she was thick.

“Assume I know nothing about anything,” Hartley told them, “and start from the beginning.”

They were bewildered by the strange request but thankfully didn't argue. Milo was the one to speak, voice even and measured.

“The motorway connects the lower city to the upper city,” he began, and now that Hartley looked out the window in front of them, she realised she could see what looked like a thick, dark fog stretching out in every direction. Logic made an appearance, however, telling her that it was more likely exhaust fumes. “It's the only way to get from one to the other.”

“The only way?” Hartley asked skeptically, and Cheen nodded her head. It wasn't that she didn't believe them, but rather that she thought it was incredibly poor work on the city planner's behalf.

“Down in Pharmacy Town the fumes are only getting worse. We're running out of supplies, and food and clean water. It's no way to live. Especially not...” he trailed off, casting a look over at Cheen who smiled brightly in response.

“I'm pregnant,” she told Hartley, eyes shining with the same happiness she felt in her heart.

And suddenly Hartley understood. They did what they did out of desperation, out of a longing for a better life for their child. How could she blame them for that? Maybe their methods were wrong – okay, they definitely were – but she had to remind herself that this wasn't her Earth or her time. Different reactions were necessary in different circumstances; she knew that better than most.

Her demeanour changed, the tension melting out of her muscles. She sagged against the back of Cheen's chair, giving a smile that suddenly wasn't so forced. “How far along?” she couldn't help but, falling prey to her compassionate nature once again.

“Only a month, and we just found out last week,” Cheen replied, one hand resting tenderly over her still-flat stomach. “Scan says it'll be a boy,” she revealed in a whisper, like it were a carefully guarded secret.

Hartley smiled. “That's wonderful,” she said sincerely. “Congratulations.”

Cheen smiled and Hartley suddenly recognised the unmistakeable glow of pregnancy. Her skin seemed to shine and her eyes twinkled with the spark of new life. Milo looked across at his beloved with warm, adoring eyes, Hartley knew then that this child would be the luckiest kid on New Earth if he was going to have these two as his parents.

“You're a lot more agreeable now that you know about the baby,” Cheen laughed lightly.

Hartley stood up self-consciously. Now that the tension in the air had been broken, however, she found it impossible to reclaim.

“I guess I'm just a sucker for babies,” she admitted grudgingly as she peered out into the grey clouds around them. And it was true, kids had always been something of a weakness for her. They were innocent in all they did – and it helped that they were so damn adorable, too.

Looking at Cheen, Hartley suddenly felt like she owed it to her to be honest. “My friend – the Doctor, he's called – he's going to come for me,” she told them, knowing in her heart it was true. “He'll find me, no matter what. And he won't be happy when he does.”

The couple before her exchanged a pitying sort of look that made Hartley frown. “He can try,” Milo said quietly. It wasn't any kind of threat but instead rather a simple truth, and Hartley found herself unable to hate him for it.

“But anyway,” interjected Cheen, cheerful as could be, “as soon as we get to Brooklyn, we'll drop you off and you can go find your friends.”

Hartley relaxed, shoulders drooping from their previous tensed position. It sounded far too good to be true – after all, how many kidnapping stories had she heard that went as smoothly as this was? “Seriously?” she asked, is if it were a foolproof way to make sure. Cheen nodded emphatically.

“I swear it,” she promised. Hartley leaned against the back of her chair once more.

Though their methods could have used some polishing, she couldn't be mad at the couple for what they'd done. They had a child to provide for, and Hartley wouldn't have wanted to raise her baby back in that crack-den of an alleyway, either.

“I never asked,” Cheen added suddenly. “What's your name?”

She paused, briefly considering lying before realising how stupendously paranoid that was of her. What were they going to be able to do with her _name_? It wasn't like she was giving them her bank password.

“Hartley,” she finally said, and Cheen gave a gentle smile.

“That's a beautiful name.”

They lapsed back into silence, but Hartley didn't like the quiet; wasn't comfortable enough with the pair to be left sitting without words.

“How far've we got to go then?” she asked conversationally, intent on keeping the mood light. She couldn't see anything outside to tell where they were, and it barely felt like they were moving. She supposed that was what it was like to own a car in New New York, however, inertial dampeners and all.

“Only ten miles,” Milo told her brightly.

“Great,” Hartley smiled back, finding it took less effort than expected. “Shouldn't be more than fifteen minutes, then, yeah?” The couple exchanged another one of those horrible, pitying glances. “Oh no,” she muttered, “it isn't rush hour, is it?”

“Where're you from, exactly?” Cheen asked, but there was something behind the casual question, an answer Hartley didn't want to consider.

“Wouldn't believe me if I told you,” she replied evenly. Or, considering this was billions of years in the future, maybe they were far more comfortable with the idea of time travel than they were back in twenty-first century England. Still, she stood by her reply – the Doctor tended not to like bringing up the whole 'travellers-of-time-and-space' thing; he said it caused too much trouble.

Best to remain unnoticed and overlooked by the masses. Made it easier to move around freely, he said.

“How mysterious,” Cheen joked.

But Hartley wasn't in anything of a joking mood. “Go on then,” she said, nodding her head in the direction of the cloudy path before them. “How long? Can't be more than a few hours at the most, yeah?”

“Well, with you here qualifying us for the fast lane, we should be there in about, oh...” he trailed off as if doing complicated sums in his head, “six years?”

Hartley froze, blinked, then blinked again. “Sorry, what?” she asked, staring at them hollowly as she tried desperately to understand, to convince herself that maybe she'd heard wrong.

“Lots of people want to get to the upper city,” Cheen shrugged, her hands still covering her middle protectively.

“Are you telling me we're not even _moving_?” Hartley demanded, incredulous.

“But not many can afford a third passenger,” Milo continued as though she wasn't stunned into horrified silence behind him, “so it's empty down there in the fast lane – it's below all the other traffic, you see.”

Hartley could only gape at him, but neither he nor Cheen seemed to notice. “We stocked up for the journey,” Cheen was saying blithely. “Got self-replicating fuel, muscle stimulants for exercise, and there's a chemical toilet at the back. And all waste products are recycled as food.”

“Remind me _never_ to eat anything here,” Hartley muttered, but the sound was distant even to her own ears.

“You okay?” Cheen asked her sympathetically, reaching out a hand to grasp her own, squeezing reassuringly.

Hartley knew she was probably bone white by now. Was there really _no_ way to get out? No way to find the Doctor? It wasn't like she aged, or could even die, so she wasn't physically in any danger – but the question had to be asked: how long would the Doctor wait? A while, she'd like to believe, but certainly not _six years_. Then what would she do? Live in New New York, never to see him or Martha or anyone she loved ever again?

“Oh, another gap,” Milo said suddenly, startling her from her spiralling thoughts. “This is brilliant,” he grinned, seemingly oblivious to Hartley's internal panic.

“ _Car sign in_ ,” the computer droned in a feminine but robotic voice.

“Car Four Six Five Diamond Six, on descent to fast lane, thank you very much,” he smiled like he'd just won the lottery. Cheen shared the expression with every bit as much enthusiasm, and Hartley stared at them some more.

“ _Please drive safely_ ,” the automated voice said again. Hartley's stomach swooped as they began to drop, descending lower and lower into the cloud of fumes encompassing the motorway.

They moved ever lower, Milo and Cheen giant balls of eager anticipation. But their excitement was quickly drained away as the further down they travelled, the louder the sounds around them seemed to become.

It was a growling noise that enveloped them entirely, the volume of it rattling the frame of the car. Suddenly it seemed less like a vehicle and more like a tiny, tin coffin. Hartley gripped the back of Cheen's chair, knuckles turning an off-white.

“What in the Dickens is that?” she asked, her voice thin with false calm. There was another roar from all around them, and her ears rang with the sound.

“It's that noise, isn't it?” Cheen asked Milo shakily. “It's like Kate said. The stories, they're true.”

“It's the sound of the air vents. That's all,” Milo tried to cut off that vine of thought before it could grow roots. “The exhaust fumes travel down, so at the base of the tunnel they've got air vents,” he explained as rationally as he could.

Hartley wasn't convinced, and it seemed neither was Cheen.

“No, but the stories are much better,” she said eagerly. Mile groaned in frustration, but this only seemed to egg her on further. “They say people go _missing_ on the motorway,” Cheen turned to Hartley with a small smirk on her face, like someone telling a ghost story in the dark. “Some cars just vanish, never to be seen again – because there's something _living_ down there in the smoke. Something huge and hungry. And if you get lost on the road, it's waiting for you...” she trailed off ominously.

For the briefest of seconds Hartley felt genuinely scared, like it was all true and they were going to die and _did_ her immortality cover mastication by massive fume monster?

“What's your job, chief dramatist?” she asked with a grin to cover her falter. Nobody in the whole of this universe would understand the inside joke – nobody except the Doctor. Suddenly with every fibre of her being she wished he were there with her.

She wanted to believe he was searching for her – in fact she _did_ believe it, even in spite of that horrible little voice whispering in her head. They'd come so far, and she wasn't about to go back to thinking he didn't care. Never again; because she knew better now.

Even still, finding her in all this mess seemed an awfully arduous task. Perhaps the universe would take sympathy and reunite them in its usual passive-aggressive, tunnel-of-golden-time-energy way.

“But like I said,” Milo said decisively. “Air vents. Going down to the next layer,” he announced, grabbing the controls and angling down into what felt disturbingly like the belly of the beast.

The descended down into the dark, and Hartley thought that, had their first meeting not been a kidnapping, she might have taken a bigger shine to the young couple before her.

She was just opening her mouth to ask if they had any non-recycled water when she felt something brush by her. It wasn't necessarily a physical thing, more like a prodding at her head, a whisper in her mind, or a nudge at her brain. Gasping at the sensation, Hartley instinctively turned away from Cheen and Milo to stare unseeingly at the floor as she waited anxiously for it to happen again.

The feeling had been familiar, in an odd sort of way, and she found herself almost _hoping_ it would be stronger the next time.

A minute passed before it happened once more; the brush of another consciousness, the soundless whisper of her name. She latched onto the presence, vaguely aware of how fast her heart was beating.

“Who's that, then?” a voice asked conversationally, and it took Hartley a second to realise it had been said by Cheen and not the unnamed presence in her head.

“Hm?” she looked up, blinking the haze from her eyes.

“Jack,” Cheen said patiently.

“Jack?” Hartley echoed in shock. How did Cheen know that name? Why bring it up now?

Cheen was utterly oblivious to her silent shock. “You said his name,” she simply said, and Hartley blinked in surprise.

“Did I?” she asked, wondering why she did that. She hadn't remembered saying his name, either, almost like it had been thoughtless; something born of instinct rather than intent.

Cheen just continued to smile at her, patiently awaiting an answer. Hartley supposed there really wasn't much more to do besides talk within the limited confines of their small vehicle.

“He's my brother,” she told Cheen quietly, turning back to face them both properly and leaning her weight against the back of Cheen's chair once more.

Cheen smiled peacefully. “Are you two close?”

“Very,” she nodded, thinking of the handsome immortal – the _only_ other person in the entirety of time and space that was like her – with a warm, familial fondness.

“Do you see him often?” Cheen asked casually, one hand stroking her belly unthinkingly.

Hartley looked away, pretending the question didn't make her eyes sting. “Not in a long time,” she admitted, sadness trickling through her veins like cool water from a faucet, uncomfortable but somehow soothing in its familiarity. Sadness was good like that; it was predictable. The only sure thing in an unstable world.

They faded back into a silence more comfortable than Hartley had expected, but it wasn't long before they could all make out the sounds of something in the distance. It wasn't the hungry snarling of whatever lay waiting in the shadows, but instead a musical humming that took her by surprise.

“What's that?” she asked Milo and Cheen, peering out the window in an attempt to spot the source. It was pointless, the fumes so thick and dark that it was like looking into death itself. And she would know.

“It's the song of our people,” Milo told her as the melody grew louder, until finally it was all around them. It was as if every single person in every single car were singing the same tune, the sound enhanced enough that Hartley could just make out the words. They were haunting and sad, but at the same time filled with a sort of hope that struck a chord within the immortal traveller.

The song sweet, powerful came to an end, the final note ringing out with a timeless beauty that left Hartley feeling humbled, and a quote came to her, as one always did.

“ _Hope is being able to see that there is light despite all of the darkness_ ,” she said, her voice loud in the suddenly silent void. The couple turned around to look at her curiously. “Just something a wise man once said,” she explained meekly, and they smiled softly, equally touched by the words, before turning back to the shrouded road.

“ _Fast lane access granted. Please drive safely_.”

The sound of the computer distracted them and Hartley look down at the screen, watching the number of their car drift down into the designated lane.

“We made it,” Milo's smile could have broken hearts. “The fast lane,” he said with the sort of reverence people usually reserved for their higher power. With another swoop the car began to angle downward, heading for the very bottom of the motorway. The couple exchanged wide, happy grins, eager as they began to drive through the mucky clouds obstructing their view. “Now all we have to do is turn off into-” Milo's voice was cut off by the unemotional chime of the computer.

“ _Brooklyn turnoff one, closed_.”

There was a pregnant pause filled with concern and awkward tension. Nobody seemed to know quite what to say.

“Try the next one,” Cheen whispered, the desperation she felt leaking into her voice.

Milo tried to turn off at the next turnoff, only to be stopped by the computers robotic voice. “ _Brooklyn turnoff two, closed_.”

Silence again, and whatever was down in the dark was making those sounds again, the metal car around them trembling with its thunderous roar. “What happens now?” Hartley asked warily, eyeing the monitor, half expecting it to yell at her for asking.

“We'll keep going round. We'll do the whole loop, and by the time we come back round, they'll be open,” Milo said with shaky reassurance, but neither woman believed him. Hartley doubted he even believed himself.

From below them there was another guttural growl, and yet again the force of it rattled the little tin can they were suspended within.

“What the hell is that?” Cheen demanded shrilly.

Milo swallowed, loud in the small space they were locked in. “It's just the hydraulics,” he said, utterly unconvincing.

“It sounds alive _,_ ” Hartley disagreed just as the car gave another heart-stopping shudder.

Milo turned around in his seat to frown at her. “It's all exhaust fumes out there,” he argued stubbornly. She wondered if maybe the denial made him feel safer. “Nothing could breathe in that.”

“But not everything in this universe needs to _breathe_ to be _alive_ ,” she countered without missing a beat. But the debate could last no longer, the metal they were encased in rattling, a haunting groan echoing from all around them. It was the kind of thunderous noise that could only come from something very, very big.

“ _Calling Car four six five diamond six! Repeat, calling Car four six five diamond six!_ ” a new voice poured from the radio. Everyone in the car flinched as it cut through the tense air.

“This is Car four six five diamond six. Who's that? Where are you?” Milo answered the call swiftly, and the desperation in his voice was impossible to miss.

“ _I'm in the fast lane, about fifty yards behind_ ,” answered the voice.

Out of instinct Hartley looked behind her, only to realise there was no rear window. Even if there was, though, what good would it do when they were surrounded by black fumes? She wondered how this could be allowed to go on – surely someone up above would have done something about this by now?

“ _Can you get back up? Can you get off the fast lane?_ ” asked the voice urgently.

“We only have permission to go down,” Milo shouted back in an effort to be heard over the piercing roars of whatever lay in the dark beneath them. Hartley's mind was scrambling for an answer, searching for an explanation, some monster she knew to exist that could cause those kinds of sounds, that could cause such fear and destruction. “We need The Brooklyn Flyover!”

“ _It's closed_ ,” cried the faceless voice. “ _Go back up_!”

“We can't. We'll just go round,” Milo tried to say.

“ _Don't you understand? They're_ closed _. They're_ always _closed_!” she yelled at them, her voice rattling with static across the channel. “ _We're stuck down here, and there's something else out there in the fog! Can't you hear it_?”

There was another shuddering roar, and Hartley could feel Cheen's terror even without the sound of her small sobs bouncing around the cab like a bullet. She reached down, gripping the expectant mother's hand in her own and squeezing reassuringly.

She wanted to be able to guarantee that nothing bad would happen to them; that they were safe with her. But the fact of the matter was that she couldn't promise anything. Things were too dire, and she didn't see how they were getting out of this one without help from above. Without help from the Doctor.

“That's the air vents,” Milo was insisting stubbornly even as another rasping growl reverberated around them. But Hartley knew there weren't any air vents in the whole of space and time that made those sorts of noises.

“ _Jehovah, what are you? Some stupid kid? Get out of here_!” the voice shouted at them over the radio. Screams of horror travelled along the feed and Cheen's hands trembled violently. More screams filled the car, coming from the stranger's end.

“What was that?” Milo demanded, refusing to move his car, staring at the radio in muted horror.

“ _I can't move_!” the woman shouted frantically, terror in her accented voice. “ _They've got u_ s!”

“But what's happening?” he insisted. “ _What's_ got you?”

“ _Just_ drive _, you idiots! Get out of here_!”

Abruptly the line went dead, the cab filled with nothing but an empty, haunting static.

“Can you hear me?” Milo tried in vain to regain the connection, but it was lost. “Hello?”

Options flickered across Hartley's brain like colours in a kaleidoscope, but almost none of them were in any way feasible. She had no way of going back to rescue the people behind them, and any attempt to do so would only put the three of them in unnecessary danger, not to mention the baby growing in Cheen's stomach. She knew there was only one thing they could do, even if doing it went against every bone in her body.

“Just drive!” she shouted at Milo, who was dumbfounded by the order. “We can't help them, but we can help ourselves!” she hissed, grabbing onto his shoulder and giving him a shake. “Now _go_!”

“But-but _where_?” he stammered.

“Just straight ahead!” she yelled, shaking him again, desperate to get him moving. Finally he did as he was told, hands shaking as he put the futuristic car into gear and thrusted forwards. The vehicle gave another tremor as something slammed into its side. Hartley grabbed ahold of the back of Milo's seat, staring blindly out into their smoke-shrouded path.

“What is it?” From her other side, Cheen was a mess, tears running down her face as she gripped onto Hartley's hand like it was her tether to life. “What's out there? What is it?!” she demanded as though they could answer, growing hysterical.

Hartley tried to calm her, making the soft, shushing noises she made to frightened children, but it was lost over her frantic screams. Something smashed into the side of the car, throwing them sideways. It wasn't anything like the whimsical tossing of the TARDIS, this was violent and scary, meant to hurt, meant to _kill._

Milo pushed them faster as Cheen gave a cry of dismay, the sound shrill and full of panic.

“Go faster!” she shrieked at him.

“I'm at top speed!” he argued helplessly, one hand steering while the other tried to input something into the interactive monitor between them. Something hit them again, and Cheen gave a another scream of alarm. The hand not holding Hartley's was wrapped protectively around her stomach, as though it would do any good against such an attack, but Hartley understood, gripping her back and praying there would be a way to save them. There had to be. Surely the universe wasn't _that_ cruel.

“ _No access above_ ,” the computer droned in a plastic, cheerful voice that only infuriated Hartley further. Her pulse raced, her blood was hot with fright.

“But this is an _emergency_!” Milo bellowed at his communicator. He was ignored – if there was even anybody there to ignore him in the first place.

With a grunt he kept tapping, pulling up the number for the police. There was a beep, then, “ _thank you for your call. You have been placed on hold_.”

“What?!” Hartley shouted over Cheen's screams and the unnamed monster's hungry, deathly growls. “But they're the _police_!” she yelled, but she too was ignored.

There was another deafening bang, followed by a haunting snarl and a sharp jerk to the left. Hartley's left side slammed unforgivingly into the metal wall of the car and pain radiated down her entire body. Grunting, she righted herself, shaking off the ache from the impact.

“What would the Doctor do? What would the Doctor do?” she began to mutter to herself.

Trying her hardest to answer her own question, Hartley gripped a panicking Cheen even tighter. Telling herself to think like the Time Lord she cared for so much, she shut her eyes and tried to tune out the screams and roars around her, retreating into that one part of her mind – the new part that had only just begun to grow.

It was where she felt and understood things better than she ever had before, where she could pick up feelings in a room that weren't _hers_ to begin with.

It was there, while she was trying her hardest to find some _semblance_ of peace amongst the deafening blur of chaos, that she felt that sensation brush against her again. She latched onto it with everything she had, mentally grasping at it with all her strength and seizing hold. She refused to let go, not if there was even the slightest chance that whatever it was could save them.

_Help me,_ she begged it, feeling ridiculous for doing so, but a feeling in her gut was telling her it was their best chance at survival. And right now she'd listen to a talking chipmunk if it meant they all had a chance at getting out of this intact.

She hadn't been expecting it to work, not _really_ , but then it responded; not so much in words or even images, but rather as a half-formed idea, an answer to her problem that came without words or explanations. An instant passed, barely a tenth of a second, and she knew what they needed to do.

“Turn everything off,” she said before she had time to second-guess herself.

Milo still had enough sass in him to turn and pin her with an incredulous stare. “You've _got_ to be joking,” he told her in disbelief.

“I can't explain how I know it'll work, I just do!” she yelled as he turned his attention back to steering, shoulders taut with tension.

“Gonna need a bit more than that!” he shouted in response.

Huffing, she had no choice but to relent. “Whatever's down there, it obviously can't see through the fumes – otherwise we'd be long since dead already! Something's got to be giving us away, like the heat, or sound, or the light, or _something_!” she called, flinching when again the car was pushed off course.

A dint appearing in the metal a few inches from Hartley's head, and her mouth went dry with fear.

Immortal or not, the prospect of being eaten and digested by a giant sewer monster would be terrifying for anyone to confront.

Milo still didn't look convinced. “Maybe they're like a T-Rex or something,” she added, loud enough to be heard over the thunderous snarls below them, “and they can only see us when we're moving. Maybe if we go still, so will they!”

“What if you're wrong?” he shouted back.

“We're not exactly swimming in options right now, Milo!” she screamed back as the car was hit again. Hartley's arm twisted at a painful angle, but she kept from crying out, knowing if any damage was done it would heal itself in good time.

The car suddenly went completely and utterly silent. The lights went down, plunging them into near-darkness. The only source of light was the yellowish emergency lighting of the motorway itself, pouring in through the thick windscreen, bathing them in its eerie glow.

The menacing snarls and growls from below them slowed to a stop, the motorway drifting back into a haunting silence, leaving nothing but the sound of the three humans' heavy breathing.

“Try not to hyperventilate,” Hartley told Cheen in a barely-there whisper, the woman still clutching her hand so tightly that she was slowly beginning to lose circulation in her fingers. “It's not good for the baby.”

Cheen did her best to stop hyperventilating, but her grip on Hartley's hand never wavered. “They've stopped,” she whispered, leaning closer to the window as if to try and peer into the depths below. It was still just as dark as ever, and Hartley wondered whether they'd ever know what was really down there.

“Yeah, but they're still out there,” Milo muttered, eyeing the shadows below with angry trepidation.

“How did you think of that?” Cheen asked her, and Hartley lifted her shoulders in a vague shrug.

“Dunno,” she said with a frown. She didn't like lying but she knew the truth would be too much to believe, particularly with the day they'd all had. “I probably read it in a book. Do a lot of that – reading books.”

“Well, what are we meant to do next?” Milo asked, his worry like a stench Hartley couldn't ignore. “We've lost the aircon. If we don't switch the engines back on, we won't be able to breathe,” he told her, and she grimaced at the thought. Suffocating or death by faceless monster – she wasn't loving their options.

“How long have we got?”

“Eight minutes, maximum.”

Dropping her head onto her arm, Hartley inhaled shallowly, not wanting to use up too much air. Her heart was still hammering away within her chest but she was good at controlling her panic, forcing her body to begin calming itself using the meditation techniques she'd learnt from Jack so long ago.

“What are we going to do?” Cheen soon asked, arms curled around her stomach, skin damp with sweat and hair beginning to frizz from the heat.

“The Doctor will come,” Hartley said without thought, her head still bowed, eyes shut as she tried to relax.

“This Doctor fellow,” Cheen asked wearily, “he your beau?”

Hartley scoffed, the question as astonishing as it was preposterous. “Not even close,” she said lowly.

“You sound disappointed by that.”

“Hardly,” she argued. Cheen didn't look convinced though, smiling at her knowingly, the expression tense from the stifling fear.

“Who is he, then?” she asked, staring out into the unnatural glow of the emergency lighting.

She chewed on her answer for a few moments before replying. “He's my travelling companion,” she said, satisfied with the response, “and my closest friend.” She paused, considering it further. “He really _will_ come for me,” she told them with the utmost conviction. “He's not going to rest until I'm back by his side and every single person stuck on this damn motorway is free.”

“You really think so?” Cheen asked, a spark of long forgotten hope _finally_ appearing in her kind eyes.

“I know so.”

The hope rising within Cheen disappeared as quickly as it had come, and she sagged into her seat tiredly. “He's just a man, though. How can he do such a thing?”

“I've been travelling with him a long time,” she told them gently, a small smile curving at her cherry-balm coated lips, the taste stale after all they'd been through. “I've seen him save royals and deities and countries and planets and whole, entire solar systems. He can do that which is deemed impossible, and he can do this too. I swear it.”

“You hold a lot of faith in someone who let you get taken in the first place.” Milo said it lowly, reluctant to put his hope in such a stranger.

Hartley understood; to trust the Doctor without knowing him was a leap of faith not many would take. But she knew, like she knew the TARDIS was bigger on the inside or that the Doctor had two hearts, that it was their only shot at getting off the motorway alive, or in her case, in one piece.

“Whose fault was that, though?” she countered instead, keeping her thoughts to herself, and Milo at least had the decency to look a little ashamed.

“You saved your friend,” Cheen spoke up, curious. “That woman. We were going to take her, but you went in her place. She must mean a lot to you.”

Hartley considered the question. What did Martha mean to her, exactly? She was nice. Had a bit of an attitude, but she was young and human and thrust into an alien world like none she'd ever imagined – who could blame her for having a little culture shock?

Hartley always tried so hard to make friends, always strived to be kind above all else. She had what the experts called a compulsive need to be liked. It wasn't the healthiest of traits, and it had gotten her into unsatisfactory situations more times than she could count – but it was there nonetheless. She wanted to be Martha's friend, wanted to have a friend, period. A friend who wasn't the Doctor. She missed human companionship; missed having real, proper _friends_.

She supposed that was the price of life with the Doctor. But she'd be damned if she wouldn't try to make it work anyway.

“Only just met her, really,” she finally admitted, her voice distant, full of a thousand thoughts she didn't know how to put into words. “Don't think she likes me very much,” she added sadly, thinking back to Martha's barrage of frowns and narrow-eyed stares.

“That seems unlikely,” Cheen smiled again, the expression both exhausted and rueful. A thin sheen of sweat had begun to coat Hartley's skin. She was sticky and uncomfortable, shrugging off her jacket even though it did very little to cool her off. “This Doctor, then,” Cheen continued lightly. “How's he going to save the day, do you think?”

Hartley smiled at the doubt Cheen felt, strong and unyielding. She was humouring her, letting her have hope even when she thought there was none. It was sweet, and Hartley felt a sudden rush of warmth for her kidnappers, kind as they seemed to be.

“I've no idea. But he'll think of something,” she told them with unshakeable faith. “He always does.”

“We only have two minutes of air left,” Milo said, voice hollow as he glanced nervously over at his beloved. Hartley could feel his guilt, his self-hatred. He was blaming himself for their supposed fate. She wanted to tell him he shouldn't have been, wanted to promise him he'd done the right thing, but she didn't know how.

“Well, I for one, intend to go out fighting – not suffocating to death in a two-by-four flying car,” she told them instead, her chin raised high. She decided not to add that her 'going out' at all wasn't likely to ever _actually_ happen. She would survive the loss of air, but these two wouldn't. They were running out of precious time, and the only way Hartley saw to keep the two expectant parents safe was to start the engine back up, even if that meant risking being dinner for the unknown beast in the dark below.

“What's the alternative?” Milo countered. “Turn everything back on and get eaten by whatever's waiting down there in the darkness?”

“The Doctor will save us,” she insisted.

“I can't take that chance.”

“You have your beliefs,” she told him, voice more serious than either of them had yet to hear. “You've got hymns and songs, things that give you hope and guidance. Things that give you strength.” They stared at her and she stared back imploringly, faith unwavering in her eyes. “I have the Doctor. I've always had the Doctor. And he's not going to let me down. He just _won't_.”

The pair exchanged a long, weighty glance, careful and considering in their own silent conversation, before Milo finally gave a loud sigh and reached up to turn the power back on. Cheen reached up with shaking fingers to grasp at Hartley's hand again. The immortal gripped back with everything she had, shooting the mother-to-be a reassuring smile, one that promised everything was going to be okay.

“ _Systems back online_ ,” droned the computer and as one, all three took a deep, steadying breath. Then they began to drive.

Just like before, it was no easy journey. Cheen's screams filled the car, along with Milo's shouts as he attempted to steer them clear of trouble, even blind as he was.

Hartley was quiet for the most part, focusing on trying to remain upright and comforting Cheen with her tight grip. Still, she couldn't help but shriek in fright when something seemed to clamp down on the car itself. The walls collapsed inwards and an unknown vapour began to fill the cab from the ruptured walls surrounding them. Hartley threw herself to the floor to avoid being punctured by a piece of broken pipe.

The longer time went on, Hartley began to doubt herself more and more. _Was_ the Doctor coming to save her? Would they survive this? Was her faith misplaced? There had been a time – not even that long ago – when she'd have lost all hope long ago.

But things between her and the Doctor were changing for the better. She was beginning to believe that she mattered to him almost as much as he mattered to her. And to her that was everything.

She glanced up at the ceiling of the car, eyes wet with tears as she silently begged the Doctor to appear and save them all. _Please._

There was a flash of light on the monitor in front of them, and Hartley glanced up, expecting to find the news reporter from earlier. Only, it wasn't the woman from the newscast, but instead a beautiful, handsome, spectacular, lovely, familiar, _brilliant_ face.

Hartley cried out in pure delight, free hand punching the air in success as she stared tearfully at the Doctor's image, relief like a balm to her frayed nerves.

“ _Sorry, no Sally Calypso. She was just a hologram. My name's the Doctor_ ,” his wonderful, wonderful voice said, the tiniest hint of a smile on his lips. Hartley thought that if her heart swelled any larger it would surely choke her. “ _And this is an order. Everyone drive up. Right now. I've opened the roof of the motorway. Come on. Throttle those engines. Drive up. All of you. The whole under-city. Drive up, drive up, drive up! Fast!_ ”

Hartley very nearly wept with happiness, the sound of his voice like the best music she could have ever imagined.

“ _We've got to clear that fast lane_ ,” he was saying impatiently. “ _Drive up and get out of the way_!”

Then it was like he wasn't just speaking to a monitor anymore, it was like he was actually _looking_ at her. She knew it was impossible but she couldn't help but feel it, deep in her chest, like their eyes were meeting through the screen.

“ _Oi! Car four six five diamond six. Hartley! Drive up!_ ”

“Doctor!” Hartley shouted in delight, even knowing he couldn't hear.

“We can't go up! We'll hit the layer!” Milo argued.

“Listen to him!” Hartley yelled at the man, almost vibrating in her glee. “Drive up!”

“ _You've got access above. Now go!_ ”

And they did, they drove up and up, so fast that Hartley's stomach swooped again, but this time the sensation was welcomed – it meant they were alive. She tilted her head back when natural sunlight flooded the car, heating her from the outside in. She smiled, relief again so strong it was like a drug, and she simply let it consume her.

“It's daylight,” Cheen gasped, letting Hartley's hand go for the first time in what felt like a small eternity, and the older woman wriggled her fingers to get the feeling back into them. “Oh my God, that's the sky. The _real_ sky.”

Hartley grinned so wide it hurt, bringing her hands up to her chest where her heart was working double-time in her joy.

“ _And Car four six five diamond six, I've sent you a flight path,_ ” the Doctor added with just a _hint_ of smugness, but Hartley welcomed it, because it felt like home. “ _Come to the Senate._ ”

Hartley didn't say anything, knowing it wouldn't be heard, but she smiled at the image of the Doctor, so large and happy that she thought it must be impossible for him not to be able to, on some subconscious level, feel it.

“ _Been lost without my Heart_ ,” he added cheekily, and she couldn't help but let her head fall back as she released a loud laugh.

His image disappeared but Hartley continued to grin, turning to Milo and Cheen, who were still staring dazed and teary-eyed at the stunning, never-ending carpet of blue sky stretched out before them.

“Amazing, isn't it?” Hartley murmured. Milo wiped self consciously at his eyes before fixing his attention on steering as he directed them along the flight path set out by the Doctor.

“Best get you back to your Doctor, pronto,” he said, voice light in a way she hadn't known it could be. “It's the least we can do.”

“I can't believe this,” Cheen whispered, stupefied by how suddenly her entire world had changed.

“Your baby is going to grow up in the sun,” Hartley told her happily, and Cheen gave a half laugh, half sob of pure delight.

“That's all I've ever wanted,” she cried, and Milo looked away from their path to kiss her briefly before pulling away with a grin and continuing to steer. “What – what are you going to do now?” Cheen asked with a self-conscious sniffle, rubbing at her nose until it went a soft red. “Are you staying in the city?”

Hartley smiled a little ruefully. “No,” she told them with a shrug of her shoulders. “We'll move on. We never stop travelling, the Doctor and I.”

“Why not?”

She shrugged again. “The quiet life just isn't for us.” Cheen appeared doubtful that this could be true, but Hartley only smiled. “Thank you for bringing me back to him. I'm really glad it didn't take six years,” she added mirthfully.

Cheen grimaced apologetically, remorse leaking from her pores. “We shouldn't have taken you in the first place.”

“It all worked out in the end,” Hartley waved it off, smiling at her brightly. “But, in the future, please remember that kidnapping is _never_ the answer. This is the one and _only_ exception,” she added and Milo laughed. The car gave a tiny, gentle jolt and Hartley realised they'd landed.

“Will we ever see you again?” Cheen asked with another sniffle, hand still pressed over her barely-there bump.

Hartley smiled widely. “If I'm lucky,” she told them. Cheen's answering grin was slightly sad, but she still climbed to her feet and gathered the shorter girl in a tight, affectionate embrace. Hartley chuckled, holding tight and rubbing her hand up and down her back. “You're going to be an amazing mother, Cheen,” she assured her, and the woman pulled back, eyes still teary.

“We'll name him Hartley,” she promised. Hartley's face flushed pink and Milo laughed at her expense.

“Don't be silly,” she said with a shy huff. “There're plenty better names out there than 'Hartley'.”

“Nah,” Milo said, reaching out to slap her gently on the shoulder, filling her with a sense of warm camaraderie. “Hartley's a great name.”

She grinned at him, watching as an emotional Cheen wiped at her eyes again. “Go on, then,” she prompted her, pushing at the traveller's chest impatiently. “Go back to your Doctor.”

“Yeah,” Hartley agreed with a grin. “I think I will.”

Milo threw open the door and Hartley stepped out onto the floor of a building. She turned back to look at the young couple to see them grinning with glee. She was filled with such a sense of hope for the pair that all she could do was smile, blowing them a large kiss as they shut the door and took off again, disappearing within moments. Hartley sincerely hoped they _would_ see one another again, one day, somehow.

Now, standing alone in the middle of a room without a roof, she wasn't sure where to go. Cocking her head, she could just make out the sound of soft voices filtering through a door to the right and turned, moving slowly in that direction.

“Doctor?!” she shouted, hoping they'd landed on the right building – however else would she find him again?

“Hartley?!” the Doctor's voice answered her, and she gasped, speeding up until she was practically tripping around the corner, coming to a rearing stop. Finally she laid eyes on the Doctor in person; he was already rushing towards her, his chucks slapping against the dusty marble floor.

She was swept up in his hug much like she might have been swept up by a wave in the ocean. He encompassed her, wrapping his lanky arms firmly around her middle and hefting her up into the air. Helpless to do anything but hold on tight, she let out a pealing laugh as he swung her around in delight, her face tucked into the junction of his shoulder, breathing in his scent of marmalade and motor oil.

“You're okay!” he shouted in her ear, swinging her around one more time before setting her back on her feet. His hands were gripping her hips, but as he pulled back he brought them up to her face, cupping her cheeks in his large hands, long fingers splayed against her warm cheeks. A bright grin sat on his face, like nothing had ever elated him quite as much as her getting back to him in one piece.

“'Course I am,” she said, trying not to sound like the way he was smiling at her was stealing the very breath from her lungs. “I'm always okay. You know that,” she reminded him, tapping her finger against his chest playfully.

His smile faltered, and then he was looking at her with less elation and more concern. “The fact you can't _actually_ die doesn't matter,” he told her in a low voice, the words creating a bubble around them. In that moment it was only them in the world, every other person on that planet might as well have been invisible. “You can still be not okay,” he said, soft and sincere.

His words melted her insides and she reached up to where his warm hands were still cupping her face, grabbing onto them, threading her fingers through his and holding on tight.

“They said it would be six years before I saw you again,” she told him in a near whisper, staring up into his bright, warm brown eyes and just allowing herself to _feel_. He was exuding happiness and relief, the strength of which nearly brought her to tears. “The thought of waiting that long _again_...”

“But look at us,” he crowed suddenly, pulling away from her face to instead twist their fingers together, letting their connected hands swing between them exuberantly, “we found each other again.”

“As we always will,” she vowed, and his smile grew to an almost painful intensity before someone interrupted with the clearing of a throat. Hartley reluctantly let go of the Doctor's hand, turning to see who it was.

Martha was standing nearby, her arms crossed and staring at them with wide eyes.

“Martha!” Hartley danced away from the Doctor, swooping Martha up into a tight embrace. The medical student seemed to relax under her touch, muscles unclenching as she squeezed her back. “You all right?” she asked into her new friend's shoulder, pulling back to look over her in concern.

“ _Me_?” Martha asked, pitchy and incredulous. “You're the one who saved me from those people! You sacrificed yourself for me, Hartley, and I haven't even been...” she trailed off uncertainly, the weight of the unsaid heavy on them both, but Hartley only smiled, squeezing her shoulder reassuringly.

“Don't mention it,” she told Martha easily. She opened her mouth to ask what had happened during their time apart, but was interrupted by a word that wasn't spoken aloud, but rather inside her head, familiar in an unexpected way.

“ _Hartley..._ ”

Spinning around in a rush, Hartley gasped at the sight of the Face of Boe laying on the floor, surrounded by the shards of broken glass from his smashed container. His large, ancient eyes were drooped with exhaustion, and she felt a pull of pain at her insides.

“Face of Boe,” she rushed to his side, dropping down into the dust on the floor to his left. She held out her hands as if to touch him but stopped, suddenly unsure whether that would be allowed.

A half cat, half human alien dressed in nurses' gear was knelt beside him, pain and concern warring in her heart.

The Doctor reappeared, crouching on the dusty ground beside her. Hartley mirrored his stance, the marble floor cold through the thin material of her jeans. She stared at the the Face of Boe with sad concern.

“My lord gave his life to save the city, and now he's dying,” the nurse on his other side said, her voice shaky with emotion.

Eyes turning misty from the force of the cat's sadness, Hartley twisted her hands together in her lap, staring at Boe's face with sorrow.

“No, don't say that,” the Doctor muttered in a forced state of cheery denial. “Not old Boe. Plenty of life left.”

“ _It's good to breathe the air once more_ ,” Boe's deep, lilting voice said from inside their heads. The feeling of it was warm, the same brush of a presence she'd felt down on the motorway when they'd been an inch away from death.

“It was you, wasn't it?” she asked him softly, holding a hand up to her throat in her surprise. “You saved us.” The Doctor was staring at her in surprise but she couldn't look away from Boe, his thin eyes slowly closing before painstakingly opening again, like it took everything he had just to blink. “How did you know I was in trouble?”

“ _You reached out to me_ ,” he breathed into her mind. “ _I wasn't sure you yet knew how, but you always do surprise me, even now, at the very end_.”

Hartley stared at him, still baffled by the way he spoke to her, as if they knew one another as well as any two people could.

“But, I didn't mean to,” she said faintly. There was a soft chuckling in her head. It was a gentle sound, relaxing and familiar in a way she couldn't understand.

“Who is he?” Martha asked them quietly, confused by the conversation taking place.

The Doctor didn't say anything for a long moment, staring at Boe, before he looked up at Martha, and Hartley saw the tiniest glint of glassiness to his eyes.

“I don't even know,” he finally admitted. “Legend says the Face of Boe has lived for _billions_ of years.” He looked at the being himself. “Isn't that right? And you're not about to give up now.”

“ _Everything has its time_ ,” he told them, and even his inner voice was crackled and aged. “ _You know that, my old friends, better than most_ ,” he added, large eyes rolling towards them from inside his head.

“The legend says more,” the nurse interjected ominously.

The Doctor's gaze snapped up to pin her with a glare. “Don't,” he said sternly. “There's no need for that.”

“It says that the Face of Boe will speak his final secret to a traveller,” she continued without heed for the Doctor's ire.

This was news to Hartley, something the Doctor hadn't told her before, but she couldn't take it in; not when Boe was dying right before their very eyes.

“Yeah, but not yet,” the Doctor's voice was hard, refusing to listen. He did so hate endings. “Who needs secrets, eh?”

“ _I have seen so much. Perhaps too much_ ,” Boe told them in his weak, wispy voice. “ _I am the last of my kind, as you are the last of yours, Doctor_.”

The Doctor's eyes were wet with emotion, and Hartley's were stinging too. Tears threatened to spill over at any moment, and she leant into the Doctor's side, curling her arm through his and resting her temple on his shoulder, seeking his comfort. They both stared at Boe with deep, wretched sorrow.

“That's why we have to survive,” the Doctor said, not leaning into Hartley's comfort but not pulling away from it either. “Both of us,” he said, imploring and hopeful. “Don't go,” he begged rawly, and Hartley felt her heart ache with his pain and her own.

“ _I must_ ,” Boe said tiredly. “ _My dearest_ _Hartley,_ ” he added softly, surprising her with the emotion held within his telepathic voice, “ _you_ are _the Heart. Never doubt that_.”

She didn't really understand what it meant but she pressed her lips together to keep the emotion from bubbling out as she nodded her head obediently. Suddenly it didn't matter if it were somehow inappropriate, she lifted a hand and pressed it against his lined face. His skin was dry and cracked under her touch, but he seemed to sink into it like it were a welcome move, so she didn't pull away. He deserved comfort in his final moments; and she knew it was all she could give.

“ _And know this, Time Lord,_ ” Boe said bracingly, then opened his mouth, the next words spoken aloud for the first time since they'd met. “You are not alone,” he told him, eyelids sliding shut as he exhaled for the last time.

His nurse began to weep, crouching down and pressing her furry head to Boe's still face, mourning the loss of her charge. Hartley sniffled and felt an arm wrap around her, pulling her to her feet. She relaxed into the Doctor's hold, wrapping her own arms around his middle, clutching him tightly.

As he held her she began to cry harder, more heavily than she could remember crying for a long time, her body wracked with sobs.

She felt Boe's loss as though they'd been close, not just someone she'd met once in passing on a viewing deck at the end of the world. Back then she'd felt a connection, and he'd told her himself that they were more than she could understand at the time – that they were _family_.

How did that work? Would she meet him one day, sometime earlier in his time stream, and live with the knowledge that this was how he died? How was that fair? Nobody should have ever had to bear that burden.

It didn't matter, not really, not in that moment. In that moment all she knew was the pain of losing him, such an ancient, kind being, who she felt deserved more. She wondered suddenly if _they_ were the people he'd have chosen to be surrounded by when he died, if he'd had the choice?

She found it hard to imagine they were.

* * *

After Boe's burial they stuck around an extra hour or two to get the nurse – Novice Hame – settled and safe as head of the new city rebuild, and then they wandered back down into the bowels of the city, the Doctor leading them back to the TARDIS.

“All closed down,” the Doctor called out as they walked, noting that all the stalls were now abandoned, devoid of activity. Everybody was now up rebuilding their lives in the upper city. Even though Hartley's eyes were still red from crying, she was filled with a contentment at knowing they'd helped all these thousands of people start afresh.

She'd left her jacket in Cheen and Milo's car so the Doctor had given her his overcoat to keep warm in the damp under-city. It smelt strangely of cat – which he told her not to worry about – and she curled into its warmth, the ends brushing the ground with her short stature, but the Doctor didn't seem to mind if it got dirty.

“Happy?” Martha asked the Doctor, an amused smile playing on her lips.

“Happy happy,” he grinned back widely. “New New York can start again. And they've got Novice Hame. Just what every city needs – cats in charge,” he added in a playful sneer. Hartley managed a smile; he never was much of a cat person. “Come on, time we were off,” he said, jerking his head towards the TARDIS, which sat tall and brilliantly blue in the distance.

The sight of it warmed Hartley from the inside and she snuggled deeper into the Doctor's coat, following him towards it like a beacon in the damp bowels of New New York.

It had been a long and difficult day. The warmth and safety that the TARDIS offered was more valuable than anything else in that moment, and she shuffled on faster, eager to make herself some tea and curl up in the library.

“But what did he mean, the Face of Boe?” Martha called out from behind them, and the Doctor stopped, turning back to frown at her. “ _You're not alone_ ,” she recalled with a puzzled frown. Hartley reluctantly stopped walking, turning to look at her curiously.

The Doctor took a moment to glance down at Hartley who met his stare with pursed lips and questioning eyes. She wanted to know too. Boe's words had been cryptic at best, and if she wasn't so tired she'd press for more. She always did love a puzzle, and this one seemed to be more important than most.

“I don't know,” the Doctor answered her honestly, shoving his hands into the deep pockets of his trousers and rocking back on his heels.

“You've got me,” Martha said, stepping closer, and Hartley _felt_ the Doctor tense up. “Is that what he meant?” she asked keenly. Hartley felt her hope like a torch, burning in her gut. It was sad, and although Hartley wasn't the type to feel pity, she suddenly came awfully close.

The Doctor smiled, but the expression was off. “I don't think so,” he replied, gentle and patient. Despite his care it still made Martha's smile dim with disappointment. “Sorry,” he added softly, but she just looked away. Hartley wondered exactly what it was about the exchange that made her stomach twist with unease.

“Then, what?” Martha pressed, intent on answers. Hartley was learning that about Martha Jones; she didn't stop until she got what she needed, particularly if it involved answers of some kind.

“Doesn't matter,” the Doctor shrugged as though he didn't care. His emotions were carefully sealed away behind an impenetrable wall where she couldn't reach, but she knew instinctively that that was anything but true. “Back to the TARDIS, off we go,” he said flippantly, strolling off towards their mobile home like it were any other walk through the garden.

Hartley paused, torn in between an unmoving Martha and an oblivious Doctor, looking between them both uncertainly. The human to her left picked up a chair, brushing it off and taking a seat. She crossed her arms and legs then stared across at the Time Lord defiantly. He finally noticed that neither woman was following him and turned back around, squinting at the pair of them in confusion.

“Oh, right – are you staying?” he asked, dry and sarcastic.

“Till you talk to me properly, yes,” Martha insisted, full of stubborn impatience. The Doctor's eyes shifted to Hartley, who knew then that she had to agree with Martha. She took a wary step back and picked up another chair, dusting it off so she wouldn't muck up his coat and settling down onto it, ankles crossed beneath her daintily.

She already knew what the Doctor was going to say, knew all about his planet and people and the war that wiped them out. But he'd been lying to Martha this whole time, lying about everything, because through his lie the illusion could remain firm – the false idea that his people were still around, just waiting for him to go back home.

But he never, ever could. And it just about killed him.

“He said last of your kind,” Martha recalled primly. Hartley had to admire her courage, standing up to the Doctor in such a way. The alien could be intimidating when he wanted to be, closed off and stubborn when deemed necessary. It took a lot of guts to stand up and demand what he wouldn't willingly give. “What does that mean?” she pressed sternly.

“It really doesn't matter,” he insisted, turning his frown onto Hartley as though she might convince Martha to let up. But instead she remained defiant. This wasn't for Martha's benefit – Martha wasn't owed these answers, these secrets the Doctor held dear – but instead it was for the Doctor's own good. He couldn't keep running, lying to himself and everyone else. He needed to stand firm or he'd be swept beneath the current of his own grief.

“You don't _talk._ You never _say,_ ” Martha said firmly, beginning to grow agitated by his thread lies. “Why not?”

The sound of a beautiful, low melody trickled down through the buildings and fog above them. It was beautiful, haunting but somehow also full of such _hope._ Hartley stared upwards as if she might be able to see the people singing, her eyes glassy once more as she felt humbled by what she was witnessing.

“It's the city,” Martha gasped, looking up as well. “They're singing.”

A small crack appeared in the Doctor's steel wall, a sliver of pain leaking out. Hartley caught hold of it, turning to look at him with her big, sad eyes. She leant forwards on her dirty, uncomfortable chair, catching his gaze.

“It's time, Doc,” she said gently, telling him nothing he didn't already know. She saw the instant he gave in, the way his shoulders slumped in surrender.

“I lied to you, because I liked it. I could pretend,” he began, and the pure pain in his voice broke Hartley's heart. She was all cried out from Boe, but still her eyes stung with sorrow for her companion. “Just for a bit, I could imagine they were still alive, underneath a burnt orange sky,” he sounded wistful, eyes far away, seeing something they never could. “I'm not just a Time Lord. I'm the _last_ of the Time Lords,” he said it with such conviction, such _truth._ “The Face of Boe was wrong. There's no one else.”

The two women were quiet, letting the words sink in.

“What happened?” Martha finally asked. The Doctor seemed to consider not answering, Hartley could see indecision warring on his face. Then he walked closer, picking up the final upturned chair and placing it in front of them both. He hesitated only a second before sitting down, resting his elbows on his knees, slumped as if drained of strength.

“There was a war,” he began, voice hollow but still full of the kind of pain she could barely fathom. So deep and endless was it that Hartley couldn't find its edges, not even with all her new empathic power. “A Time War. The _last_ Great Time War. My people fought a race called the Daleks, for the sake of all creation. And they lost. They lost. Everyone _lost_ ,” he sighed, dropping his head in defeat.

Hartley didn't hesitate. She picked up her chair, turning it around so she was positioned beside him, then she wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pressing her chin to the shoulder closest to her and just _holding_ him as he spoke.

She half expected him to brush her off, but instead he simply continued to talk, ever so slightly leaning into her touch. She was warm with the knowledge he was accepting her comfort, however small it may have been.

“They're all gone now. My family, my friends, even that sky. Oh, you should have seen it, that old planet,” his eyes glinted with reminiscence as he stared above them unseeingly. “The second sun would rise in the south, and the mountains would shine. The leaves on the trees were silver, and when they caught the light every morning, it looked like a forest on fire. When the autumn came, the breeze would blow through the branches like a song...”

And so Martha and Hartley sat in silence, listening to the old Time Lord's stories of his long since destroyed home. Hartley never once let him go, holding tightly, pressed against him in quiet support. And she knew, when he reached up and took her hand in his, that he was grateful.


	35. Sink or Swim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to another original chapter! Just for clarification, this one takes place after Daleks in Manhattan and Evolution of the Daleks, meaning I've skipped telling that one in this story. Anyways, hope you enjoy!

**SINK OR SWIM**

“ _Nothing is softer or more flexible than water,_

_yet nothing can resist it.”_

Lao Tzu

* * *

“The fact that things like Daleks actually exist in this world… I'm probably going to lose some sleep over that,” Martha admitted, snuggled into the side of the couch beside Hartley, a fluffy orange robe draped haphazardly around her shoulders.

Hartley hummed as she took a sip of her tea, burrowing under the blanket she was wrapped in. An episode of some futuristic sitcom went ignored on the television in the background.

Their adventure in New York during the 1930's had been as thrilling as it had been terrifying. The sight of the Daleks had chilled Hartley to her very core. Images of Canary Wharf floated behind her eyes, screams of the dead ringing in her ears – though no sound was louder than the sorrowful sobs of Rose as they stood on a beach, out of one another's reach, forever.

“A Dalek killed me once,” she told her Martha conversationally, rather than remain soaked in such painful memories. The Doctor was tinkering away in the console room, and they assumed he was messing with the TARDIS' thermostat as the entertainment room was growing chilly.

Martha started from beside her, nearly choking on a mouthful of her tea. “A Dalek _killed_ you?” she asked, incredulous. “But – but you're alive,” she said, eyeing Hartley like she was worried she might suddenly morph into a zombie and start moaning for brains. “Aren't you?”

“ 'Course I am,” Hartley snorted at the wariness in her voice, grinning into her own steaming mug. “I forgot you don't know.” She'd never had to start from scratch with a new companion before – she wondered if it was something she was going to have to get used to. “I'm immortal,” she said it offhandedly, as if it wasn't important.

Martha stared at her silently, not seeming to know how to respond. “You—you said the same thing, that day in the hospital on the moon,” she finally said, brow furrowed in thought. Hartley cast her mind back to that adventure, only a few short days ago. It was hard to believe they'd only known Martha a week. “I didn't believe you,” Martha said, nothing Hartley didn't already know.

“You didn't believe the Doctor was an alien, either,” Hartley reminded her with a small, cheeky grin, “and now look where we are.”

“So, you're saying you're really, _truly_ immortal _?”_ she asked carefully, eyes narrowed in skepticism.

“It's a bit of a complicated story,” she replied, cold palms cupped around the heat of her mug, taking another deep sip. “I can die, but it's never _permanent_. I always wake up, sooner or later.”

“But you're human?”

“Yeah,” she nodded with a carefree smile at Martha's reaction. Maybe starting over wasn't _all_ bad.

“So, how'd you become immortal?” she asked, and then her eyes widened in horror. “Oh God, it isn't a side-effect of travelling with the Doctor, is it?” she asked in a muted whisper.

Hartley laughed, unable to help herself. “'Course not,” she giggled, and Martha relaxed back into the couch with a sigh of relief. “Basically it's all thanks to Rose,” she began to explain, noting with curiosity that when she mentioned their previous companion's name, Martha grimaced like she smelt something bad. “She looked into the heart of the TARDIS, absorbed the power of the time vortex. A Dalek had killed me and so she brought me back to life. Only she wasn't in control and accidentally brought me back forever.”

Martha could only gape back at her, stunned.

“Like I said: complicated story,” Hartley smiled into the rim of her mug.

Martha was quiet for a few minutes, letting this sink in. “Do you age?” she finally asked, less gobsmacked and more genuinely curious. “You're not actually 500 or anything, right?” she added with a nervous chuckle.

“I stopped aging at twenty-five,” Hartley revealed with a shrug.

“And how long ago was that?”

Pausing, she realised she had to think about it. “Uh, I'm not sure,” she said, and Martha's flabbergasted look spoke volumes. “It's not so easy to keep track of time on the TARDIS,” she admitted with another lift of her shoulders. “I tried to keep track of the days for awhile there, but eventually I gave up. There's just no point.” Martha was still frowning, and it made Hartley smile. “The Doctor always knows, something about his Time Lord biology. If I'm ever curious I just have to ask him.”

“Don't you celebrate Christmas, or Easter, or birthdays?” Martha asked with that same furrowed brow. Hartley supposed it was rather odd for someone who hadn't lived on TARDIS time for as long as she had.

“Sometimes we'll land on Christmas day,” she shrugged. “The Doctor _loves_ gingerbread houses.”

“But how do you know how old you are?” Martha was stuck on the fact.

“Like I said,” she shrugged once again, “the Doctor knows. Besides, when you don't age, it doesn't really matter.”

Martha frowned contemplatively, Hartley having given her plenty of food for thought. With a near-silent rumble, the room abruptly became a few degrees warmer, and Hartley sighed her relief. Before either woman could comment on the favourable change in temperature, the Doctor himself strolled into the room, tossing a small silver ball up and down as he walked.

“If you two have finished lollygagging about,” he said derisively, casting them a look at where they were each curled on the couch.

“We only woke up a half hour ago,” Hartley told him, gesturing to their still-messy hair and flannel pyjamas.

“Well, go on then,” he prompted them impatiently, “get dressed. Places to be.”

“Oh?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow at him slowly. “I wasn't aware.”

“Well, Martha's been to the past and she's been to the future, but all of it was on Earth, or at least some variation thereof. I was thinking she should go to _real_ alien planet, just so we've covered all our bases,” he said, tossing the small, shiny ball into the air and then catching it with deft fingers.

“An actual alien planet? With real, actual aliens?” Martha asked, perking up with excitement.

“Yup,” he popped the word playfully. “What d'you say?”

“I say yes!” she grinned, sliding her mug of tea onto the coffee table and leaping to her feet.

Hartley put down her own tea, climbing to her feet and stretching her back until it popped. “Where're we going, then?” she asked, tugging at the cuffs of her sleep shirt.

“Somewhere we've never been before,” he told her giddily. “Dress comfortably!”

Martha rushed in the direction of her room, and Hartley could do nothing but follow. She quickly changed into some sturdy jeans, a teeshirt and a grey cardigan, slipping some running shoes onto her feet and making sure her phone was in her pocket before heading for the control room.

She got there before Martha, spying the Doctor at his usual place by the console. He was leaning over the controls, his glasses perched low on his nose as he read the information on the monitor. “So where are you taking us, exactly?” she asked curiously.

Apparently the Doctor hadn't heard her coming, because he practically leapt out of his skin in shock, spinning around and holding a hand to his racing hearts. Hartley laughed as he muttered something about needing to get her a bell. She took her place at the console, leaning against it with a small smile on her face, waiting patiently for an answer to her question.

“We're going somewhere I've wanted to go for a long time,” he finally told her, walking circles around the console to pilot his ship.

“Am I going to get a name?”

“Poseidon 83,” he said, giving an excited spin. “Little planet on the edge of the Milky Way Galaxy! It has thirty-seven moons and orbits two suns!”

“Poseidon?” she echoed curiously. “As in the Greek god, Poseidon?”

The Doctor was already nodding his head. “Named as such because its surface is nearly 99% water. There's very little land, so the inhabitants live on small ships – houseboats, you would call them.”

“Water?” came Martha's voice, pulling on a jacket and tugging her hair from its collar. “Please don't tell me there's going to be any swimming involved,” she begged him.

“Nah,” said the Doctor flippantly. “We'll land in the main city.”

“City?” Martha frowned in confusion.

“It floats on the water,” he told her, so gleeful that he was bouncing on his toes like an overexcited child. “I've heard they're famous for their sushi – it's Hart's favourite.”

“Ugh,” Martha made a sound of disgust. “I hate seafood.”

“I'm sure they'll have something else for you to try,” Hartley assured her.

“Ready?” the Doctor asked them eagerly from his place at the bottom of the ramp.

“Just open the doors, Spacewalker,” Hartley told him, feeling an adoration for him bubble up within her, the force of it surprising her. The Doctor threw open the doors like the host of a bad television game show, presenting the prize they'd be playing to win.

He stepped out first, a grin brimming on his lips. Hartley followed close on his heels, Martha coming up the rear. Hartley wasn't totally sure what she was expecting; maybe towering silver spires and sunlight glistening off an endless sea of water like a billion tiny little diamonds. Maybe the floor beneath their feet would rock and bob along with the current of an unending ocean. Maybe an array of aliens with aquatic qualities would be moving around the floating city, rich with culture and beauty.

None of these things, however, were what they found.

There was no water, not a drop of it anywhere in sight. For miles and miles in every direction, all the three friends could see was dry, cracked, lifeless ground. Like an endless desert, dirt and the odd rock stretched out before them. There was no city, no civilisation, no _life_ of any kind. Above them two alien suns burned bright, their fiery heat beating down on them, hot and unrelenting.

“Are you sure we're on the right planet?” Martha asked slowly, lifting a hand to her eyes to try and block out the glare.

The Doctor looked affronted. “Of course I'm sure we're on the right planet,” he said, glancing over at her with something of a pout, offended by her insinuation.

“Then, where's the water?” Hartley pressed, and the Doctor's chin flapped up and down a few times, struggling to come up with an answer. Eventually he produced his sonic, holding it up to the sky and taking a few large steps deeper into the boundless desert.

“We're definitely at the right coordinates,” he told them, narrowing his eyes at his screwdriver, frustrated. “We should be directly on top of Verity Point,” he said, glancing at them and adding for their benefit, “the absolute northern point of the city.”

Hartley heard a low creaking, and when she shifted her weight slightly it grew in volume. “Guys?” she murmured, frowning at the ground beneath their feet. So bemused by their situation were the others, they didn't seem to hear her speak.

“Can't it have moved?” Martha was asking critically, oblivious to Hartley's concern. “Floated away with the current?”

“It's anchored to its spot,” the Doctor shook his head.

“ _Guys_ ,” Hartley said again.

But the Doctor was too enveloped in the mystery to pay any attention. He spun in a wide circle, eyeing the distance like the city might appear out of thin air. “I'm telling you, we're right on top of it now––”

There was a great crack as the ground gave way beneath their feet. Hartley yelped, fruitlessly trying to find traction in the hot, empty air. They all cried out as they fell, only they weren't falling for long.

They'd dropped for only a few short metres before they hit a reservoir of cold, salty water. Hartley only just had enough time to take a sharp inhale air before the water enveloped her. She'd always been a good swimmer and very quickly began to kick her way towards the surface. Her head broke through and she reached up to push her sopping hair out of her eyes.

Across from her, Martha had also kicked her way to the surface. So had the Doctor, although he looked far more put together than Martha did, spluttering and sucking in air in her shock.

“What the bloody hell happened?” Martha asked once she'd properly cleared her airways.

“The ground collapsed,” the Doctor stated the obvious, bobbing as he treaded water, keeping himself afloat. “The surface of the planet is a crust,” he added, voice layered with intrigue, squinting up at the crust of the planet that was now acting as a sort of ceiling to them. It was about five metres above them, and in it was a massive, gaping hole, sunlight beaming through and making a patch of water within sparkle.

Hartley spun herself in a circle, legs kicking to keep herself afloat, but in every direction she looked she saw nothing but watery darkness, stretching on forever and ever.

“What are we meant to do?” Martha asked the Doctor, already beginning to shiver from the cold temperature of the water. Hartley was the same, the chill nipping at her skin, hair flat and heavy against her face. “The hole's too far up to reach!”

The Doctor squinted up at the hole above their heads. “The water's actually rising, a few centimetres per minute, I'd say,” he told them, voice frustratingly casual considering their dire circumstances.

“How could you possibly know that?”

Hartley interjected before things could get derailed. “It's usually best to just assume it's because he's too clever for his own good and move on,” she said quickly.

“I think we've triggered something by breaking the crust,” the Doctor continued on like she hadn't spoken, spinning in a circle in the water, searching for something, anything to help them out of this situation. “Good news is, the water's rising; albeit slowly. Should only be about an hour until the tide's gotten high enough for us to climb out.”

“An hour?” Martha hissed, teeth chattering. “How're we meant to keep treading water for that long? We're going to tire out. Not to mention it's freezing.”

Something occurred to Hartley and she looked down into the water, hoping to see through it. The water, however, was dark, and it was hard to see with the glare of the light from above. “Maybe there's something below us,” she suggested.

“Like what?”

“I dunno,” she tried to shrug, but it was difficult to do so while still keeping herself afloat. “Maybe at the very least some kind of explanation as to what happened here?”

“Why does that matter?” Martha asked, already beginning to sound a little breathless from the effort of treading water.

“Hartley's right,” said the Doctor, swimming circles in the water rather than staying still. Hartley knew his physiology would be able to cope with the exertion and the temperatures longer than she or Martha could. It was a small mercy in a bad situation. “The more we know, the better chance we have of getting out of here in one piece,” he said, not even out of breath.

Martha wasn't convinced. “What if there's nothing below us for miles?” she asked, playing devil's advocate.

“Only one way to find out,” Hartley replied, and Martha couldn't argue with that. “I'll swim down, see what I can find,” she offered.

But the Doctor was already shaking his head. “No, I'll go,” he said. Hartley opened her mouth to argue, but the Doctor had his reply ready to go. “My respiratory bypass system lets me hold my breath longer than you,” he reminded her, a cool voice of reason. “It makes more sense for me to be the one to go.”

She didn't like it, but she also knew there was no point debating it. In actuality, he had a point. The only plus side to her being the one to go was that she couldn't die – but that wasn't much help if there weren't any threats down there in the deep. Besides, it was probably best she stayed with Martha, made sure she was kept awake and alert.

She wasn't a doctor and didn't claim to have anything more than a rudimentary knowledge of the human body, but she knew enough to know what cold shock response was, and how dangerous it could be.

Still, the thought of letting the Doctor go down there alone was like a dagger to the heart. “How long can you hold your breath, exactly?” she asked, plainly aware she was just stalling for time in a desperate attempt to keep him safe.

“A while,” was his vague reply.

“Doctor.”

“Well, the temperature of the water and how much I'm exerting myself are factors,” he informed her primly. “I can't give an exact time, but it's longer than you ever could.”

She knew she couldn't stall forever. They had to do _something_ – there was no guarantee the water would rise quickly enough for them to climb out before they either drowned from their exhaustion or succumbed to cold shock response. Ironically, the only direction to go was down.

“Okay,” she relented, closing the few feet between herself and the Doctor, reaching out and gripping his hand in the water. “Be careful. Don't take risks.”

The Doctor laughed. “Have you met me?” he asked playfully. “That's my main thing.” She snorted, rolling her eyes and kicking backwards to give him some room. “Keep an eye on Martha,” he said, nodding in their friend's direction.

“Oi,” Martha protested, but it sounded feeble coming through her violently chattering teeth.

“I will,” Hartley promised.

The Doctor smiled at them before taking a deep gulp of air and disappearing beneath the surface of the water. Hartley and Martha were left by themselves, both women shivering with cold – Martha more so – succumbing to the temperature faster than Hartley was. She supposed that was part of her gift; she wasn't just immortal, she was also built of stronger stuff these days. It took more than a bit of cold water to send her body into shut down.

“What exactly are we hoping to find down there, again?” Martha asked, voice trembling along with her body.

“I dunno; a switch of some kind of drain the water away?” Hartley murmured distantly.

Martha snorted indelicately at the suggestion. “When are things ever that convenient?” she asked critically.

“Touché,” Hartley chuckled. “But we've seen stranger things.”

“Name three.”

Hartley looked over at Martha, wondering whether the words were serious or said in jest. She was full of desperation, and suddenly Hartley knew the truth. She could feel herself slipping and wanted Hartley to distract her in an effort to keep her alert. It was smart, and Hartley quickly obliged.

“One time my brother and I got addicted to seaweed laced with cocaine,” she blurted out the first thing that came to mind, and Martha blanched at the strange story.

“You what?”

“Yeah, it was on Neptune in the distant future,” she continued, and as uncomfortable to relive as they were, she found a strange sense of comfort in the memories. “The Doctor had to wean us off of it little by little. It was an uncomfortable few weeks, to say the least.”

“Seaweed and cocaine on Neptune,” muttered Martha in bewilderment. “Now I've heard it all.”

“I promised you three,” Hartley reminded her. “There was the time we went to the ballet in France but the performance got crashed by real cavemen.”

“Cavemen?” Martha echoed dubiously.

“Oh yeah,” Hartley laughed. “Fissure in time, letting them come through from their prehistoric land to ours. It was a mess and a half. Ended up being cyborgs from the future trying to get back home. We had to stop them from blowing up the theatre and its surrounding ten blocks.”

Martha was silent a moment. “Your life in mental,” she tried to laugh, but it came out breathy and weak as she struggled to keep herself on the surface of the water. Hartley was having similar issues, the temperature making her body numb and sluggish. “How're you gonna top that one?” Martha panted, desperate to stay conscious.

“One time we met Satan.”

Martha slipped beneath the water in her shock, then burst back up, coughing her lungs clear. “You _what_?!” she demanded shrilly.

“Yeah, true story. There was this planet in orbit around a black hole, and it turned out to be a prison for the original satan. He possessed one of the workers we met and tried to kill us all, but the Doctor managed to collapse the planet's orbit and send it into the black hole once and for all,” she said nonchalantly.

“Are you telling me the Doctor _killed Satan_?”

“He doesn't like to use the word 'killed',” Hartley replied with a tiny smile on her lips. “But yeah, basically.”

There was a sudden burst of water from her right as the Doctor re-emerged from the depths, sucking in deep lungfuls of air.

“Doctor!” Martha exclaimed.

“You all right?” Hartley pressed once he'd caught his breath.

“Yeah,” he told them, hair sticking flat to his face. It was so strange to see him without his usual spiky tufts, and Hartley suddenly couldn't wait until they were back out into the sun _just_ so he could dry off and get his usual hairdo back.

“What'd you find?” she asked instead.

“There's nothing there,” he shook his head. “I went down for ages – as far as I safely could. There's just more water.”

Hartley remembered what he'd told them – giant cities floating on the water. “Is it possible the city sank?” she asked. “The water's salty, so this is probably an ocean of some kind. Maybe it's at the very bottom.”

“But if this is an ocean, where're the waves? The current?” asked Martha breathlessly. “It's dead still.”

And she was right. There was no current or waves or movement of any kind. It was like they were in a gigantic bathtub. But that didn't make any sense.

“What in the hell happened to this planet?” Hartley wondered.

Nobody answered her, but she hadn't really been expecting them to anyway.

“How close are we to the surface now?” Martha asked the Doctor hopefully.

“Nearly a metre closer than when I went under,” he told her, and she brightened considerably. “If we can just keep ourselves afloat another twenty or so minutes we'll be able to climb out, dry off, and enjoy a cup of Hartley's hot chocolate by the fire.”

But things were rarely that easy.

“AH!” Martha screamed, flinching where she was bobbing in the water, a sudden fear thrumming in her heart that immediately put Hartley on edge.

The Doctor spun to face her, alarmed by the cry. “What?” he demanded. “What is it?”

“Something touched me!” she hissed, eyes wide with dread.

Hartley's heart dropped down into her stomach. She hadn't considered that maybe they weren't as alone in this silent ocean as they appeared to be. She felt stupid for not thinking of it sooner – if something was going to go wrong, of course _sea monster_ was next on the list of complications.

“What did it feel like?” she asked Martha quickly.

“I dunno,” Martha panted. “Big. It brushed by me.” She turned to the Doctor, panic in her eyes. “Did you see anything while you were down there?”

“Nothing,” he shook his head. “I'll go back down, see if I can spot it.”

“But what if it eats you?!”

“If it was going to eat us, it probably would have done it by now,” Hartley pointed out, doing her best to keep a level head.

“Could be like a shark,” the Doctor suggested offhandedly, like he wasn't making this situation a hundred times worse, “checking out its prey before it takes a bite.”

“You're not helping,” Hartley deadpanned, and he at least had the decency to look a little scolded.

“I'll just pop down,” he said, as if talking about going down to the corner shop for milk and not submerging himself in an alien, monster-infested sea. “See what I can spot.”

“Be careful,” Hartley warned.

“Always,” he told her, then inhaled a deep lungful of air and sank down beneath the surface.

Hartley arms and legs were starting to ache something fierce, and her lungs were burning from her panting. She was starting to get exhausted, movements turning sluggish, and even as she paddled to keep herself afloat her body was trembling, shivering in response to the icy temperature of the water.

She wasn't sure how much longer she could keep this up, but that wasn't the scary thing. She looked over at her new friend, finding Martha to be vibrating with shivers and staring wildly into the water, desperately searching for the monster that had brushed by her, terror in her heart.

“How're you doing?” Hartley asked her gently.

Martha still flinched in surprise, not having been expecting her to say anything. “F-fine,” she stammered, the sound of her teeth chattering echoing in the cavernous space above their heads.

Hartley wasn't convinced. “Getting t-tired?”

“Aren't y-you?”

“Oh yeah,” she nodded, holding up her hand up to the light streaming in from above to glance at her fingertips, which had gone numb some time ago. She hoped she wasn't going to lose any fingers thanks to this whole ordeal. She didn't imagine growing them back was going to be any fun.

“Th-think we can…we can last?” Martha's voice was trembling just as violently as her body.

“Of c-course we can,” Hartley assured her, stumbling a little over the words. Her own teeth began to click together, and her nose too had turned numb. “Let me k-know if you feel yourself losing c-consciousness,” she added quickly.

Even despite her predicament Martha managed to shoot Hartley an utterly flat expression. “I _am_ t-training to be a d-doctor, you k-know?” she said dryly. “I know the s-symptoms of c-cold shock response.”

Hartley smiled ruefully. “Sorry,” she apologised. She didn't want Martha to think she was mollycoddling her; she just couldn't help it. Martha was their guest, their _friend_ _._ She was only here because of them. It was only right that Hartley would feel protective.

“D-do you always have to m-mother e-everyone you come into c-c-contact with?” Martha gave another violent tremble.

Hartley didn't how to respond to that. She opened her mouth, unsure what was going to come out, but then she felt something huge and slimy slither past her legs. She yelped, jerking away from the sensation, heart pounding wildly in her chest.

“What?!” asked Martha shrilly.

“I felt it,” she hissed back, almost scared that if she spoke any louder the creature might reappear and swallow her whole.

The Doctor reappeared, sucking in a deep lungful of air as his head broke the surface. “D-Doctor,” Martha sighed with relief. “Did you s-see it?”

“I just felt it s-swim passed m-m-me,” Hartley added quickly.

“I saw it,” he confirmed. He wasn't trembling from head to toe like they were. Hartley supposed his cooler-then-human biology kept him from feeling the cold as strongly as they did.

“D-do you k-know what it is?” Martha stammered.

“It's a serpent of some kind, but I don't recognise the species,” he shook his head. “It's big, though; maybe half the length of a football field.”

“B-brilliant,” Hartley stuttered tiredly. The way her body was shivering was beginning to hurt, her skeleton seeming to rattle with cold.

“Hartley, your lips are turning blue,” the Doctor said, brow furrowed as his eyes flickered between the two humans, taking in their shivering states.

“S'cold,” she replied stiltedly. Looking over at Martha, she saw the younger woman's eyes slowly beginning to shut. “Doctor!” she called, suddenly more alert, jerking her head in Martha's direction.

The Doctor crossed the space between them, quickly gathering Martha in his arms, just barely managing to keep them both afloat. “Martha, you've gotta stay conscious.”

“Y-yeah, I k-k-know,” Martha stuttered, fighting to keep her eyes open.

The Doctor tilted his head back, eyes narrowing as he judged the distance between them and the lip of the crust above them. “We still have a metre and a half to go before we can reach it,” he muttered, more so to Hartley than Martha, whose head was beginning to loll with exhaustion.

“It looks h-higher than t-that,” Hartley replied, swimming closer to them both. She reached out with trembling hands, doing her best to take some of Martha's weight. It wasn't easy, but she wasn't about to let him struggle alone.

“Not if you climb on my shoulders, then reach down to pull us out,” he said like it were obvious. She supposed it was; she was just too tired and waterlogged to think of it.

Her movements had gone from sluggish to downright lethargic. The water felt thicker somehow, making it harder to move her arms and legs to tread the water and keep herself afloat.

Something moved from the corner of her eye, and Hartley turned her head in time to see the thick, cylindrical body of the serpent winding out of the water. It was black in colour, covered in slimy-looking scales that glistened in the light leaking through the hole above them. Her mouth felt dry and she swallowed thickly, not even daring to breathe. She was too afraid that any movement at all would cause it to attack.

It disappeared back into the water with a small splash, leaving her terrified and uncertain.

She turned back to the Doctor, both of them doing their best to keep Martha's limp body above the surface. “How is sh-she?” she asked him in an attempt to distract herself from the serpent coiled somewhere in the inky, icy depths below them.

“She…she's f-fine,” Martha panted, trying valiantly to keep herself afloat, but not having much luck. Her lips were blue, eyes red and irritated from the salt water. Hartley wasn't doing much better. The only thing between her and total physical shock was her immortality, working double time to keep her both conscious and alive.

She dreaded to think what would happen if she were to die here – to fall beneath the surface and drift to the bottom of this black, endless sea. How would she ever find her way home?

The sea monster reappeared, serpentine body curling in the space above the water. It was closer now, and on their other side. It almost seemed like it were boxing them in, like a pack of wolves might corral their prey, cornering them before they attacked. Chills broke out across Hartley's skin that had nothing to do with the cold.

“Doctor,” she whispered, suddenly horribly aware of the way her legs were kicking beneath her; she felt like she might as well have been wearing a giant neon sign that said ' _Here I am! Come eat me!_ '.

“I know,” he whispered back, brow furrowed as his eyes flickered across the water. There was only inky blackness for miles in every direction, the only shaft of light the sunshine coming through the hole in the crust above them.

“You don't h-happen to have anything useful in those p-pockets of yours, d-do you?” she asked, clinging to hope.

“Just the usual,” he said.

Martha abruptly slipped from his grasp, dropping down below the surface. Hartley yelped, ducking down into the water without a second thought. It was freezing cold against her face, but she didn't hesitate to grasp Martha as tightly as she could, hefting her back up to the surface.

When she came up for air it was to get a mouthful of hair, and she coughed as it got stuck on her tongue. A hand quickly pushed her sopping hair out of her face, and she shot the Doctor a look of gratitude.

“You okay, M-Martha?” she asked quickly.

Martha coughed, weakly nodding her head, legs doing their best to kick beneath her, but the movements were sluggish at best. Hartley noited she'd stopped shivering so violently, but from what she knew that was anything but a good sign.

“D-Doctor, she's not sh-shivering as much,” she hissed, heart racing with terror.

The Doctor's expression was grave. “She's going hypothermal.”

The sea monster made yet another appearance, this time closer still. If Hartley reached out she would have been able to touch its slippery, scaly body. “It's circling,” she said, chin slipping into the water, water spilling into her mouth. She spat it out, breathing deeply despite the way the air burned in her chest. “It's t-t-toying with us,” she panted. “We've g-gotta go now, b-before it gets sick of g-games.”

But the Doctor shook his head. “We're not close enough.”

“Then w-what are we going to d-d-do?” she demanded, doing everything in her power not to become hysterical. Their options were growing limited. Another death was creeping ever closer.

The Doctor was struggling to keep Martha afloat, and Hartley took over once more, using every fibre of energy she had left to keep her legs kicking beneath them. “There's a chance it doesn't want to eat us,” he said, clinging to optimism. “It could just be curious.”

“P-personally I don't f-feel like waiting to f-find out,” she stammered. She almost wished she could go hypothermal like Martha, if only to stop the shivering. It was getting exhausting. She'd forgotten what it was like to be warm.

Something rammed into her side, large and heavy, and she cried out as she slipped beneath the water. Her mouth filled with water and it took everything she had not to inhale it into her lungs. Clamouring back to the surface, she coughed violently, spitting out the water gathered at the base of her throat.

“Hartley!” the Doctor cried, but he couldn't let go of Martha without killing her, so he was stuck gripping their friend, terror on his face.

It reminded her suddenly of the look he'd had that fateful day at Torchwood, when Rose was nearly sucked into the Void, torn from them forever. He'd looked just as scared, and just as helpless.

Hartley slipped under the water again, but this time she was in control. She held her breath and wrenched her eyes open. The light shining through the ceiling was just enough to give her a low visibility in the water.

The Doctor had been right – the creature was a massive serpent, a snake bigger than any she'd ever seen before. Its head came into the light, revealing beady red eyes and a mouth full of jagged, deadly teeth. It slithered by, wriggling in the water almost like it were dancing. Terrifying it may have been, it was also – in a way – _beautiful._

Something occurred to her suddenly, and without stopping to consider it she burst to the surface, sucking in deep lungfuls of salty air.

“If it l-looks like a snake, m-maybe it has the same b-biology as one,” she called to the Doctor before he had a chance to say anything. He held up Martha, whose eyes were hazy and hooded, her grip on consciousness fading.

“Meaning?” the Doctor pressed.

“Meaning it's v-vulnerable to vibrations!”

The Doctor took a moment to think before his eyes lit up with the brilliance of the idea. It didn't surprise Hartley that it hadn't occurred to him to use the sonic as a weapon. In his mind, it was the furthest thing from a weapon he had, but she'd learned enough by now to know that even the most innocuous of objects could be used to hurt others.

“Take Martha!” he shouted, and Hartley pushed past the bone-deep ache in her limbs to grip Martha, furiously kicking her legs to keep them above sea level. The Doctor swam a few feet away, fishing his sonic from his pocket and spinning in a circle in the water, searching for the serpent. “This should blind it long enough for us to get out. As soon as I say, pass Martha to me and climb onto my shoulders. The water's high enough now that you _should_ be able to reach the crust!”

She wasn't so sure she liked the use of the word 'should', but there wasn't any time to argue. “G-got it,” she assured him.

“Keep Martha's ears _out_ of the water,” he added in a hurry. “Whatever you do, don't let her slip. This could deafen her, permanently.”

Hartley hefted Martha's deadweight up a little higher. She supposed it didn't matter if her ears slipped beneath the water; she could heal, Martha couldn't.

The Doctor held the sonic beneath the surface, waited an extra beat, then the light of its blue tip shined through the surface of the water, lighting up their faces in its glow. Hartley could hear a piercing screech, but it was faint, muffled by the water.

“Now!” he shouted abruptly, and Hartley leapt into action, handing Martha over to the Doctor who held her against his chest and tensed his muscles in preparation for Hartley's weight.

Her limbs were killing her, the ache in every cell of her muscles, but she persevered. The Doctor's head was forced beneath the surface as she painfully climbed onto his shoulders, but with an impressive amount of strength he kicked his legs to keep himself steady.

The crust was closer now, and Hartley winced as she reached for the lip of their hole. Her fingers brushed the edge but she couldn't get a good grip.

She was aware time was running out. The serpent's blindness would only hold for so long, and when it came out of it, it was going to be _angry_ ; and the Doctor's head was beneath the water. He might have had his respiratory bypass system, but even he couldn't hold his breath forever.

She cried out, grasping desperately at the air, hoping to make contact with the crust. She shut her eyes, gathering her strength, and pushed down on the Doctor's shoulders in an effort to thrust herself upwards.

It worked, and she managed to grasp the lip of the hole. Her arms were burning from the exertion but she was just able to climb out, relieved that the crust's integrity held. She'd been scared it would crumble under her touch, but it remained strong and held her weight with ease.

The surface of the planet was blindingly bright, the two suns above her beating down with unforgiving light and heat. She collapsed to the crust, taking a single second to savour the heat and the feeling of the ground solid beneath her. But there was no time to revel in it, she forced herself upright and looked down into the hole in the planet's crust.

Martha and the Doctor were treading water just below, and Hartley quickly leaned her body into it, arms held outstretched, waiting for Martha's weight. “Martha?!” she called, hoping against hope that she was awake. This was going to go a lot easier if she was conscious enough to help them pull her to safety.

“Yeah,” Martha croaked from the ocean below.

“Thank God,” Hartley mumbled before raising her voice for Martha to hear. “Hold out your hands, I'll pull you up.”

Martha's movements were sluggish, but with the Doctor's help she managed to grip Hartley's hands and sluggishly climb out of the hole. She collapsed onto the scorching crust with a sigh, but Hartley had no time to check her over; the Doctor was still down there.

He held out his hands, and by now the water had risen up just enough that he was able to reach her without any boost, gripping her hands tightly and letting her help him climb his way to safety.

“Come on, come on,” Hartley muttered as inch-by-inch he pulled himself up. Hartley gripped the sopping material of his suit and tried to yank at it to make get him up faster.

The scaly skin of the serpent shimmered in the gaping hole beneath where the Doctor's legs still dangled. Hartley let out a scream as its face appeared from the depths, mouth open in the hungry promise of death.

“Doctor!” she cried, gripping ahold of his shoulders and pulling with every ounce of strength left in her body.

The Doctor collapsed on the solid ground beside her just as something moved in front of the light from the double suns. The serpent had launched out of the ocean and upwards in a perfectly vertical line. It seemed to hover there a moment, its horrible jaws open in a silent scream of fury, before it collapsed back into the water with a splash that covered them all in even more icy, salty water.

Everything went utterly still and the three of them just lay there a moment, soaking up the suns' heat and revelling in the fresh air.

Hartley looked over at Martha to find her barely even conscious, lips still dangerously blue. “We've gotta get Martha to the med-bay,” she said urgently.

The Doctor climbed to his feet, scooping Martha up into his arms with only minimal grunting and carrying her in the direction of their ship.

“You're going to be okay, Martha,” Hartley promised fervently, not sure if the younger woman could even hear a word she was saying. “You'll be all right.”

* * *

The Doctor put Martha in some kind of large chamber, one Hartley had never seen before. He told her it was a machine specifically designed to restore warmth to hypothermia victims at a safe rate, and that it would take a while to heal her completely.

“Now, you go shower,” he said, waving her off with one hand while his other one hurriedly typed something into the chamber's settings. “Start it off cool and gradually make it hotter,” he added distractedly.

“I don't need one of these machines?” she asked, absently her thumbnails across her fingertips. They were still rather numb but sensation was coming back to her, albeit slowly. She looked at Martha, sealed in the clear medical pod like Snow White in her glass coffin. She looked peaceful, the blue finally starting to fade from her lips.

“Nah, you're already healing,” said the Doctor, reaching up to press a hand against her forehead. His skin was cooler than normal, and his hair was still wet and plastered to his face, brown suit still dripping a puddle onto the floor. She couldn't help but laugh, the sound light and easy. “What?” he asked self-consciously, dropping his hand and looking down at himself in bemusement.

“You look like a drowned rat,” she told him playfully, pushing up onto her toes and pushing his soaked hair from his eyes. It didn't make it look any better and she smiled wider at the grumpy frown at home on his face.

“So do you,” he shot back, and she grinned brilliantly in response.

“Take care of Martha,” she ordered. “I'll go shower and get into something dry.”

“Can you make your hot chocolate when you get out?” he asked without pause, only to look away when she tried to meet his eyes. “For Martha's sake; help her warm up.”

Hartley pressed her lips together to smother the smile growing there. “You got it, Doc.”

The shower was heavenly, she could have wept when she finally warmed up enough to turn it hot, standing under the spray until her skin went pruney and pink. She blowdried her hair when she got out, just for an excuse to savour a little extra heat.

Dressing in pyjamas, Hartley slipped her feet into a pair of slippers and headed for the kitchen. The hot chocolate was her dad's recipe, and she found herself smiling as she made up three mugs, dropping some mini marshmallows in as garnish. The sweet, chocolatey scents wafted through the air, and she breathed it in, contentment settling deep in her bones.

“Doctor?!” she called once she was out in the hallway.

“Library!” he shouted back, and Hartley took the three mugs in the direction of her favourite room on the ship.

Martha was sitting in front of the fireplace, soaking up its crackling heat with a woolly blanket draped over her shoulders. The Doctor sat nearby fiddling with his sonic, using a handkerchief to try and dry out the water stuck in its crevices. He'd changed into a dry suit – his electric blue one – and though his hair was still damp it was back to its usual, springy brilliance.

“Hey,” Hartley announced herself, moving to the Doctor's side and passing him one of the mugs – a blue one the same shade as the TARDIS. He smiled gratefully, putting down his sonic and taking it in both hands. She smiled back before turning to Martha whose eyes were still a little distant, but she looked a million times better than she had earlier.

Hartley handed her the red, chipped Christmas mug – this one with extra marshmallows, just because – and then took a seat on the couch beside her.

“How're you feeling?” she asked delicately, cupping her palms around her own mug – _Galaxy's Greatest Grandad_ , it read – and taking a deep sip. It tasted as it always did, sweet and chocolatey with just a hint of cinnamon, and she relaxed back into the plush cushions of the couch.

“I'm all right,” said Martha with a shrug. “That machine worked wonders. I don't have any lingering effects. The doctors I know would kill to have something like that in their lab,” she added with a wistful little smile.

“Give it a century or so,” the Doctor murmured knowingly, “and they will.”

They faded into silence, no sound but the warm crackling of the fire filling the room. It was easy, a beautiful slice of calm after the suffering they'd just endured. It would have been even better if Hartley wasn't an Empath – but she was, and she alone felt everything no one was saying.

Martha was anxious and a little wrecked, scared even where she was sat by the fire, as if afraid the ceiling would give way to rain and she'd find herself treading water for her life again.

The Doctor, on the other hand, felt wracked with guilt – Martha hadn't signed up for this, she wasn't even officially travelling with them. She was supposed to be here to see the wonders of the universe as a thank you for saving his life, not get trapped in an endless underwater cavern with a giant, hungry sea monster.

Hartley wasn't sure who to deal with first, because she knew she couldn't help both at the same time. She cleared her throat and the Doctor looked up in surprise. She caught his eyes and then flickered her own to the door.

It took him a moment, but eventually he got the message. He stood to his feet. “Is it still rather chilly in here, or is it just me?” he wondered, a little awkward but meaning well. “I think I'll go adjust the TARDIS' thermostat, just up it by a few degrees. Thanks for the hot chocolate, Hart,” he said in farewell.

“You're welcome, Doc,” she replied, smiling and watching as he left the room, drinking deeply from his mug as he walked.

Once he was gone, Hartley turned to Martha to find her staring down into her hot chocolate, not quite sad. Maybe more reflective.

“So,” Hartley began gently, “how are you _really_?”

Martha hesitated, mulling over what to say. Hartley was silent, letting her sort through the swirl of thoughts in her own time. It was a lot to process, nearly dying under those kinds of circumstances. Hartley couldn't have blamed her if she ran far, far away, as fast as she possibly could. But she didn't, she just sat there, staring into her drink and thinking.

“It was scary,” Martha eventually began, quiet and thoughtful. “Terrifying, really. I've never much been afraid of the water, but I think it'll be awhile now before I willingly go swimming again.”

Hartley grimaced. The last thing she'd wanted was for this to leave Martha with any lasting scars – but it seemed that had been too much to hope for. “I'm sorry you had to go through that,” she said softly. “I wish you hadn't, but I guess sometimes even with a time machine, some things just can't be undone.”

Martha smiled grimly. “Yeah,” she murmured, eyes distant as they stared into the fire. “Hey Hart?” she asked, and Hartley looked from where she'd been tracing her fingertip along the rim of her mug. “How'd you know I wasn't okay?”

Hartley's expression twisted at the innocent question, and Martha took it to mean she was confused.

“I mean, I thought I was doing a good job at seeming fine,” she admitted.

Hartley tilted her eyes, watching her through gentle eyes. “Why would you need to do that?” she asked simply. Martha winced, lifting her shoulders in a sad little shrug. “You're allowed to be affected by things, Martha,” Hartley reminded her. “We don't ever expect you to be anything other than exactly what you are.”

Martha looked meek, turning away and taking another sip of her cooling drink. Hartley quickly drained what remained of her own and slid the mug onto the the coffee table in front of them. For some reason Martha was feeling disappointment and still that same thrum of fear.

“What's got you so scared?” Hartley asked, and Martha looked up in surprise.

“How d'you do that?” she demanded.

Hartley blinked back innocently. “Do what?”

“Always know exactly what I'm thinking.” Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I can't believe I'm asking this, but are you some kind of _telepath_?”

Hartley hesitated, suddenly uncomfortable. She'd never had to tell anyone about her ability before now. The only other person who knew was the Doctor, and he'd known before _she_ even did. Hartley winced, looking away with a shard of shame that she couldn't quite explain.

“Hartley,” Martha pressed, intent on getting answers.

“Empath,” Hartley confessed, saying the word quickly, like ripping off a bandaid. “It's not telepathy, it's _empathy_.”

Martha looked like she might have been about to throw up, and Hartley felt the wave of nausea that went along with it. “Oh God,” Martha said thickly. “Are you telling me you know everything I'm feeling right now? Everything I'm feeling _all_ _the_ _time_?” she was embarrassed; _disgusted_ by this ability Hartley possessed.

And Hartley could finally explain that shame she felt deep in her gut. Her abilities as an Empath were an invasion of people's privacy. She'd never thought about it like that before, but suddenly it was all she could focus on.

She didn't get people's permission to delve into their psyche, didn't ask before she sorted through their emotions, the one thing they had that was supposed to be personal and private. She just dived into their secrets, tearing them apart as if she had any right to it.

Even despite being back in the warmth of the TARDIS, she suddenly felt ice cold all over again.

Standing to her feet, Hartley moved closer to the roaring fire in an attempt to soak in its heat. She stared into the flames, wondering how she hadn't seen any of this before.

“I didn't mean to invade your privacy,” she whispered, finding herself too ashamed to meet Martha's eyes. “It's still rather new to me. I don't know how to control it yet. I just _feel_ things, whether I want to or not.” She glanced at Martha from the corner of her eye, but her spine was still straight, muscles stiff as she struggled to decide how to feel. “I'm sorry,” Hartley said sincerely.

Eventually Martha found her voice. “Can you… _manipulate_ feelings, too?” she asked warily.

Closing her eyes, Hartley could only nod her head.

“Have you ever manipulated me?” Martha persisted.

“No,” Hartley turned to look at her, sincerity shining in her eyes. “I rarely manipulate anyone's emotional state. I barely even know how. The few times I have, it's been to save lives, or occasionally just to let someone know they're not alone.”

Martha pursed her lips. “Is there any way you can _stop_ knowing what I feel?”

Hartley grimaced. “I can try to ignore it, but I don't know how to fully block it out yet.”

Martha's internal disgust finally began to fade and as it did Hartley's tense muscles began to slowly relax. They stood in the quiet for a few minutes, and it was anything but comfortable. Hartley tried to put all her focus on the crackling fire, doing her best to ignore the haze of emotion she could feel to her left.

“Is that what happened at Bedlam?” Martha eventually broke the silence, curiosity in her voice. “Back with Shakespeare, when you got overwhelmed? Was that because of the empathy?”

Hartley nodded. “Like I said, I still can't control it. Sometimes it can be a little overwhelming,” she admitted meekly.

Martha's face scrunched in confusion. “You keep saying you're human,” she began carefully, “but you're telling me you've got this empathic ability, and you also claim to be _immortal_ -”

“I _am_ immortal,” Hartley found a fibre of normalcy in their interaction, rolling her eyes in exasperation.

“What I mean is,” Martha continued without pausing, “is there any human left?”

The words weren't meant to hurt her in any way. She was simply voicing her thoughts aloud, putting words to the questions that floated in her mind. Despite the innocuous way she spoke, it still sent a cutting pain through Hartley's chest.

She searched for an answer, coming up short. “The Judoon catalogued me as human, remember?” she eventually managed to say. “So, at a biological level, I'm still just as human as anyone.”

It was factually correct, she just wished it didn't sound so much like she were trying to convince herself.

She was left only with more questions, and decided to change the topic before she got any more confused.

“Can I ask, were you afraid before because you think if you show any weakness we might kick you to the kerb?” she asked tentatively.

Martha looked away, and Hartley knew she was right.

“Do you wanna stay with us, Martha?” she pressed, gaining momentum as she spoke. “Because know that if you do, you'd be welcome.”

Martha didn't look convinced. “The Doctor hasn't said anything. It's been all 'one last trip' for days now. I'm not actually one of you.”

Hartley felt sympathy well in her chest. She knew what it was like to be on the outside looking in. She knew how heartbreaking it could feel. “The Doctor's never been the greatest at letting people in,” she said mildly. “He's never been so great at taking hints, either.”

“You're saying I should ask him point-blank?” Martha asked, sounding horrified by the idea.

“I'm saying that if this is something you really want, you can't expect it just to happen. Sometimes you've gotta say it aloud, in no uncertain terms – particularly when it comes to dealing with the Doctor,” she told her wisely.

Martha chewed on her lips a moment. “Do you want me on board?” she asked. Hartley could tell she was doing her best to keep her emotions hidden behind a mask, but it was pointless. Hartley could feel them all anyway. The only person who could ever truly hide from her was the Doctor himself – ironic, considering she was the one person she most wished she could read.

“Why wouldn't I want you on board?” Hartley asked her carefully.

Martha looked away, feeling a sudden burst of shame that took the Empath by surprise. “Maybe because I just attacked you over something you can't even control,” she muttered bitterly.

Hartley smiled, finally retaking her seat beside Martha on the couch. “Let's agree to learn from it, and move past it,” she suggested, carefully placing an arm around the younger woman's shoulders, bringing her into a loose hug. “I won't hold it against you, so long as you don't hold my empathy against me.”

Martha smiled, a little weak but altogether sincere. “Deal.”

Martha yawned, and her exhaustion was contagious. Hartley blinked dopily. “Come on, we've had a long day. We should get some sleep. Who knows what tomorrow will throw at us?”

She helped pull Martha to her feet, and together they headed for the door that would lead them to their rooms.

“And, for the record,” Hartley added as they came to a split in the hallway, “I'd really love for you to be part of this team.”

Martha radiated happiness at the comment. “Team?” she asked, a little playful.

“I like to call it Team TARDIS,” Hartley laughed quietly. “It's never really caught on with the Doc, but that's not for lack of trying.”

“Maybe it will, one day,” Martha offered kindly.

Hartley smiled. “Maybe one day.”


	36. The Lazarus Experiment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your support so far. And whether you're coming here from FF.net or found this one here on your own, your comments and kudos mean the world to me. Hope you enjoy!

**THE LAZARUS EXPERIMENT**

“ _For those who have crossed, with direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom,_

_remember us – if at all – not as lost, violent souls, but only as the hollow men.”_

T.S. Eliot

* * *

“Hold that there!” the Doctor's voice shouted over the familiar groans of the TARDIS.

“This?!” Hartley shouted back, holding her hand above an important looking lever. He nodded, and she quickly held the lever in the downward position.

“What can I do?!” Martha asked, leaning with the tilt of the ship to keep herself upright.

But the Doctor didn't answer, probably because he didn't have the time to spare. “We're coming in hot!” he cried, hands moving so fast they nearly blurred.

The whole room shuddered, the grating of the floor rattling beneath their feet. Then the ship finally landed with a familiar, comforting bong and everything fell silent.

“There we go! Perfect landing!” the Doctor crowed. Hartley stepped away from the controls, rolling her eyes and absentmindedly stretching out her knuckles. “Which isn't easy in such a tight spot,” he added an undertone. Martha was practically bouncing on the spot in her excitement.

“You should be used to tight spots by now,” she said playfully before glancing to the door. “Where are we?” she asked eagerly, barely able to contain herself, her enthusiasm thrumming for their next big adventure.

“The end of the line,” the Doctor said rather ominously, and the smile dropped from Hartley's face, replaced by a frown of suspicion. Martha didn't seem to notice, scurrying down the ramp and pausing at the doors, grinning back at the Time Lord in excitement. “No place like it,” he assured her, nodding for her to go through.

Martha darted out the doors and the Doctor stuck his hands in his pockets, following after her at a much slower pace. Confused, Hartley pulled the cuffs of her cardigan down over her hands, balling them in her fists as she followed him down to the doors, nearly bumping into his back when he had yet to move out of the doorway.

“Home?” Martha's voice was flat, full of an estranged disbelief. Hartley pressed at the Doctor's back, gently pushing him across the room more and giving her space to move. Once he'd shifted out of the way Hartley saw they were indeed in a London flat. It was small, hardly any space to speak of, with laundry drying off to the side and a stack of crumpled magazines on the coffee table. “You took me home?” Martha felt cut, and Hartley's insides wobbled with empathy.

The Doctor hadn't even consulted her, he'd just decided on his own that it was time for their journey with Martha to end.

It was technically his right – what with it being _his_ TARDIS and all – but she'd thought that they'd been something of a team as of late. It hurt that he hadn't spoken with her before making a decision, especially when he knew how it would upset her – because of _course_ he'd have known. He may have been oblivious, but he wasn't an idiot.

“Back to the morning after we left, so you've only been gone about twelve hours,” he told her proudly. “No time at all, really.”

“But all the stuff we've done – Shakespeare, New New York, old New York?” Martha said confusion swimming in her head. The Doctor casually perused the family photos Martha had lined up on the shelves along the wall and Hartley leant back against the smooth, warm wood of the TARDIS, watching everything with a frown tugging at her brow.

“Yep, all in one night, relatively speaking,” the Doctor continued cheerfully. “Everything should be just as it was. Books, CDs...laundry,” he trailed off, swiping a pair of drying knickers off the line, holding them up with an impish glint to his eyes that Hartley hadn't expected. She couldn't help but snort when Martha yanked them back, cheeks warm with mortification. “So, back where you were, as promised,” he finished blithely.

Martha turned to look at Hartley, as though sure the other woman would come to her defence and argue for her to stay. But Hartley said nothing, torn between her undying loyalty to the Doctor and her fondness for her new friend. Martha's shoulders slumped in disappointment.

“This is it?” she asked, eyes flickering between them, clinging stubbornly onto hope.

“Yeah,” the Doctor nodded, giving a thoughtless shrug. He glanced up to meet Hartley's eyes, nodding subtly to the time machine she was leaning against. She frowned at him in disapproval and the resolve in his eyes wavered. “We should probably, uh...” he trailed off, awkward and uncomfortable.

From the corner of the room came a ringing, then the recorded sound of Martha's voice cheerfully proclaimed, “ _Hi, I'm out. Leave a message!_ ”

“I'm sorry,” Martha herself apologised, but Hartley waved her off.

“ _Martha, are you there? Pick it up, will you_?” It was an older woman's voice, one that was strangely familiar, as if she'd heard it somewhere before.

“It's Mum,” Martha explained, and Hartley remembered the night they'd taken her from – only twelve hours the night before, in linear time – when she'd listened to the poor woman's family screaming up a storm in the middle of the street. Not the best first impression, but Hartley didn't like to judge people without getting to know them. “It'll wait,” Martha added stiltedly, and the Doctor grinned at the awkwardness that followed.

“ _All right then, pretend that you're out if you like. I was only calling to say that your sister's on TV. On the news of all things. Just thought you might be interested_ ,” Martha's mother said flatly. The machine cut off with a click, leaving them in a pregnant silence.

Bemused, Martha hurriedly turned on her TV to reveal an old, weathered man standing before a hoard of cameras. A pretty young woman who could only be Martha's sister was standing stoically beside him, the picture of professionalism.

“ _Tonight, I will demonstrate a device which will redefine our world_ ,” the aged man was telling the reporters in a croaking voice.

“She's got a new job. PR for some research lab,” Martha explained it to them in an undertone, then fell silent so they could hear the rest.

“ _With the push of a single button, I will change what it means to be human!_ ” the old man proclaimed importantly.

The reporters all began to clamour over one another in an effort to get a quote, but Martha had lost interest, switching the television off again and turning to the pair of travellers with a shy sort of smile. “Sorry. You were saying, we should...” she trailed off, hope and sadness warring in her heart.

“Yes, yes, we should...” the Doctor was distracted, still staring at the television.

Clearly something had interested him, and now that Hartley thought back to the interview, she realised it did sound rather odd. What had the man meant by his comment? Change what it means to be human? Was it just scientific propaganda, or was there something more sinister at play?

“One trip is what we said,” the Doctor continued, getting back on track.

“Yeah. I suppose things just kind of _escalated,_ ” Martha said. Hartley knew she wasn't imagining the way she swayed into him, drifting closer as though she simply couldn't help it. It made an unnamed emotion coil in Hartley's belly, something simultaneously hot and icy. She felt the responding frown curl at her lips and looked away to hide the expression.

“Mmm. Seems to happen to me a lot,” he agreed with a wry sort of smirk that Hartley realised made his eyes seem to glitter.

Martha was quiet for a moment, letting her eyes meet the Doctor's in the silence. “Thank you,” she told him sincerely, and Hartley warmed to her again. “Both of you,” she added, turning to include the strawberry-blonde traveller in her gratitude, “for everything.”

The Doctor grinned. “It was my pleasure,” he told her emphatically, smiling a final time before slipping past them and into the TARDIS.

Hartley turned to Martha with a smile. “Don't be surprised if we ever pop in again,” she said kindly. “I like to check in on my friends.”

Martha hesitated and gave Hartley pause. She stopped, only half inside the TARDIS as she waited for Martha to gather her thoughts. “You've got something really special, here,” she finally said, serious and imploring. Hartley was stunned by the force of her stare. “Don't forget that,” she finished with an edge, almost as if it were some kind of threat.

Disregarding the hard edge to the words, Hartley simply smiled. “Wouldn't dream of it,” she promised, reaching out to squeeze the Martha's shoulder before disappearing back into the TARDIS. The doors shut behind her with a resounding click.

She expected the Doctor to change the subject, maybe suggest something he knew she couldn't refuse – like witnessing the invention of hover-boards, or getting her copy of _Alice in Wonderland_ signed by Lewis Carroll himself – but instead he was muttering to himself under his breath, frowning down at the console even as he dematerialised the box and sent them into the vortex.

She made her footsteps extra loud on the grating as she stomped up towards the console, and it seemed to snap him out of his daze. He looked up at her in surprise, perhaps sensing her irritation. She certainly wasn't doing anything to mask it.

“What?” he asked warily, already on the defensive. He knew _exactly_ why she was upset, and she didn't appreciate him pretending he didn't.

“You weren't even going to _tell_ me you were dropping her home?” she asked, keeping her voice even and measured. She never was one to lose her temper and this was no exception, but she still felt a curl of anger in her gut.

Only, if she really thought about it, it wasn't anger at all but instead a simmering hurt caused by his careless actions.

“I agreed to one extra trip,” he reminded her, his voice just as measured. There was still a spark in his eyes that suggested there was more going on inside that enigmatic brain of his than she could reach.

“I thought we were a team,” she said quietly, undeniably shy, letting her eyes drop to the floor.

“You didn't even seem to get along that well with Martha, anyway,” he argued, but that wasn't the point and he knew it. “What's this about?” he asked when she didn't reply. “Why now? Why Martha?”

Hartley inhaled deeply, feeling her lungs expand in her chest, letting the cool air relax her. Part of her wanted to make up some lie but she knew it was pointless – he wouldn't fall for it. He was far too smart for that, and he meant too much to her for her to consider being dishonest, even about something like this.

“I guess...I'm trying to prove something,” she admitted, staring down at her fingertips, idly scratching at the chipped, sparkly blue polish on her nails.

“Prove something?” he echoed. She struggled to decrypt his emotions from his tone alone, but she still refused to look up. She felt like she were baring something to him, a piece of herself she didn't know how to give.

She let the words sit, heavy on her tongue. “Prove that I can do this,” she finally answered the unspoken question. The Doctor shifted closer to hear her quiet voice. “That I can move on with life,” she swallowed thickly.

She felt a wave of confusion he wasn't quick enough to hide. “Move on from what?”

The name was a painful one, but she couldn't live in fear of that pain forever. “Rose.”

The Doctor fell silent and the sudden quiet was filled with a thousand unsaid words, none of which she could even begin to imagine.

“When it's just you and I, that's different,” she began to explain, because she felt like he deserved an explanation. “It's normal, easy, even. Adding someone else, I guess a small part of me, even after all this time, still kind of feels like we're somehow _cheating_ on her. On her memory.” The Doctor was terrifyingly silent. “I know that life with you is always moving, and evolving, and I'm trying to keep up, I really am,” she promised him with sad conviction. “I guess, in a way, Martha _is_ my way of trying.”

She paused, considering the worst.

“When I put it like that it makes me sound like I'm using her, doesn't it?” she whispered, dropping her face into her hands. “I'm a bad person,” she gave a groan of self-loathing.

The Doctor let out a sound, sort of a sharp exhale of air that she could almost imagine to be a laugh. “Hartley, I don't believe there to be so much as a single bad _atom_ in your entire being,” he told her, the lilting sound of his voice so affectionate she might have even described it as tender.

She huffed a laugh of her own, looking up to meet his eyes and finding them glittering warmly. Her smile grew and soon the pair were grinning at one another. Something crackled in the air between them, and she felt the outrageous urge to slip closer and wrap her arms around his middle, press her ear to his chest and listen to the beautiful song of his double heartbeats.

She knew she couldn't – whether for fear of the intimacy or the impending rejection, she couldn't say – but instead she crossed her arms, hugging herself as a poor substitute.

“Go on then,” she eventually said, breaking the eye contact and instead looking up at the bobbing of the time rotor, “what's next?”

He didn't say anything for a moment, and the whole time she could feel his stare on the side of her face; until finally he turned back to the console with an overexcited bounce that made her grin.

“ _Well_ ,” he began, stretching the word out into several syllables. “That man on the news _did_ say something rather concerning,” he said with a sniff, quickly pumping the lever to his right. “What kind of time travellers would we be if we didn't at least check it out, eh?”

He gave a wide smile, eyes sparkling with warmth, and she knew then that the Doctor's decision to go back had nothing to do with the men on the telly, and everything to do with her wanting to keep ahold of Martha for as long as she could (unhealthy though it may have been).

She barely had time to smile back before the TARDIS was landing with a wheeze and he was bounding down to the doors, throwing them open and sticking his head back out into Martha's flat.

“No, I'm sorry,” he said loudly, continuing on as though they'd left mere seconds ago, rather than several long minutes, “did he say he was going to _change_ what it means to be _human_?”

Martha responded from outside but Hartley couldn't hear it from across the room. Thankfully the Doctor stepped out, Hartley quick to follow, smiling at Martha kindly. Martha looked more than surprised to see them there, having all but given up on ever seeing them again.

“What do you know about the project that lab is working on?” the Doctor was asking her seriously, straight down to business.

“Absolutely nothing,” Martha replied, and when the Doctor frowned she hurried to add, “but Tish sent me an invitation in the mail. It says I can bring a plus one.”

The Doctor brightened. “Brilliant!”

“Sorry, Hart,” Martha said with an apologetic grimace. “It only says I get an extra _one_...”

The Doctor waved off her words before Hartley could say anything. “She can just use the psychic paper,” he told Martha, turning to look at Hartley impishly. “You can be anything you want – celebrity, journalist, visiting royalty...” he trailed off temptingly.

“I think I'll just stick with something unremarkable,” she rolled her eyes. “Shareholder sounds innocuous enough.”

“Well, the event's not till late,” Martha interjected. “What're we meant to do until then?”

The Doctor waved away her concerns. “Oh, you just go about your day as normal, then get ready and we'll meet you back here when it's time to leave,” he said with a shrug.

Martha blinked. “What, you're going to jump forwards in time to meet me later because you can't handle waiting an extra few hours?” she asked, incredulous.

Hartley laughed quietly, nudging the Doctor with a roll of her eyes. “He doesn't like staying idle,” she told Martha in a stage whisper, and she gave a huffing laugh in reply.

“Yes, yes,” the Doctor tutted, “come on then.” He turned and led Hartley back towards his ship. “See you later tonight, Martha!” he called over his shoulder. “Or in only five minutes, from our perspective!”

“Wait!” Martha cried, and both travellers turned to raise their eyebrows in surprise at the desperate note to her voice. She was a mess of anxiety, and Hartley frowned in concern as the unpleasant feelings washed over her. “You _are_ coming back, right?” she asked them carefully, hope itching in her heart.

The Doctor was confused by the question, but Hartley understood in the way only someone who wasn't the Doctor could. “Martha, on my brother's life, we'll be back,” she vowed. Martha thought for a moment then seemed to accept it, nodding her head and waving as the pair disappeared back inside the TARDIS.

“I don't think swearing on Jack's life is a particularly good standing point,” the Doctor said offhandedly as he took them into the vortex where they would have the time to get ready before the gala. Hartley had to admit, it really was handy having a time machine that could pop you forwards a few hours to the start of something. You'd think it would mean they were never late to anything – but unfortunately that wasn't the case.

“Why not?” she asked as she peeled off her cardigan and laid it over the railing.

“He's _immortal_.”

Hartley rolled her eyes. “So am I,” she shot back. “Besides, it's the sentiment that counts, Doc.” She rolled her neck, then turned and headed for the door that led to the rest of the wonderful, infinite ship. Spinning on her heel, she walked backwards so she could peer at the Doctor as she left. “Wear the tux!”

“But you know that thing's bad luck!” he very nearly whined.

“Wear it anyway!”

“Why?!”

By now she'd stepped around the corner, but too the time to quickly pop her head back into the room, purely to shoot him her most impish grin. “Because you look good in a bow tie.”

The Doctor only stared at her, and she laughed brightly before disappearing back into the depths of the TARDIS.

She didn't take that long to get ready. She had a quick shower before wrapping herself in a fluffy robe and wandering her way through the seemingly endless wardrobe, looking for something to suit the occasion.

She knew she should pick something she could move in, something she could run in – but there was a voice inside her head, curiously questioning how long it had been since she'd actually dressed up. With the Doctor, there was little opportunity to go to fancy galas and wear pretty shoes, and despite knowing how easily everything could spiral, she longed for the opportunity to get dolled up in a way she hadn't in _years_.

So she threw caution to the wind and selected a beautiful pink and black dress, one that fell below her knees but still displayed a decent chunk of cleavage. She plucked a pair of similar shoes from the rows behind her, then wandered back down to her room. Laying the dress on her bed, she took time doing her makeup, rimming her eyes in black, lengthening her lashes and painting on a lovely shade of pink lipstick.

Donning her dress and slipping the gorgeous-but-sizeable heels onto her feet, she turned and peered into her full-length mirror.

She was surprised by how she looked – she'd forgotten what it was like to feel so beautiful. It had been years since she'd bothered with elaborate makeup. But now, looking at herself, she realised that made her sad. She supposed it was just something she'd had to give up for this life – and it was a sacrifice she'd willingly make again.

Resolving to ask the Doctor if they could go somewhere dress-worthy every now and again, Hartley slipped some bangles onto her wrists, turning and clicked her way towards the control room.

“Finally!” the Doctor called before she even stepped into the room. “I was ready ages ago! If we didn't have a time machine, we'd be late for sure!”

She walked towards him but he paid her no attention, hurriedly typing away at the keyboard, eyes focused on the monitor. An amused smile curved at her painted lips. “I was barely even an hour,” she corrected him with an exasperated laugh. “You know, for a Time Lord, you really do have a horrible sense of time.”

“We aren't _accustomed_ to time being experienced linearly––” he began to say defensively, spinning where he stood to look at her. The rest of his argument seemed to die on his lips.

Bemused, Hartley raised her eyebrows at him, self-consciously running her hands down the layers of tinted, delicate mesh she was wearing.

“I know it's a bit fancy,” she said quickly, looking down at herself and wondering if she'd aimed for but hadn't actually hit pretty, rather landing somewhere in the realm of ridiculous. “But we never go somewhere nice like this. I thought that, well, maybe I could try looking properly beautiful for once,” she joked wryly, hands twisted together in anxiety.

The Doctor didn't say anything, he continuing to stare at her. It began to make her feel awkward. She couldn't have possibly put a name to the emotions swimming behind his eyes, and she briefly wondered if the magnitude of what he could feel as a Time Lord surpassed human standards – if he felt more deeply than any human ever could. And maybe that was one of the reasons he wouldn't let her feel him – because the weight of it might just crush her into dust.

To cover her the awkwardness she felt, Hartley moved forwards, careful not to let her thin heels slip between the grating. The Doctor watched her carefully as she approached, like she was a bomb he didn't trust not to explode in his face. She met him at the console, reaching up gingerly to straighten his black bow tie.

“I haven't seen this old thing since Pete's world,” she said, voice light in an attempt to crack the thick shell of silence that had befallen them. “I always _was_ such a sucker for a bow tie,” she added coyly, grinning up at him teasingly from under her lashes.

The Doctor seemed to be chewing on his words. She could see him struggling to decide what to say. Was he going to ask her to change? Tell her kindly she looked just to the left of silly and she should go put on something less fancy? Her insecurities arose, and she tried not to squirm under his heavy gaze.

“We should go,” he finally said, and she found herself disappointed by the dismissive remark. He pulled away, turning back to the console and beginning the process of landing them back in Martha's flat. Hartley stepped against the railing, running a hand down her loose, curly hair.

The TARDIS shook beneath them and she gripped the railing, careful not to overbalance in her pretty yet wildly impractical shoes. Maybe it was irresponsible, but sometimes a girl just wanted to wear some pretty heels. Besides, there was no guarantee anything would go wrong enough that she'd need to make a quick get away. With any luck the night would be all cocktail shrimp and champagne.

The TARDIS landed with a muted thud and everything went still. The Doctor said nothing, but he was standing at the console, staring down at it with a pensive frown marring his handsome face.

Hartley gingerly prodded against him with that muscle inside of her that she was only just beginning to understand, but his emotions were sealed up tight, hidden behind a wall she couldn't have gotten past if she had a million years to try.

Looking away and hoping the Doctor hadn't felt her attempt at an intrusion, Hartley headed for the doors.

But long fingers curled around her wrist, pulling her to a stop. She turned to look at him, noting with a curl of interest that they were almost the same height now, thanks to her heels. He had that strange look on his face again, but there was an impassioned glint to his eyes that threatened to take her breath away.

“Just for the record, Hartley, you always look beautiful,” he told her simply, full of a conviction that made her heart race, “no matter what you wear.”

She stared back at him, trying desperately to form words, but what could possibly compare? It was one of the nicest things he'd ever said to her, and the way he was staring into her eyes left her feeling unbalanced. He was gazing at her like she were one of the supernovas he so loved to watch from afar; like she were something to be admired with a sense of pure, unadulterated wonderment.

She exhaled at the strength of the Doctor's stare, and for the briefest of moments she could have sworn his eyes flickered down to glance at her plump, fairytale-pink lips.

The moment was broken rather abruptly by a sharp rapping at the doors. The Doctor jerked away from her as though he'd been stung, clearing his throat loudly and quickly typing something into the console before bounding down the ramp towards the doors.

“Ready to go?” he asked Martha the moment he could see her. Hartley had to take an extra moment to compose herself, shutting her eyes and willing her pulse to slow down. It was nothing; nothing had happened, it was just her imagination. She needed to focus.

“Don't you look spiffy,” Martha's voice was teasing from outside the TARDIS. Hartley heard her footsteps as she stepped inside the ship, ready to head for the event. “You know, we could have just caught a cab,” she added wryly.

“But why pay for a cab when we have the TARDIS?” the Doctor sounded genuinely bewildered by the suggestion and Hartley, now recovered, turned to face them with a small laugh that came easier than she expected.

“Wow,” Martha said appreciatively, coming to a stop in front of Hartley and letting her eyes roam her dress. “You look lovely,” she added, though the slight frown to her face and gleam of negativity in her heart didn't drop.

Without hesitating Hartley dug deeper, if only to find out why Martha looked so miserable all of a sudden. What she found was a sense of inadequacy and a low, simmering jealously.

And that just wouldn't do.

“Me?” Hartley asked, covering her brief glimpse into Martha's heart with a sweet smile. “Have you seen yourself? You look _stunning._ I lovethis colour, it really suits you,” she chattered, the words distracting but at the same time wholly sincere. Martha really did look like a vision.

In the back of her mind she knew she was being somewhat overenthusiastic in an attempt to gloss over her strange blunder with the Doctor, but it worked on multiple levels.

Martha's expression evened out, and her shoulders slumped as she relaxed. Hartley felt a warmth grow in her heart, and she knew she'd successfully moved her out of the negativity and into something that was kinder on herself.

Martha smiled, the expression miles brighter and more sincere than it had been only a moment ago. “You too, Hart,” she said kindly. “Where did you get your dress?”

“TARDIS wardrobe,” she shrugged. “And who knows where she gets the clothes from?”

Martha looked like she had a hoard of questions, but the Doctor interrupted them with a tut. “You humans, you'd gossip all day about fashion and colours if I let you,” he sniffed. “Shall we get going, or would you like to continue talking about the pretty patterns you drape over yourselves because society dictates you must?”

It sounded similar to something the old him – his previous regeneration – had said an eternity ago, back when it was just them and Rose. Hartley was suddenly struck with the reminder that they were the exact same person, just with different exteriors. It was a dizzying thought.

Martha balked at the Doctor's comment. “You really _are_ alien,” she murmured.

“More like _male_ ,” Hartley murmured. Martha snorted out a laugh, and Hartley grinned at her companionably.

The Doctor muttered something about humans that she didn't care to hear, rolling her eyes and moving in the direction of the door.

The TARDIS landed with a violent judder and Martha and Hartley grabbed onto one another in an attempt to stay upright. “Off we go then,” the Doctor said, sweeping past them towards the doors. “This Lazarus fellow,” he began as they all stepped out into the cool evening air, “what do you know about him?”

It wasn't freezing cold, but being spring it was still a little chilly. Hartley had always liked the cold, however, and enjoyed the goosebumps that broke out over her exposed, pale skin.

“Nothing, really,” Martha answered him with a shrug. “Tish hasn't had a chance to tell me anything about her new job, and I never have time to keep up with the news.”

“So we're going in blind,” Hartley murmured, a sinking feeling in her gut.

The Doctor sighed, reaching down to fuss with his cufflinks. “Oh, black tie,” he muttered. “Whenever I wear this, something bad always happens.”

“It's not the outfit, that's just you,” Martha smirked, and while Hartley had to agree, she couldn't help but think of human brains inside metal men, glinting silver bright in her eyes as they raised their weapons up with the intent to kill; to _upgrade._ “Anyway, I think it suits you,” Martha continued on, oblivious to Hartley's inner turmoil, “in a _James Bond_ kind of way.”

“ _James Bond_?” the Doctor echoed dubiously, reaching up then to fuss with the bow tie that Hartley had already fixed. He sounded incredulous, cringing at the comparison, only for the expression to even out into one of hopeful intrigue as he reconsidered it. “Really?”

Hartley giggled, unable to help herself, and Martha joined in. The Doctor looked dangerously close to pouting but he decided not to – probably to try and preserve his dignity – falling silent as they moved towards the doors of the large, towering building.

The words _Lazarus Laboratories_ hung high above them, and Hartley felt a glimmer of foreboding. She was used to it – life with the Doctor was almost never trouble-free, after all. She raised her chin as if silently telling the fates to go screw themselves. She was ready for whatever the universe was going to throw at them. She could handle anything, so long as she had the Doctor at her side.

The Doctor surprised her by holding out an arm when they reached the large staircase leading up to the doors. Taking it with a grateful smile, she allowed him to help keep her balance as they travelled up the stone steps.

The man at the door was scowling, looking very much like he was holder of the worst job in all of space and time. But they were undeterred. Martha was already fishing her invitation from her clutch and the Doctor produced the psychic paper, handing it over to Hartley in a subtle move the man couldn't spot.

“Invitations?” the man asked them tonelessly, a glassy look to his eyes.

Martha held out hers, saying, “this is the Doctor, he's my plus one,” and the man barely glanced up at her as he waved them through. Hartley stepped forwards, holding out the psychic paper with her most confident smile.

The man scanned it, frowning for a moment too long before looking up at her, only to do a double take much like a character in an early morning cartoon might. “Hello,” he greeted her, looking a whole lot more interested in life now that she was standing in front of him. It was flattering, but also wholly unwelcome.

Uncomfortable, Hartley could only murmur an awkward, “hello.”

“You're Ms. Daniels,” he said, as though she didn't already know her own name. “You're one of the largest shareholders in the company – I've heard of you.”

Hartley doubted this, as it wasn't even _true_ , but she smiled demurely and gave a humble nod of her head.

“Did you bring a plus one?” he asked suddenly, scanning the empty space behind her as though someone might suddenly materialise out of thin air and stake their claim. “A boyfriend, or maybe a partner?”

“Are you meant to ask that?” she frowned uncomfortably.

“Just doing my job,” he leered at her in a way that made her skin crawl, and she suddenly wished she wasn't displaying quite so much cleavage.

She was unsure how to proceed. It had been a long time since she'd had any sort of male attention – pretty much as long as she'd been with the Doctor. Even in the past with Jack she'd managed to stay under the local men's radar – though that was mostly because she never left the house and everyone was more infatuated with Jack than her.

There had been one – lovely Henry from the 30s during the time they met Amelia Earhart – but his attention hadn't been unwelcome, and he certainly hadn't been so creepy about it, either.

She was shifting her weight from foot to foot and trying to come up with a clever way to get out of the situation when the Doctor reappeared at her side, winding a long arm around her middle, fingers curling at her waist where the seam of her dress lay.

“Coming, love?” he asked with the utmost ease, and she felt an unexpected thrill at the casual use of the term of endearment. She glanced up at him but he wasn't looking at her. He was staring at the man, a thunderous sort of look to his face, like he was just daring him to say something more.

He backed off instantly, even going so far as to step back and hold out his hands in surrender. He waved them through the doors weakly and the Doctor's hand moved naturally to the small of her back, guiding her through the doors and into the heated air of the building.

Hartley breathed a sigh of relief when the leering man was out of sight. Relaxing into the Doctor, she looked up at him with a smile. He sniffed, guiding her deeper inside the building to where she presumed Martha had already gone. “Thanks, Doc,” she said, warm with gratitude.

The Doctor shrugged like it was no big deal, and she could tell he didn't want to linger on the topic, so she changed the subject as they stepped into a larger room full of people in black tie. With just a single glance she counted so many pearls it made her dizzy.

“Do you think the food'll be good?” she asked the Doctor, pressing a hand against her rumbling stomach.

“Smells good enough!” he said, suddenly enthusiastic as he leapt onto a passing waiter carrying a tray of hors d'oeuvres. “Oh, look, they've got _nibbles_! I love nibbles,” he beamed, hand dropping away from her spine to swipe up a handful of food.

Without him touching her she felt like she could finally breathe again, and she watched as he grinned toothily at the waiter before stuffing one of the nibbles into his mouth, licking his fingers clean without any regard for propriety.

Hartley smiled at him fondly and he grinned back around his mouthful of food, making her snort.

“Hey Martha,” she greeted their friend, who stood off to the side, scanning the crowd, searching for someone.

“Where were you?” Martha asked curiously. “Did the guy at the door hold you up?”

Hartley nodded her head. “Something like that.”

“I guess the psychic paper isn't quite as infallible as advertised,” she said to the Doctor teasingly. He ignored her in favour of snatching up another handful of finger food. Hartley rolled her eyes.

“Hello!” a cheerful voice suddenly greeted them. Hartley turned to see a woman the woman from the television earlier – Martha's sister – hugging Martha with a smile.

“Tish,” Martha greeted her sister warmly.

“You look great,” Tish said with a smile. “So, what do you think? Impressive, isn't it?”

“Very,” Martha agreed.

“And two nights out in a row for you. That's dangerously close to a social life,” she added teasingly. Hartley smiled at the joke – she could relate. As far as social lives went, it was pretty much just her and the Doctor, clumsily traipsing their way throughout the whole of time and space.

“If I keep this up, I'll end up in all the gossip columns,” Martha replied sarcastically.

“You might, actually. You should keep an eye out for photographers. And Mum, she's coming too. Even dragging Leo along with her.”

“Leo in black tie? That I _must_ see,” Martha was saying, but Tish was abruptly distracted by the pair of travellers to her right, staring at them with a polite if not slightly perfunctory smile. “This is, er, the Doctor,” Martha introduced him stiltedly.

“Hello,” he greeted Tish, clumsily wiping his hand on his trousers before shaking her hand. Hartley wanted to laugh, but instead settled for smiling, perhaps just a little too wide to be considered appropriate.

“And that's Hartley,” Martha added, gesturing to her. Hartley held out a hand to shake, gripping firmly and smiling at Tish widely.

“Lovely to meet you,” she said kindly.

“Are they with you?” Tish asked Martha instead of replying. The smile never dropped from her face, a mask of utter professionalism that Hartley had to respect.

“Yeah,” Martha nodded quickly.

Tish's smile became tight. “But they're not on the list. How did they get in?”

“The Doctor's my plus one, and Hart got a last minute invite in the mail,” Martha lied smoothly, impressing Hartley with her quick response. Still, Tish looked like she had questions but before she could begin to ask them, the Doctor interjected, derailing her thought process.

“So, this Lazarus, he's your boss?” he asked conversationally.

“Professor Lazarus, yes. I'm part of his executive staff,” Tish seemed pleased for an opportunity to talk about herself. They could only nod in polite interest, while Martha gave a scoff.

“She's in the PR department,” she rolled her eyes in her sister's direction.

“I'm _head_ of the PR department, actually,” Tish sniped back defensively.

Martha paused. “You're joking.”

“I put this whole thing together.”

“So, do you know what the professor's going to be doing tonight?” the Doctor interrupted them again. Hartley hid a smile, she knew how he hated domestics. “That looks like it might be a sonic microfield manipulator,” he mused, turning to look at the machine in the middle of the room with a critical eye.

“He's a science geek. I should have known,” Tish sounded kind of derisive about it, as if it were somehow a bad thing. Hartley opened her mouth to say something but Tish continued talking, giving her no opportunity. “Got to get back to work now. I'll catch up with you later,” she said, smiling tightly once again before weaving her way back through the growing crowd.

The Doctor watched her go, confused. “Science geek?” he asked, bewildered by the unfamiliar term. “What does that mean?”

“That you're _obsessively_ enthusiastic about it,” Martha answered dryly.

The Doctor smiled widely, like he'd just been paid a compliment. “Oh, nice,” he hummed, grinning after Tish, utterly clueless. Hartley just laughed, shaking her head fondly at his befuddled expression.

A waiter passed with a tray of empty champagne flutes and Hartley wondered how long it'd been since she'd had a real drink. “I might go get a drink,” she told them, glancing over her shoulder at the catering table where a row of full flutes stood shimmering in the overhead lights. “Anyone else want one?”

“None for me,” said the Doctor with a wave of his hand. His eyes were on the room, scanning the sea of people, searching for anything at all that seemed out of place. She left him to his detective work.

“I'd love one, thanks,” Martha said. Hartley nodded, smiling as she headed for the table with the drinks. Someone stopped to talk to her on the way, asking something about the weather and where she got her shoes, and she made light smalltalk for a few moments before politely excusing herself and moving to the table. She picked up two flutes and heading back towards her friends.

They had been joined by two vaguely familiar people – an older woman in a glittering golden dress and a tall man wearing a tuxedo. Something about the way they were all standing just screamed awkwardness, and Hartley sped up, sensing it was her turn to save the Doctor, rather than the other way around.

“Hello,” she greeted them brightly, swiftly cutting through the tension with her happy grin and lighthearted energy. She handed one glass off to Martha, who took it with a tiny smile of relief.

“Mum, this is Hartley Daniels,” she said after taking a healthy sip of the champagne in her flute, as if drawing strength from the bubbles. “She's a friend of the Doctor's – and mine.”

“Lovely to meet you,” Hartley said, holding out her hand to shake. The woman took it with a skeptical frown, but Hartley wasn't to be deterred. “My friends call me Hart,” she added with a smile so bright the blind could see it. “You're Francine?” The older woman nodded, so Hartley turned to the man with another brilliant grin, one that no such tension could possibly withstand. “And that must make you Leo.”

“Yeah,” he shook her hand as well, giving a grin. Hartley thought absently that he really was rather attractive. She pulled away and stepped closer to the Doctor. His hand moved up automatically, palm pressing gently once more to the small of her back. Hartley watched as Francine's eyes followed the movement, her heart full of suspicion.

Hartley wasn't sure what it was they'd done to warrant such a reaction, but she wasn't about to ask her to clarify. Not with tensions running so high.

“I heard Tish was the one to organise this whole event,” she added conversationally, keeping her tone light and easy. “She did an amazing job, you must be so proud.”

And in the end not even Martha's mother wasn't immune to Hartley's charm. She gave a very reluctant smile along with a vague nod just as the lights dimmed and there was the sound of cutlery against glass to gain everybody's attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am Professor Richard Lazarus and tonight I am going to perform a miracle,” the older man from the television began to say, and they all turned to see him standing beside the looming device in the centre of the room, a small smile on his weathered lips. “It is, I believe, the most important advance since Rutherford split the atom, the biggest leap since Armstrong stood on the moon,” he told them proudly, and Hartley could feel the Doctor tensing from beside her at his brash promises. “Tonight, you will watch and wonder. Tomorrow, you will wake to a world which will be changed forever.”

The man, Lazarus, handed off his cane and opened the door to the device, which she realised now to be a sort of chamber. He stepped inside and shut the door after him. Without any fanfare the machine came to life, whirring loudly and flashing bright light in their faces. The columns around the outside were moving, spinning around the chamber so fast they disappeared into mere blurs of colour.

Hartley wasn't scientifically minded. She had no idea what the man could possibly be doing, but when she looked over at the Doctor and saw his horrified expression, she knew that whatever was happening wasn't anything good.

It seemed to go on forever, the roar of sound and the blinding lights, but then a new noise cut over the whir of the machine, this one a ringing alarm that made the Doctor snap into action.

“Something's wrong,” he spoke quietly, but Hartley heard him perfectly even over the rest of the noise. “It's overloading.” He broke into a run, shouting a rushed, “protect them!” to Hartley over his shoulder.

Taking her job seriously, Hartley angled herself in front of the Jones family, prepared to take the hit should something go wrong. Of course if the whole building exploded there was nothing her pitiful human shield would do, but she could try nevertheless.

There was shouting from the frightened partygoers around her but Hartley stayed where she was, keeping the Jones family safe. Her eyes locked onto the smoking machine, hands balled into small fists. The Doctor was working at the computers down the back of the room, sonic in hand. Unsurprisingly, he was doing something right. The machine whirred to a slow stop, and before it had even completely died down Martha was forcefully pushing her way around Hartley and climbing up onto the raised stage, wrenching the door open with both hands.

Hartley admired her courage – who knew what had happened inside that thing? The fumes could have been toxic for all Martha knew, but she did it anyway, only out of concern for her fellow human being. A newfound respect grew in Hartley for the woman, but all thoughts of praise were wiped from her mind when a figure stumbled from the depths of the chamber.

The crowd gasped as one, their shock so intense it hurt Hartley's teeth with the force of it.

Clenching her jaw in reaction, Hartley was astounded to see it wasn't a decrepit old man hobbling out of the machine, but rather a youthful man with smooth skin and light blond hair. Hartley wanted to believe it wasn't real, because surely he couldn't have _de-aged_ himself. But with one look over at the Doctor's appalled expression she knew it was anything but an illusion.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am Richard Lazarus,” he proclaimed to his audience, who gasped as one, staring at the man in absolute shock, “I am seventy six years old and I am _reborn_!”

The crowd applauded him wildly, praising his monumental achievement, but Hartley could only stare. What did this mean for the future? The one she'd visited and experienced? What did this mean for the fate of humankind?

The now-young Lazarus waded into the crowd where people where practically tripping over themselves in their excitement to meet him, or get the chance to touch his skin, like he were some kind of messiah. Hartley felt sick to the stomach by it all.

This wasn't something to praise. It was something to abhor.

“It can't be the same guy,” Martha was hissing to the Doctor, gaping at the carefree Lazarus in horror. Hartley was relieved that at least one person in the room could see this for what it truly was. “It's _impossible._ It must be a trick,” she said, struggling to believe it.

“Oh, it's not a trick,” the Doctor muttered darkly, half distracted as he scrutinised the now forgotten machine that had worked such impossible wonders. “I wish it were.”

“What just happened then?” Martha asked confusedly.

The Doctor was quiet for a moment, but when he spoke his voice was hollow with foreboding. “He just changed what it means to be human.”

Hartley had seen plenty of wonders in her time since meeting the Doctor, impossible, magical miracles spread throughout the cosmos. But in that time she'd also learned that just because you _could_ do something, it didn't mean you _should._ Hartley turned to look at Lazarus, finding him talking with an aged woman, a self-satisfied smirk on his waxen face.

He didn't care about the gravity of what he'd just done; he was simply high on success. Hartley couldn't help but think it was all about to go horribly, abysmally wrong.

“We need to speak with him,” the Doctor decided suddenly, marching towards the de-aged scientist without stopping to consider whether it was a good idea. Hartley and Martha were left scrambling to catch up. Lazarus was now eagerly stuffing his face with hors d'oeuvres, ravenous with hunger.

“But what are we meant to say?” Martha hissed at the Doctor's retreating figure. But the Time Lord didn't reply.

“Believe me,” Hartley told Martha in an undertone as they followed, eyeing the scientist up ahead with caution, “it's best just to let him get it out of his system. You get used to it.”

“Used to what?” Martha asked, but by then they'd already reached Lazarus. Hartley watched him stuff food into his mouth like a man who hadn't eaten in weeks. It reminded her of how starved she felt after one her revivals, and she felt uncomfortable at the comparison.

“Energy deficit,” the Doctor strolled right up beside Lazarus, hands tucked into his trouser pockets. He looked startlingly casual, giving off an air of intelligence that usually worked to catch the right people's attention. “Always happens with this kind of process,” he sniffed knowingly.

Lazarus' eyes narrowed. “You speak as if you see this every day, Mister...?” he trailed off around his mouthful. It wasn't nearly as endearing on him as it had been on the Doctor, Hartley noted with a grimace of disgust.

“Doctor,” the Time Lord corrected him primly. “And well, no, not _every_ day, but I have some experience of this kind of transformation.”

Lazarus gave a derisive scoff. “That's not possible.”

“Using hypersonic sound waves to create a state of resonance. That's _inspired_ ,” the Doctor hummed.

Lazarus was struck with surprise that faded quickly into suspicion. “You understand the theory, then,” he said shortly.

The Doctor's expression grew dark. “Enough to know that you couldn't possibly have allowed for all the variables,” he said, voice flat with disapproval that even the most oblivious of humans could have detected.

But Lazarus was unbothered. “No experiment is entirely without risk,” he shrugged. Hartley watched as the Doctor's face dropped into something resembling the oncoming clouds of a storm. She shifted her weight, wondering if she would have to step in. The Doctor rarely lost his temper, but something about this adventure seemed to have the alien on edge, more so than usual.

“That thing nearly exploded,” the Doctor said darkly. “You might as well have stepped into a _blender._ ”

“You're not qualified to comment,” came a sudden voice. Hartley glanced down at an older woman she hadn't noticed before, stood to Lazarus' left. She was flabbergasted at the gall of the Doctor, and Hartley got the feeling she was big on propriety. She was glaring at the Doctor with cold, beady little eyes, dislike simmering under her skin.

Hartley felt indignation flare in her gut, this time totally her own. “Actually, if he hadn't _stopped_ the machine it would have exploded, killing every single person in this building,” she informed the woman tartly.

There was a flare of interest from Lazarus, but it melted away as he caught sight of the Doctor's glare. “Then I _thank_ you, Doctor,” Lazarus said silkily, anything but sincere. “But that's a simple engineering issue. What happened inside the capsule was _exactly_ what was supposed to happen. No more, no less.”

“You've no way of knowing that until you've run _proper_ tests,” Martha interjected without missing a beat, staring back at the man imploringly.

“Look at me,” he countered arrogantly. “You can _see_ what happened. I'm all the proof you need.”

Hartley snorted. “You call yourself a scientist?” she asked snidely. Lazarus' eyes narrowed, but he didn't comment, turning away as if she wasn't worth his time.

The unnamed woman at his side, however, sent her a glare that could rival the Doctor's. When she spoke it was in a prim and proper voice, the sound of it grating on Hartley's nerves. “This device will be properly certified before we start to operate commercially,” she told them shortly. Hartley might as well have been able to see the dollar signs flashing in her eyes.

“Commercially?” Martha was incredulous. “You're _joking._ That'll cause chaos.”

“Not chaos; change,” Lazarus corrected, utterly unemotional. “A chance for humanity to evolve, to improve.”

“This isn't about improving,” the Doctor's voice was like ice. Hartley began to seriously consider stepping in, derailing the conversation before her friend could get any more worked up. “This is about you and your customers living a little longer,” the Doctor spat, the words with disgust.

“Not a _little_ longer, Doctor. A _lot_ longer,” Lazarus sneered. “Perhaps indefinitely.”

And suddenly Hartley was interested in stopping the coming battle. Instead she wanted to argue the point. Wanted to tell him it was wrong – _unnatural;_ but how hypocritical would that be? A sadness fell over her, a sort of self-hatred that she couldn't control.

Lazarus may have been an idiot, but he was an observant one. He shifted closer as if sensing she was vulnerable, like a shark smelling blood in the water.

“Do you disagree, Ms...?” he trailed off, holding out a hand for her to take.

She didn't want to touch him, like it might make her dirty, but she wasn't going to brush him off so blatantly. She didn't have it in her.

She took his hand, reluctantly allowing him to press a kiss to the back of it. She only just barely kept from grimacing at the hot press of his lips against her skin. She felt a flare of interest and arousal from him as he leered at her, and she tried not to retch at the sensation, shoving forcefully at her empathic abilities, attempting to lock them away before they made her physically sick.

“Ms. Daniels,” she told him in a voice layered with distaste and just as hollow as the Doctor's had been. Lazarus didn't seem to take any notice, seeing only what he wanted to see. “And I do disagree, yes,” she answered his question without hesitation, chin tilted up defiantly.

“And why is that?” he asked, voice slimy as he kept hold of her hand in a too-tight grip. She was glad she was able to keep her fingers from trembling, giving nothing away.

“Nobody should live forever,” she said, the words holding an edge of pain; of personal experience.

Lazarus peered at her, intrigued. “Are you saying that if you were offered the opportunity of immortality, you would not take it, Ms. Daniels?” he asked smugly, as though with this argument he had already won. Why was it always the ones who _thought_ they knew everything that really knew nothing at all?

That familiar self-loathing reared its ugly head in her stomach, and she shifted at the feeling, swallowing thickly. “If I _had_ the choice – no, I wouldn'tchoose to be immortal,” she said with the kind of conviction that no other human on the face of the Earth, except Jack, could understand.

She felt the weight of the Doctor's stare on the side of her face, but she kept her eyes locked with Lazarus, hoping beyond hope that just _maybe_ he would listen to the most sincere warning she knew how to give.

“Hm,” Lazarus hummed, eyeing her like a hungry dog and for the second time that night a man made her skin crawl with disgust. “You are _something_ ,” he said in what was surely meant to be a flirtatious voice, but instead it just made her feel like she was in desperate need of a shower.

“Richard,” that old woman interjected sharply, roughly pushing by Hartley in an attempt to snatch Lazarus' focus back, “we have things to discuss. _Upstairs._ ”

She stormed off with her nose in the air, jealousy prickling at her skin.

“Goodbye, Doctor,” Lazarus sneered. “In a few years, you'll look back and _laugh_ at how wrong you were,” he assured him blithely before turning to Martha for a handshake. Confused, the young doctor took his hand, only to gape when he instead pressed an open mouthed kiss to the back of it. As he kissed Martha his eyes remained focused on Hartley. She threw up a little in her mouth.

He must have liked something about her sickened expression – perhaps mistaking it for jealousy – because he smirked a final time, then turned and strolled after the old woman like he owned the bloody world.

The trio of travellers stood in silence for a moment, watching him go with varying degrees of perturbation.

“Oh, he's out of his depth,” the Doctor eventually muttered, voice low and rumbling, like the foreboding sound of distant thunder before the storm finally hit. “No _idea_ of the damage he might have done.”

“So what do we do now?” Martha asked.

“Now?” the Doctor murmured. “Well, this building must be full of laboratories. I say we do our own tests.”

Martha paused, seeming to consider something before lifting her hand with a coy little grin. “Lucky I've just collected a DNA sample then, isn't it?” she said sweetly.

The Doctor's grin was contagious, both Martha and Hartley found themselves smiling back. “Oh, Martha Jones, you're a _star,_ ” he beamed, pressing a hand to both of their backs and leading them deeper into the building. “There's got to be a directory around here somewhere,” he said as they slipped out into a hallway off to the side of the room, successfully escaping the notice of the security patrolling the gala.

Off to the far side of the corridor was a wall with a large map hanging on its surface. Hartley spied it first, dragging them over to it with firm hands, glancing over her shoulder to be sure they hadn't been followed by security.

“Second floor,” the Doctor exclaimed, pressing a finger to the image room they needed before racing towards the lift without waiting for either of them to catch up. Hartley and Martha gave matching eye rolls as they hurried to follow.

It had been a long time since Hartley had ran in heels, but it was a skill that was sort of like riding a bike; once you knew how, you never forgot.

Thankfully the Doctor had enough patience to hold the doors of the lift for them and they all slipped inside, taking it up to the second floor and stepping out into an empty, sterile corridor that seemed to stretch on for ages.

“This way,” the Doctor said, turning left and making his way down the hall.

“How do you know?” Martha asked skeptically.

“Memorised the map,” he replied in the ultimate 'duh' tone of voice. She huffed in response but the Doctor paid no mind, pulling out his sonic screwdriver and using it on a door halfway down the corridor. It clicked open and he slipped inside, pocketing the sonic as he strolled up to the computers with all the confidence of a man who belonged there.

The room was filled with several hulking pieces of equipment that Hartley couldn't have even begun to understand the purposes of. Suddenly feeling so intensely out of her depth, Hartley could only pause in the doorway warily before clearing her throat loudly. Martha and the Doctor were both already moving over to the devices and beginning to turn them on with a practised ease that came from years of study and inherent intelligence, but at the sound they turned to look at her.

“I'll stand watch,” she said, the only slightly useful thing she could think of to offer.

“You sure?” the Doctor was frowning, pausing his task for a brief moment to look at her.

“Someone's gotta be the muscle in this team,” she told him with an attempted grin, falling back on wry humour to try and mask how suddenly inadequate she felt in comparison to the two doctors before her.

“You?” Martha sounded amused, which was actually _kind_ of offensive.

“Stronger than I look,” she said simply, which may _not_ have been true. She wasn't very strong, but her training with Jack was enough that she knew how to use an opponents strength against them, and wasn't it basically the same thing? She could protect them – with her life, if it came down to it. Literally. “You guys get started,” she ordered, reaching forwards and picking up a wrench that was laying idle on the bench, tossing it in the air and catching it with deft fingers, just glad she hadn't embarrassed herself by dropping it to the floor.

Martha and the Doctor both turned back to the equipment while Hartley remained in the doorway, door half-closed behind her while her head remained out in the hall, looking each way to make sure they weren't caught.

She could hear the other two babbling scientific talk behind her but she tuned them out with ease. Her heels were beginning to hurt, a long-forgotten pain that she hadn't experienced in years. But she welcomed it, like a sense of stereotypical normalcy that she'd forgotten existed.

She could hear the faint sound of music drifting up from the floor below them, some beautiful classical song that was heavy with violin. She hummed along, testing the weight of the wrench in her hand. She wondered what Jack might say if he were there.

Stop moping about not knowing what an atom is made up of; you're better than that. You're smart and capable, and don't you forget it, Pretty Lady.

She could practically hear his voice in her ear and she felt a throb of longing for the man who had become more of a sibling than her own sister had ever been.

“Hart!” the Doctor called from inside the room, and she very nearly dropped the wrench she still held, scrambling to grip it properly before spinning around to peer at him curiously. “We figured it out,” he said, abandoning the work station and heading for the door where she still stood.

“What's happening?” she asked quickly, listening to an absent Jack's advice and stopping her moping, focusing on the task at hand.

“Basically, his molecular structure is mutating – it's in a constant state of flux,” he explained as he approached.

“And that's bad, yeah?”

“Very,” he nodded, and she was glad he didn't seem to be looking down at her for not completely understanding.

She hadn't really thought he would – she was just being paranoid. She did that sometimes, assumed the worst before it could happen, that way she wasn't let down.

“He's... _changing,_ ” the Doctor continued, oblivious to her inner monologue.

“You mean kind of like your regeneration?” she asked, eyes wide as she wondered what it looked like for the Doctor to change everything he was, and what problems it might create if Lazarus was doing the same thing..

But the Doctor put those fears at rest, replacing them with much, much worse ones. “No, nothing like that,” he told her solemnly. “This is much, _much_ more dangerous.”

She paused. “For him? Or for everyone around him?”

The Doctor frowned, the weight of it heavy in her chest. “Both.”

Martha finally caught up to them, having taken the extra time to erase all their activity from the system. It was smart, Hartley realised, something she wouldn't have thought to do herself.

“This way,” the Doctor led them from the room, the door creaking shut behind them. “We need to find him before he mutates completely. Who _knows_ what'll happen then?” He sped up at his own words, and Hartley and Martha hurried to keep up. “His office is this way!” he called, slipping through a door to the left and taking them down another hallway, this one ending in a set of large, oak doors.

“This is his office, all right,” Martha muttered as they stepped inside. Hartley still held the wrench in her hand, prepared to use it if necessary. It was a pretty pathetic excuse for a weapon, but also the best she could do under such short notice.

“So where is he?” the Doctor mused, moving further into the room and giving it a once-over. It was large and spacious, with an arrogant sort of minimalist feel. Hartley couldn't see anyone – couldn't _feel_ anyone, either – and she relaxed once it was clear they were alone.

“Don't know. Let's try back at the reception...” Martha suddenly gasped. Hartley snapped back to attention, wrench moving up in preparation for an attack. Only there was no assault. Martha took off, jogging to the other end of the spacious office so she was on the other side of a massive, polished desk. Hartley and the Doctor followed, only for the former to stop short when she realised exactly what it was Martha had found.

It was what looked like a mummified corpse, laying on the ground in a familiar, conservative black dress. It was the woman from earlier, the older one who'd been associated with Lazarus. Martha and the Doctor crouched by her body, assessing it with educated eyes.

Hartley remained standing, staring down at the mummified body in dismay. “Is that Lady Thaw?” Martha asked quickly. Hartley felt a painful stab of guilt – she hadn't even known the woman's _name._

“Used to be. Now it's just a shell,” the Doctor said, his voice thick with curiosity but not pity. Hartley wondered whether that was a good thing or not. “Had all the life energy drained out – like squeezing the juice out of an orange.”

“Lazarus?”

“What else could it be?” Hartley asked, brow so furrowed it began to ache.

“So he's changed already?”

“Not necessarily,” the Doctor shook his head. “You saw the DNA. It was fluctuating. The process must _demand_ energy. This might not have been enough.”

“So he might do this _again_?” Martha was horrified, but the Doctor could only hum the possibility. “We have to go,” she hissed, clumsily climbing to her feet and hurrying from the room. The Doctor was quick to follow, but Hartley waited a moment longer, sending a silent prayer of mourning to whomever may be listening, on behalf of the now deceased Lady Thaw.

“Hartley!” the Doctor called from the hall and she began to run, catching up to them just in time to step onto the lift, the doors sliding shut after her with a ding.

“What do you think he'll do next?” Martha asked as the lift began its descent to the ground floor.

“If it's life energy he's craving, I think he'll be looking for another victim,” said the Doctor thinly.

“And after that one, and the next?” Hartley asked anxiously. “When will he stop?”

“I don't think he ever will,” he told her just s the lift dinged again and the three of them spilled out into the party once more. The partygoers sent the three of them strange looks as they all moved through the room, almost tripping over one another in an effort to find Lazarus.

“I can't see him!” Martha shouted to them over the combined hum of chatter and music.

“He can't be far. Keep looking,” the Doctor ordered her, spinning in a wide circle.

Hartley began to reach out with that new muscle of hers, searching for the kind of ravenous hunger that only Lazarus would be able to feel.

“Hey, you all right, Martha? I think Mum wants to talk to you,” Martha's brother Leo appeared, speaking above the noise and bringing Martha to a stop. Hartley and the Doctor continued to scan the room, paying Martha's family no mind.

An older couple to Hartley's right were staring at her oddly. It took a long moment for her to realise it was because she still held the rather large wrench in her hand, the scuffed metal tool standing out amongst the delicate handbags and champagne flutes everybody else was holding onto.

She attempted a charming smile but the couple turned away with judgemental mutters. Her smile collapsed into a frown as she self-consciously hid the dirty wrench behind her back.

“Have you seen Lazarus anywhere?” Martha was asking her brother.

“Yeah, well, he _was_ getting cosy with Tish a couple of minutes ago,” Leo told her around a smirk.

“With _Tish_?”

“Ah, Doctor,” at that moment Francine reappeared, marching up to them like a woman on a mission. She was full of intention, curiosity bubbling in her heart. Hartley glanced at her warily, something in her gut telling her that this wasn't going to lead to anything good.

“Where did they go?” the Doctor snapped at Leo impatiently, no time to speak with anyone's mother.

“Upstairs, I think. Why?” he asked innocently. But the Doctor didn't explain, pushing past the small family. Francine's drink spilled all over herself at his carelessness, and Hartley winced as she – much more delicately than he had – slid around them too.

“Doctor – I'm _speaking_ to you!” Francine hollered after him, absolutely appalled by his lack of manners.

“So sorry about that,” Hartley quickly apologised for him, as was becoming something of a custom. The Doctor caused trouble, she followed around after to clean up the mess he left in his wake. She wished she didn't like it as much as she did. “He's a little...distracted,” she explained awkwardly.

Francine opened her mouth to say something, perhaps an argument or a scolding, but she never got the chance, cut off as the Doctor call of Hartley's name from his place at the lifts. Hartley winced apologetically, casting the small family a wave even as she leapt into the lift after her alien, letting it take them back up towards the floor that held Lazarus' office.

“Little bit rude,” she told the Doctor with a puff as the metal box drew slowly upwards.

“Yeah, manners aren't really at the top of my priority list right now, Hartley,” he told her sharply. She rolled her eyes at his attitude, listening to the sound of his shoe as it tapped out an anxious beat on the floor of the lift.

“Is he – is he gonna do to Tish what he did to Lady Thaw?” Martha suddenly asked, anxious and scared, and Hartley blinked in surprise, having almost forgotten she was even in there with them.

The Doctor stared back a moment, considering. “Do you want the truth?” he finally asked, empty of emotion.

Martha swallowed. “Yes.”

“Then yes.”

Martha looked away, crossing her arms to hide her trembling fingers, but Hartley saw them anyway.

The doors opened and once more the three of them barrelled down the halls of the building towards Lazarus' office. Bursting through the doors, Hartley was ready for a fight, only to come to a sudden stop when they found it once again devoid of life.

“Where are they?” Martha demanded, as though either of them knew.

“Fluctuating DNA will give off an energy signature,” the Doctor said, fishing his sonic from his pocket and holding it up to the light as he adjusted the settings. “I might be able to pick it up.”

The sonic lit up, the sound of its buzzing echoing throughout the large, empty room. He moved it across, searching for the energy signature he knew would lead them to Lazarus.

“Got him,” he said, and Hartley whirled around like the mutated Lazarus might suddenly burst through the wall across from them and attack.

“Where?” Martha asked anxiously. His only answer was to angle the sonic towards the ceiling, face scrunched in consternation. “But this is the top floor,” she argued.

“But what's one step _higher_ than the top floor?” Hartley asked, thinking quickly.

“The roof,” Martha gasped.

This time she was the one leading them, barrelling towards the emergency exit in the corner, the one they knew, logically, must lead to the stairs. The door thankfully didn't have an alarm wired into it, and they took the stairs two at a time in an effort to reach the roof in time to save their friend's sister from a truly horrible fate.

Before they reached the door the Doctor held out an arm, stopping them both and holding a finger to his lips. Though Martha was reluctant she still obediently followed his orders, making her steps silent and following him out onto the roof, Hartley close behind.

Up on the roof, surrounded by the crisp night air, Hartley was momentarily distracted by the view.

The city stretched out before them, London's lights glowing enchantingly. She wondered suddenly if any of the people in the city were in danger. Should they fail in either curing or stopping Lazarus, would anybody else get hurt? She could help but feel like the responsibility of it rested heavily on their shoulders; as it so often did.

She was pulled from her fleeting distraction by the sound of Lazarus' voice. He was quoting a passage she was intimately familiar with.

“Between the idea and the reality, between the motion and the act-”

“Falls the Shadow,” she completed the passage without so much as a blip of hesitation. All eyes flew to her and she flushed under the scrutiny. 

“Stunningly beautiful _and_ an Eliot fan,” Lazarus leered at her, making Tish bristle from beside him. “Well, aren't you a double threat?”

“Four published books and a _Masters_ in Literature from Cambridge, and here I am, reduced to an 'Eliot fan',” she muttered to the Doctor dryly. He gave a low snort of a laugh.

Lazarus, on the other hand, cocked an eyebrow at her words. She felt him only grow more intrigued by her show of fire, and she wanted to gag when she felt his spike of interest like a palpable thing.

“Martha, what are you doing here?” Tish hissed, glaring daggers with her eyes.

“Tish, get away from him,” Martha warned carefully, arms held out as if she could reach across the feet between them and snatch her sister to safety.

Tish scoffed. “What? Don't tell me what to do.”

“I wouldn't have thought you had time for poetry, Lazarus, what with you being busy defying the laws of _nature_ and all,” the Doctor said dryly. Hartley crossed her arms over the fabric of her dress, her eyes focused on Lazarus, watching his every move. She told herself she'd be ready if he attempted any sort of attack, but she couldn't make the promise aloud.

“You're right, Doctor. One lifetime's been too short for me to do everything I'd like. How much more will I get done in two, or three, or _four_?” Lazarus mused with a cocky smirk that Hartley found herself desperately wanting to smack off.

“It doesn't work like that. Some people live more in _twenty_ years than others do in _eighty,_ ” the Doctor argued, gentle and not at all confrontational. Hartley knew that if there was a way to settle this amicably, the Doctor would find it. “It's not the time that matters, it's the person.”

“But if it's the _right_ person,” Lazars countered, “what a gift that would be.”

“Or what a _curse._ Look at what you've done to yourself.”

Lazarus' face dropped into a disdainful frown. “Who are you to judge me?” he asked the Doctor, quivering with barely-suppressed anger. Hartley could feel the way it burned at his nerves, like the flames of a fire burning deep in his body. She feared it might soon consume him entirely.

“Over here, Tish,” Martha said, anxiously waving her sister away from Lazarus.

“You have to spoil everything, don't you?” Tish hissed, upset by the interference. “Every time I find someone nice, you have to go and find fault.”

“Tish, he's a _monster_!”

“I know the age thing's a bit freaky, but it works for Catherine Zeta-Jones,” Tish argued.

“Tish,” Hartley interjected, not usually one to lose her patience, but desperate times. “Turn around.” The younger woman blinked in confusion, but then obediently turned around to see what all the others could.

Lazarus was no longer in the form of a human. Instead he'd morphed into a massive kind of skeletal scorpion, like nothing you would ever find on present-day Earth. It lifted its thick neck to reveal the stretched, waxy skin of a human face.

“What's that?” Tish asked weakly, not able to comprehend what she was seeing before her.

“Run!” the Doctor shouted, wasting no time answering Tish's redundant question. Hartley was surprised to feel his hand slip into hers, but relief flooded her at his touch. She was grateful for the extra support, as sprinting away from a giant monster _hadn't_ been what she'd had in mind when she'd picked out her shoes for the evening. The door was only a few metres away and the Doctor yanked her in after them, letting her go to sonic it shut, then hurrying down the stairs after her, taking them two at a time.

The staircase was tricky to navigate at the speed they were travelling. She was sure she was going to twist an ankle, and by the time she'd reached the bottom she'd completely given up.

Pausing in her escape, Hartley reached down to unbuckle her impractical, towering heels. “Don't really have time for a wardrobe change, Hartley,” the Doctor called over the roars and bangs of Lazarus trying to get through the locked door separating them.

She ignored him, yanking off her second shoe, staring at them mournfully for a beat and then throwing them at the Doctor purely out of spite. They hit him in the shoulder and then fell to the floor with a thud. The Time Lord grabbed his bruised shoulder, wincing.

“Is now really the time to go barefoot?” he asked with a sniff. “We're not exactly at the beach.”

“Do _you_ wanna wear the heels?” she sniped back.

He grimaced at her sass, but they were broken from the familiar banter by another roar, this one seeming to shake the very foundations of the building they stood in. The lights went out, only the low glow of the emergency lighting allowing them to see, and a repetitive alarm blared throughout the entire building.

“What's happening?” Martha asked her sister quickly.

“An intrusion,” Tish answered, trembling with fear as she glanced up at the door where Lazarus was still desperately trying to break in. “It triggers a security lockdown. Kills most of the power. Stops the lifts, seals the exits.”

“He must be breaking through that door,” the Doctor said heavily, baring his teeth in frustration before turning towards the staircase leading back down to the lower levels. “The stairs, come on!” he called over the alarms.

He reached for Hartley's hand again as though it were instinct, and she took it even though she didn't have any shoes slowing her down. She ran with him, the mesh skirts of her dress swirling wildly around her knees

They were barely halfway down the first flight of stairs when there was another great roar and the deafening bang of the roof's door being smashed in. “He's inside!” Martha screamed.

“We haven't got much time!” the Doctor yelled back.

Hartley pushed herself as fast as she could, her bare feet slapping against the cold metal of the stairs, legs aching from the pace. The building was only three floors high, and Hartley was in exceptional shape from their constant stream of adventures. But still, the exercise coupled with the panic had her puffing by the time they reached the ground floor where all the gala's guests were staring around at one another in bewilderment at the sound of the blaring alarm.

“Tish, is there another way out of here?” the Doctor demanded, voice carrying in the large, cavernous room.

“There's an exit in the corner, but it'll be locked now,” Tish gasped for breath.

“Martha, setting fifty four. Hurry!” he ordered as he tossed her his sonic, which she managed to just barely catch with the tips of her fingers. “This way,” he continued in the same breath, retaking Hartley's hand and dragging her towards the podium along the far wall.

He didn't hesitate to leap up onto the podium, eyes shining with worry.

“Listen to me! You people are in serious danger!” he shouted to the crowd at large. He received only dubious silence in reply. “You need to get out of here right now!” he bellowed gravely.

“Don't be ridiculous,” a woman near the front finally sneered. “The biggest danger here is choking on an olive.”

From above them there was the sound of smashed glass and then an almighty roar. Finally, chaos overcame the crowd.

People shrieked in terror as they laid eyes on the mutated Lazarus. It reared its head, human face glinting wetly in the lights, and it snarled ferociously. It looked even bigger to Hartley now that it was in a smaller space, and her heart stuttered in her chest.

The Doctor dashed away without pausing to explain why, but Hartley was too focused on getting as many people out of the building as possible to bother finding out why. In the far corner she could see Martha had finally gotten the doors open, and the sea of panicking partygoers were pouring out through them like a thunderous stampede. Some people, however, were frozen in their shock, staring up at the monster in abject horror.

“Go!” Hartley yelled, but her cries were lost over the thing's wild screeches.

She didn't think, she just acted, throwing herself off the podium and racing across the floor. A young waiter was sobbing distraughtly in the corner, and she grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him fiercely as she pushed him in the direction of the doors.

“Run!” she shouted in his ear. The poor guy gave a terrified cry as one of Lazarus' bony legs got a little too close for comfort, a wave of hot, rot-scented air rushing by their faces. “ _Go!_ ” she screamed again and with a final shout of fear, he obeyed, fleeing out the doors with the others.

Spinning in a circle, Hartley looked for others to help and found the same woman who had scoffed derisively at the Doctor just moments ago. She was staring up at the monster, mouth agape in her horror.

“No! Get away from her!” the Doctor shouted at the beast, and again Hartley didn't take a moment to think. She was still holding the wrench in her free hand, the metal slick with sweat from her grip, and she figured now was as good of a time to use it as any.

Taking barely a beat to aim she threw it squarely at Lazarus' head. He moved while it was in the air but it still hit him on the chest, dragging his attention away from the woman.

The Doctor took hold of the distraction she'd created, appearing by the terrified woman's side and urging her from the building.

Only problem was, now Lazarus' attention was focused solely on Hartley, who had absolutely no clue what to do next. Death by giant-mutated-scorpion would definitely be a new one – and she could only _hope_ that having the life-energy sucked out of her was something she would actually be able to wake up from. She wasn't in the mood to test her gift's limits now.

“You don't want to do this, Lazarus!” she yelled up at him, scrambling for something, _anything_ to say that might stop his path of destruction and save them all. _What would the Doctor do?_ she asked herself. The answer was, of course: _talk._ “You don't want to hurt people! You just want to help them! That's all you've ever wanted to do!” she shouted desperately.

The creature – Lazarus – suddenly hesitated, pausing in his vicious attack. She was admittedly shocked that it had worked, but her surprise wore off when he didn't stay idle for long, letting out another thunderous roar and thrusting his barbed tail in her direction.

Letting out a frightened shriek, she ducked it just in time, only barely avoiding a hit to the face.

“Lazarus!” the Doctor's voice distracted him, and the scientist-turned-abomination turned his attention away from a panting Hartley. Instead he focused on the Doctor, finding him glaring up at him with all the force of a raging monsoon. “ _You don't touch her_!” he bellowed, his voice almost as thunderous as the creature's roar.

The force of it surprised Hartley, as well as the wave of protectiveness that swept over her, all of it emanating from the furious Doctor who was too busy saving them all to spare the time to hide his emotions away where she couldn't see.

Lazarus roared at the Time Lord, who realised he now had its full attention, taking quick advantage of the situation. The strange feeling Hartley felt herself caught up in suddenly abated and she whirled around to stare at Lazarus. Her hands balled into fists, prepared to start swinging no matter how pointless it would prove to be against a monster of his size.

“What's the point? You can't control it. The mutation's too strong. Killing those people won't help you!” the Doctor yelled up at it, and much like it had with Hartley it paused, listening to his words.

That surely meant there was some shred of his humanity left. Some part of Lazarus still remained. She let herself latch onto hope.

“You're a _fool,_ ” the Doctor suddenly shouted, and Hartley started in surprise, staring at the Doctor incredulously. She hadn't expected him to _goad_ the thing – she could only hope he had a plan and wasn't just acting on a whim. “A vain old man who thought he could defy nature. Only Nature got her own back, didn't she? You're a _joke_ , Lazarus! A footnote in the history of _failure_!” the Doctor snarled.

Abruptly he turned, taking off down the corridor. Lazarus chased after him without a second thought, infuriated by his mocking words. “ _That_ was your plan?!” Hartley screamed after him in sheer exasperation. He didn't hear her, just sprinting away with Lazarus nipping at his heels. She'd thought he was trying to reason with it, not lure it away as bait.

_Bloody alien._

Like always, all she could do was trust that the Doctor knew what he was doing. She knew what he'd want her to do next, and promptly rushed down to where the Jones family was heading for the stairs. “Hart?!” Martha called but Hartley didn't stop, gripping their arms and pushing them forwards, herding them from the building.

“Go, go, go,” she barked, glancing back just to be positive Lazarus was gone.

“But it's gone!” Francine argued.

“Probably not for long,” she replied, guiding them hastily down the stairs. She hissed when she felt a sharp pain in her feet, and with a glance down she found it to be glass from a smashed champagne flute. Tears sprang into her eyes but she couldn't stop, she didn't have that luxury. She kept running, biting her lip in an effort to keep from crying out in pain.

The foyer was full of people, and Tish was shouting, “we can't get out. We're trapped!”

Hartley looked over at Martha who still held the sonic in her hand. “There must be an override switch,” she said, thinking quickly. “Where's the security desk?”

“There!” Tish pointed and Martha didn't hesitate, throwing herself over the desk and using the sonic on the machinery behind it.

Hartley shifted her weight from foot to foot, trying to keep the pain from growing to be too much to handle. There was little she could do but endure it.

It felt like hours passed but really it was only a few moments. Finally the lights flickered back on, lighting up the entrance, and the doors opened with a click. The panicked crowd streamed out, tripping over themselves in their haste to escape.

Disregarding her pain, she turned to where Martha was climbing back over the desk, straightening her dress and glancing up at Hartley with wide eyes.

“Good job!” Hartley told her as enthusiastically as she could manage through the blinding pain in her feet. Martha hadn't noticed the bloody footprints she was leaving on the carpet, but that was for the best. “Now I've got to go get the Doc,” she added, turning to look over her shoulder on the off chance the Doctor might reappear. There was no such luck.

“What about me?!” demanded Martha.

“You should stay with your family,” Hartley told her in a rush.

But Martha only scoffed. “Fat chance,” she said strongly.

Hartley hesitated, wavering where she stood. She didn't want to put Martha in unnecessary danger, but it seemed like an all-hands-on-deck sort of situation. “Okay,” she agreed, shifting her weight to her heels and trying not to let Martha see the pain on her face. “We've gotta go.”

But Martha stopped her with a shout. “One moment!” she called, and Hartley turned to look at her impatiently. Martha had turned to her family, all of whom were staring back at her expectantly. “I've got to go back in there with Hartley,” she told them apologetically.

“You can't!” her mother exclaimed, horror and terror warring for pride of place in her heart. “You saw what that thing did. It'll _kill_ you,” she cried.

“I don't care,” Martha replied stubbornly. “I _have_ to go.”

“It's that Doctor, isn't it?” Francine demanded, looking over Martha's shoulder to pin Hartley with a suspicious glare. “He and that _Hartley_ woman,” she added in a low, disapproving voice, as though Hartley couldn't still hear every word. “That's what's happened to you. _That's_ why you've changed.”

“He was buying us time, Martha,” Tish said. “Time for you to get out, too.”

From somewhere deep within the building there was another hungry roar, and Hartley's heart leapt into her throat. “Martha!” she called urgently. There wasn't any time for this – the Doctor needed them now!

She couldn't see Martha's face, but her mother looked absolutely horrified by whatever it was showing.

“I'm _not_ leaving him,” Martha finally said, apologetic but sincere, before turning her back on her family sprinting towards Hartley. Hartley didn't hesitate, leading the way up the fancy staircase even as her feet burned with each step. “Where do you think he is?” Martha yelled as they climbed the stairs, Hartley taking care to avoid the piles of shattered glass. The pain was _bad_ , but she was running on adrenaline so for the time being, it was bearable.

“Follow the noise!” she called back, and that was exactly what they did.

They could hear the foreboding roars of Lazarus as they echoed throughout the building's maze of halls. As one they headed in the general direction of the noise, and were sure they were getting close when there was the massive boom of an explosion.

It shook the entire building, foundation and all. Hartley and Martha immediately changed trajectories without so much as a word to one another. They'd barely cleared one hallway before they barrelled into another body.

Hartley flinched, thinking at first that it may have been Lazarus, but almost immediately she realised the arms around her weren't those of a scorpion-monster, but rather decidedly humanoid, familiar in feeling. Looking up, she sagged with relief when she confirmed it was just the Doctor.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, staring at them both in disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

“Returning this,” Martha was positively beaming, and the Doctor removed his arms from where they were wrapped instinctively around Hartley, taking the sonic from Martha with wide eyes. “Thought you might need it.”

“How did you...?”

“Heard the explosion; guessed it was you,” she grinned. Hartley was just puffing, breathing through the pain in her feet and running her eyes over the Doctor to check he wasn't injured, almost like it were an instinct to do so.

The Doctor nodded his head. “I blasted Lazarus,” he told them simply.

“Did you kill him?” Martha asked hopefully.

From behind them there was an ear-splitting crash, the pinging sound of glass hitting the floor. Hartley just about sighed her disappointment, getting the feeling that this whole thing was far, far from being over.

“More sort of annoyed him, I'd say!” the Doctor shouted, grabbing them both by the arm and pushing them down the hall in front of him, hurrying to get them to somewhere they'd be safe.

Hartley was beginning to doubt there was such a place. The mutated Lazarus seemed like he would be able to get to them from anywhere.

Her feet were burning, blood flowing from her wounds, but she didn't complain. Her wound, her _pain_ wasn't important in that moment. What _was_ important was putting a stop to Lazarus once and for all, and getting her rather mortal companions and all the humans out in the street out of imminent danger.

Spilling out into the room where they'd begun the night, they came to an abrupt stop. Broken plates and leftover food was strewn wastefully across the floor. It was like a scene from a horror film; the public place abandoned in a time of disaster.

“What now? We've just gone round in a circle!” Martha cried, spinning on her heel in an effort to spot Lazarus, who they knew couldn't have been far behind.

The Doctor didn't have an answer. His eyes scanned the room, searching desperately for something that would inspire the next phase of his plan.

But as predicted, barely a second passed before the hulking form of Lazarus was crashing through the wall opposite them, clumsy in its desperation to reach them. Hartley opened her mouth to swear but the Doctor interrupted, gripping her by the arm and shoving her in the direction of the large device in the middle of the room – the very one Lazarus had used to destroy himself only a short hour before.

“We can't lead him outside. Come on, get in!” he ordered them over Lazarus' guttural snarls. He wrenched open the door and hastily pushed both women inside before slipping in after them, letting the door slam shut behind him.

It was an incredibly tight fit. Hartley felt not only the Doctor pressed against her entire body, but Martha too, the human's chest heaving with desperate breaths. It was silent for a moment, even the monster outside the machine having gone eerily silent.

It was like the calm before the storm, Hartley realised with a sinking heart. Something terrible was about to follow.

“Are we hiding?” Martha whispered, shifting to try and make herself more comfortable, but there was barely enough room to breathe, let alone get cosy.

“No, he knows we're here,” the Doctor murmured back, voice low as he stared at the walls of the machine like he could see through them, eyeing the mutant beyond. “But this is his masterpiece. I'm betting he won't destroy it, not even to get at us.”

“But we're trapped!” Martha argued, her volume rising.

“Well, yeah, that's a slight problem,” he admitted, not making eye contact.

“You mean you don't have a plan?” she asked critically.

“ _Yes_ , the plan was to get inside here,” he replied defensively.

“Then what?” Martha cried in frustration. Hartley closed her eyes, focusing on her breathing, trying not to think too much about the burning sensation in the delicate skin of her feet. It was like she were standing on hot coals, imaginary fire licking at her soles.

“Well...then I'd come up with another plan.”

“In your own time, then.”

The Doctor suddenly snapped into action, struggling to get his arm at the right angle to dig the sonic from his jacket pocket.

“Hey!” Martha snapped when he pressed her even more firmly to the wall.

“Sorry, sorry,” he muttered distractedly, paying her little attention. “Here we are,” he crowed triumphantly. Hartley opened her eyes in time to catch his pleased grin.

“What're you going to do with that?” Martha hissed in bewilderment. Clearly she didn't yet know exactly how useful the small tool could be. Sonic screwdriver wasn't nearly enough of an accurate description. It was so much _more._

The Doctor grinned widely. “Improvise.”

With quite a bit of difficulty the Doctor managed to wriggle his way down to the bottom of the cylinder they were trapped in. Hartley knew what was going to happen even before it did, and she closed her eyes in preparation.

“ _Hart_ ,” the Doctor's voice was horrified, and she winced at the sound.

“It's fine,” she assured him, glad her voice came out steady and even, unwavering even with the pain she was in.

The Doctor said nothing and she knew he was staring at the smears of crimson she'd left on the pristine white floor of the machine, blood leaking from the wounds in the flesh of her feet.

“Come on, Spacewalker,” she prompted him when he didn't move, just stared silently down at the blood she'd left behind, emotions locked tightly away. “Forget about me and save the day already.”

She struggled to keep her voice light, but thankfully the Doctor listened anyway. A moment later their small prison was filled with the familiar buzzing of the sonic screwdriver. There was no room for either woman to look down and see what he was doing, but they both had unequivocal faith that whatever he was doing, it was going to save them.

“I still don't understand where that thing came from,” Martha apparently liked to talk when she was anxious, something Hartley could identify with. Maybe it was a human trait – babbling when overcome with nerves. “Is it alien?” she asked nervously.

“No, for once it's strictly human in origin,” the Doctor said, voice stormy from below them. The hulking shadow of Lazarus' new form could be seen circling the machine, a menacing presence. Hartley felt oddly like she were treading water in the middle of the ocean, circled by a great white shark and knowing the end (or at least one of them) was well on its way.

“Human?” Martha asked incredulously. “How can it be _human_?”

“Probably from dormant genes in Lazarus's DNA. The energy field in this thing must have reactivated them. And it looks like they're becoming dominant,” the Doctor rattled off the information as he worked, barely paying the words he was saying a lick of attention.

“You're saying that's something we could have potentially become?” Hartley asked him, trying very hard not to imagine the entire human race as giant scorpion monsters.

“It was some option that evolution rejected for you millions of years ago, but the potential is still there. Locked away in your genes, forgotten about until Lazarus unlocked it by mistake,” he told them quickly, the sonic's buzzing filling the air. 

“It's like Pandora's box,” Martha gasped.

“Exactly,” he confirmed grimly. “Nice shoes, by the way.”

Glancing over at Hartley, Martha had _never_ looked more bewildered by life with the Doctor than she did in that moment. She gaped in pure perplexity but Hartley could only lift her shoulders in a weak shrug. She'd either get used to it eventually, or she wouldn't. That much was up to her.

From all around them there was a thrumming sound. The lights of the machine turned on, a bright, blinding blue, and Hartley squinted against its glare. “What the hell is it doing?” Hartley asked the Doctor, a terrible feeling in her gut telling her that she already knew the answer.

“Sounds like he's switched the machine on,” he told her as he worked. He sounded offhanded, but she knew it was just an attempt to keep Martha, and probably herself, calm

It didn't work. “And that's not good, is it?” Martha asked nervously.

“Well, I was hoping it was going to take him a little bit longer to work that out,” he admitted with a grunt. Hartley felt the strange urge to bash her head repeatedly against the wall of the machine. The thrumming picked up its pace, loud in their ears as the lights grew brighter, burning at their retinas.

Hartley could feel Martha begin to shake from where they were still pressed together. Martha opened her mouth to urge the Doctor on, “I don't want to hurry you, but-”

“I know, I know. Nearly done!” he shouted back.

“Well, what're you _doing_?”

“I'm trying to set the capsule to reflect energy rather than receive it!”

“Will that kill it?”

“When he transforms, he's three times his size. Cellular triplication. So he's spreading himself thin!” the Doctor yelled back. Hartley couldn't help but notice it wasn't _actually_ an answer.

The sounds around them got louder and Hartley could feel her skin begin to vibrate, the machine humming with energy.

“We're going to end up like him!” Martha cried. Hartley mirrored the feeling, wondering if she, in all of her unique impossibility, would be able to recover from such a transformation. Would she heal from it, or would she be forced to live a life like Lazarus forever?

Either way she'd survive it, but she doubted Martha or the Doctor would be quite as lucky – or _unlucky_ , depending on how you looked at it.

“Just one more...” the Doctor huffed. A beat, then a deafening bang that shook the container they were packed into like sardines. It felt as if the capsule was going to tip over.

But then it didn't, everything falling disconcertingly silent. The Doctor climbed slowly back to his feet and Hartley and Martha both shifted as much as they could to allow him the space to move. He waited an extra moment, ear pressed to the door, before he finally pushed against it. It opened without resistance, but then again, Hartley doubted there had been use for a lock on such a machine.

The room seemed suspiciously empty, no giant mutant waiting with its frothing jaws to attack them on sight. Despite its absence, Hartley felt anything but at ease.

“I thought we were going to go through the blender then,” Martha admitted as they stepped further out into the room, staring across at the large, empty space.

“Really shouldn't take that long just to reverse the polarity. I must be a bit out of practice,” the Doctor murmured to himself but Hartley had stopped listening, catching sight of the now-human Lazarus laying face down on the floor across the room. Even though every footfall was like walking through a pit of fire, Hartley rushed towards him in concern.

Neither the Doctor nor Martha joined her, but she didn't care, dropping to her knees beside the changed, unclothed man and tentatively pressing her fingertips to his throat, hoping against hope that she might find a pulse.

“Oh, God. He seems so human again,” Martha's voice was gentle, kinder to the ears after the deafening roar of the machine they'd just been trapped inside of. “It's kind of _pitiful_.”

There was no pulse, and no thrum of energy in his aura. He was gone.

“Eliot saw that, too,” the Doctor's voice was grim, and Hartley sat back on the floor, folds of her dress splayed out around her like the petals of a wilted flower. “ _This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang, but with a whimper_.”

“ _For those who have crossed, with direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom, remember us – if at all – not as lost, violent souls, but only as the hollow men_ ,” Hartley added – the best eulogy she could come up with – saddened and grim. She pressed a hand to Lazarus' bare shoulder, his waxen skin cold to the touch, and said a gentle prayer in her head.

None of them even had a chance to say anything before the room was flooded with authorities. Men with guns and paramedics in high-vis vests barrelled into sight, heading for the trio crowded around the dead body, shouting questions as if they could answer.

The Doctor began to speak, pulling his psychic paper from his pocket and holding it up, but his words were lost under the sound of rushing blood in Hartley's ears. The adrenaline was beginning to wear off, dissipating in her blood like water evaporated by the sunshine.

Nobody was paying her any attention, the paramedics swarming the corpse before her like flies to a carcass. She stood to her feet, hobbling across to one of the upturned chairs in the corner. She picked it up with a wince at her protesting muscles, collapsing down onto it with a heavy exhale, exhaustion clawing at her mind.

Her feet were aflame, and she hesitantly picked up her right leg, crossing it over her left and tilting her foot up so she could see the sole.

It was smeared that horrible crimson, as if she'd walked through an entire puddle of her own blood. It was still flowing, the cuts unable to heal with all the glass still embedded inside. The absolute last thing she wanted to do in that moment was dig it all out, but she didn't really have a choice.

It was with a reluctant sigh that she grit her teeth and began to dig her fingernails inside the wounds.

She wanted to cry out in pain, but she was stronger than that. She managed to keep her reaction down to nothing except the faint watering of her eyes, jaw aching from the way she had clenched her teeth.

She didn't know how long she was there, the pain making time difficult to track, but it felt like an eternity before she was approached, and she still hadn't even finished digging all the glass out of her first foot.

The Doctor's wonderful face swam into view and she realised he was crouched before her, staring up into her eyes with a concern he allowed her to feel.

“You might be immortal,” he said, strangely stern, like he were berating her for something. “But you still feel pain just as much as any other human, Hart,” he reminded her tersely, and her chest twinged.

“Shouldn't have taken my shoes off,” she grumbled, chastising herself for the stupid move. “I guess an aching sole isn't as bad as a shredded one,” she added wryly, staring down at her work, unable to meet the Doctor's eyes.

His hands moved into her line of sight, coming to rest over hers and forcing her to stop. She froze, finally looking up at him with big, sad eyes.

He sighed, but there was no annoyance or irritation in the sound, no condemnation or anger, but just a sincere concern and a glint of guilt, like it were somehow all his fault in the first place.

“Here,” he murmured, reaching into this pocket and pulling out a small pair of tweezers, holding them up with a tiny but genuine grin. “I think this needs a Doctor's touch,” he said coyly. He looked mighty proud of the joke and she managed something of a laugh that only disappeared the moment the ends of the tweezers dug into her burning flesh.

He worked much more efficiently than she had, gently pulling out the shards of broken glass that had been embedded inside the delicate skin of her soles.

“Gotta say,” he began conversationally, as though they weren't bent over her bleeding feet with a cooling corpse laid not ten feet away, “I'm quite impressed you managed to stay on your feet as long as you did. Most people wouldn't have been able to bear it.”

She lifted her shoulders in a weak shrug, trying not to cry out in agony as he yanked free a particularly stubborn shard of glass. “The adrenaline helped,” she told him modestly. “Nothing like a massive, mutated monster hell bent on killing your friends to get you running across a glass-covered floor.”

“You weren't worried about him killing _you_?” he asked, eyes on his task and an undertone to his voice that made her curious.

“Nah,” she replied, giving another shrug that went unseen. She didn't elaborate, he already knew everything she would have said anyway, so there was no point.

He'd moved on to the next foot, and now that the glass was all gone from her right one, she was beginning to feel her skin tingle as the wounds sealed themselves up, her immortal biology working to heal the damage. It would take awhile before it was completely healed, but the pain began to ebb away significantly.

“Thanks, Doc,” she said a while later as he finally put down her foot, using a rag he'd fished from his bottomless pocket to clean off the dried blood coating the bottom of her feet. “You don't happen to have a pair of shoes in those magic pockets of yours, do you?” she asked jovially, tired but feeling a whole lot better now that she was on the mend.

“Fresh out,” he clicked his tongue, but his eyes moved to scan the room thoughtfully. “You'll definitely need some to get out of here, though,” he said, eyeing the piles of shattered glass that dotted the floor like landmines. “I doubt you'd let me carry you,” he added as an afterthought.

“You'd be right,” she agreed with a small, sincere smile that she was thrilled to find reciprocated.

“Wait here,” he ordered her, standing from his crouched position with a huff and wiping his hands off on his pants, uncaring of the stains he left.

“What?” she blinked in surprise. “Where're you going?”

“Wait here,” he repeated, wagging a finger at her sternly. “I mean it, I don't want to come back and find your feet all bloodied up again.”

“You have my word,” she vowed even as she rolled her eyes, but apparently it was good enough for him because he nodded his head and turned, disappearing around the corner.

She sat quietly for a moment, watching the humans around her. The paramedics were just now loading Lazarus' corpse into a bodybag, a gurney waiting off to the side. Police were taking statements from people around the room as well as snapping photos of the aftermath of all the chaos. She wondered what the point was, but figured they had procedure to follow, regardless of its usefulness.

The Doctor had only been gone about a minute before someone was stepping into her line of sight. She thought it was him, but looked up to find it was actually Martha. Her relatively new friend sighed the sigh of exhaustion before picking up an overturned chair and brushing it off, taking a seat beside the immobile Hartley.

“Been a bit of a wild night,” she said lightly, scanning the crowd of serious-looking authorities going about their business with bewildered frowns as they tried to work out exactly what had happened here. Hartley wondered whether the Doctor would ever tell them the truth, or if he'd leave them to figure it out on their own.

“Given your statement?” she asked Martha conversationally.

“Yeah.”

“The Doc?”

“No, he flashed that freaky paper of his and said you two were exempt, or whatever,” Martha told her with a shrug.

“Sounds about right,” she agreed with just a hint of a smile.

One of the paramedics wandered over to them, a smile on his face. He held a blanket in his hands and without asking he threaded it around Hartley's shoulders.

“You looked cold,” he explained – which was strange because she _wasn't._ She was too polite to argue though, smiling at him kindly and pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. It was sort of itchy, but she didn't want to complain. “Are you okay?” he asked as he gestured to her feet.

The Doctor had cleaned off most of the blood, but her skin was still stained a faint crimson, the kind that would only wash off with soap and a little time. “I'm fine,” she assured him.

“Do you want me to have a look at them for you?” he asked with a suave smile. Hartley cocked an eyebrow in disbelief, wondering if it was possible that this guy was actually _hitting_ on her while in the presence of a _dead body._

She opened her mouth to politely decline but before she could a familiar lanky form stepped between them.

“Got your shoes, Harts,” the Doctor said in a cheery sort of voice, her heels from earlier that night dangling from his fingers. She found it odd that he'd called her by the nickname, as he'd never done so before. It was always 'Hartley', and on the rare occasion just 'Hart'. She was bewildered by it all, but instead of bringing attention to it she just took the shoes with a grateful smile.

“You went all the way back upstairs to fetch them for me?” she asked in surprise, taking them from him with a smile. They were heavy in her hands but she liked the weight, glad she'd have something to protect her from the glass covering the floor like a blanket of deadly snow.

“Of course I did,” he said in the sort of tone that made it seem like he was offended by her surprise.

She could do no more than smile as him, reaching down to very gingerly thread the delicate shoes back onto her sore feet.

“Can I help you?” the Doctor's asked the paramedic who had yet to move from his spot. She looked up to see the young paramedic's face flush red. He seemed to have lost his previous confidence, muttering an excuse and scurrying away. The Doctor huffed, murmuring something under his breath that sounded an awful lot like, “ _three_ times in one night...never wear that blasted dress again...”

She turned her head away to hide her bemused, if not slightly amused, smile.

“We should go,” Martha said, standing to her feet and dusting off the skirt of her dress.

“Right you are,” the Doctor agreed. Hartley took his proffered hand, allowing him to gently help her to her feet. His skin was cool and dry against hers, but it was just distracting enough to keep her mind from drifting to her aching feet, her healing soles protesting against the heels beneath them.

She was surprised when, rather than let go, the Doctor kept hold of her hand, leading her through the room and thoughtfully navigating her around the piles of shattered glass across the floor. They moved down the stairs in silence, and while Hartley found it was comfortable between her and the Doctor, she could tell Martha had something weighing heavily on her mind.

She decided not to ask, sensing it wasn't the right time. She would come to them with whatever it was when she was ready; pushing her sooner than that wasn't wise. The night air was cool and she tugged the blanket tighter around her, suddenly glad she hadn't left it inside despite its itchiness.

“She's here!” Tish's voice called over the hum of activity out on the street. “Oh, she's all right!” she cried, rushing towards her sister and pulling her into a tight hug. Hartley felt a throb of longing for her own sister and the relationship they'd never had.

The Doctor let go of Hartley's hand in favour of tugging at his bow tie. She eyed him appreciatively once more – she really _did_ love a man in a good bow tie.

“Ah, Mrs. Jones,” the Doctor said cheerfully as the matriarch of Martha's family approached, “we still haven't finished our chat.”

She wasn't smiling back however. Rather there was a furious look on her face and a righteous anger in her heart, as though he'd done something to personally offend her.

Despite this, none of them could have predicted that she'd slap him clean across the face. The noise it made was loud and seemed to ring out through the night air. The very sound of it made Hartley sick. She gasped in shock, shifting between the two out of sheer instinct, just on the off chance she tried for round two.

Her presence hardly seemed to worry the older woman, however. Francine was on a some kind of misguided warpath. Hartley watched her warily, feeling her dislike and resentment simmering beneath the surface, the force of it making her feel unbalanced.

“Keep _away_ from my daughter,” she snarled at him, the words a poorly-hidden threat. Her beady eyes flickered down to glare at Hartley as well. Hartley could only stare back in pure shock. “ _Both_ of you,” she hissed hotly.

“Mum, what are you _doing_?” Martha demanded, drawing the attention of the nearby crowd.

“All of the mothers, every time,” the Doctor muttered to Hartley but she couldn't find the humour in it, not in that moment, instead staring at Francine in utter bewilderment. They'd barely spoken two words to one another – how could they have done anything to offend her in that time? If anything, the Doctor had _saved_ everyone! Didn't that earn him at least some sliver of respect?

“They're _dangerous_ ,” Francine told her daughter in a desperate undertone, begging her to understand. “I've been told things.”

“What are you talking about?” Martha asked sharply.

“Look around you,” the woman gripped her daughter's shoulders tightly, staring down at her imploringly. “Nothing but _death_ and _destruction,_ ” she said.

The words had more of an impact on Hartley than she could have expected. It cut to her core, made her question whether the irate woman was right.

Everywhere they went trouble followed them like a plague, and with it came death. Was it their fault? Were they somehow cursed? Was there more they could do to stop it, keep it from happening, from spreading like a disease in their wake?

“This isn't their fault. The Doctor _saved_ us, _all_ of us!” Martha argued with a steadfast loyalty that honestly surprised Hartley.

She blinked, taking in the unwavering certainty in Martha's eyes, and the echo of it in her heart. She believed in them – or perhaps it was just the Doctor that Martha trusted, and she were just included in the package.

“And it was Tish who invited everyone to this thing in the first place. I'd say _technically_ , it's her fault,” Leo said in a brave attempt to lighten the mood. Hartley pulled herself away from her tornado of thoughts to smile at him in quiet gratitude.

A loud crash echoed from down the street, the sound sharp and shocking in the night air. Hartley's heart froze as she and the Doctor turned as one to stare at the end of the road. She had a horrible, sinking feeling that she knew exactly what the cause of it was, and it was all she could do to hope that she was wrong.

“Stay here,” the Doctor ordered her without thought before taking off at a sprint.

“Fat chance,” Hartley muttered, shifting her weight from foot to foot to test the pain levels in her soles before throwing caution to the wind and sprinting after him. Her high heels made her feet ache but she didn't have the luxury of time to let them heal up. The blanket that had been wrapped around her shoulders pooled on the ground but she didn't give it a moment's thought. She just _ran._

The ambulance hadn't gotten far, barely reaching the end of the road before it had come to a sudden stop. As Hartley approached, she found the doors to be wide open, two lifeless husks laying motionless in the back, drained of their life energy.

The Doctor cast her a glance but didn't comment on her reappearance – probably because it was so predictable – merely pulling the sonic screwdriver from his pocket and holding it to the skeletal remains in the vehicle.

“Lazarus, back from the dead,” he said grimly. “Should have known, really.”

“This is bad,” she muttered.

The Doctor nodded. “You can say that again.”

The sound of heels hitting the asphalt met their ears and both of them turned to see Martha and Tish hurrying towards them, staring at the empty ambulance with horror written across their faces. “Where's he gone?” Martha demanded as they came to a stop, scanning the immediate area as if waiting for Lazarus to leap out from behind the industrial bins nearby to finish them off.

The sonic screwdriver beeped, and the Doctor held it up for them to see, quickly following the sound in a circle until finally he was facing the old cathedral that stood behind them, large and towering in the night. The Doctor's expression became shadowed, and a seed of dread appeared in Hartley's gut.

“That way. The church,” he told them, voice hard as he began to understand how truly grave the situation was.

Hartley knew now, just as well as he, that they had to do everything they could to end Lazarus themselves or he wouldn't ever, ever stop killing. This was what he was now; hungry for human life. There was no undoing it.

“Cathedral,” Tish corrected him suddenly, and they all turned to look at her. “It's Southwark Cathedral. He told me,” she said quietly, and the Doctor's expression grew even more grim. He said nothing as he led the way around the side of the looming building, his sonic held out like a weapon, which Hartley knew, under the worst kind of circumstances, it very well could be.

The cathedral was dark and empty, the silence so full Hartley thought she might choke on it. The atmosphere was tense, all of them unsure what they might find inside.

“Do you think he's in here?” Martha whispered anxiously. They all scanned the large open space, pews lined up in cold rows all leading up to a shining, religious alter.

“Where would you go if you were looking for sanctuary?” the Doctor mused, and Martha's face dropped into a thoughtful frown, considering the question seriously.

The Doctor led them up the nave, moving until they finally reached the alter. The temperature seemed to drop the closer they got to it. Hartley knew it had nothing to do with Christ or demons, but rather everything to do with the mutated man now crouching before it.

Lazarus was curled on the hard floor, shivering violently, wrapped in a coarse blanket like the one she'd had wrapped around her earlier. He glanced up at them as they approached, a look of vague acceptance in his eyes, a sadness that echoed throughout the cathedral like an audible sound.

“I came here before, a lifetime ago,” the man said, low and defeated. “I thought I was going to die then. In fact, I was sure of it. I sat here, just a child, the sound of planes and bombs outside.”

Hartley wasn't sure she understood what he was talking about, but the Doctor didn't have the same problem. “The Blitz,” he said evenly, and suddenly her insides coiled, remembering a large, charming smile that felt so much like home and a sea of innocent humans converted into gas-mask zombies.

Lazarus looked up at the Doctor, considering him for a long moment. “You've read about it,” he finally said, low and dismissive.

“I was there,” the Doctor disagreed. He turned to glance at Hartley, a glimmer of remembrance in his eyes, and she wondered it he was seeing what she was seeing. “ _We_ were there,” he corrected himself.

She suddenly thought fondly for a moment of an alien with big ears and an oversized leather jacket, all Northern accent and dry humour and such an apparent dislike for her that she'd developed a complex which still hadn't completely faded away.

“You're too young,” Lazarus didn't believe him, scoffing in disbelief.

The sound brought Hartley back to the present, and she turned to find the Doctor very nearly smiling. “So are you,” he said wryly.

Lazarus laughed, but with it came a sickening cracking noise. Abruptly his chuckles broke instead into gasps of agony as his body contorted with pain.

The Doctor began to walk around him, keeping his eyes trained on the shaking man, but Hartley stood with Martha and Tish, refusing to move from where she had planted herself in between them and the mutated man, a human shield.

“In the morning, the fires had died, and I was still alive,” Lazarus gasped as he recovered, skin covered in a light sheen of sweat. “I swore I'd never face death like that again. So defenceless...I would arm myself, fight back, _defeat_ it.”

She caught the Doctor's eyes while Lazarus was distracted, watching as he meaningfully glanced up towards the ceiling. Hartley followed his line of sight, seeing nothing but the towering space of the bell tower above them. She didn't understand what he was trying to tell her, but before she could find a way to ask, she grew distracted by Lazarus' loud gasps of pain.

“That's what you were trying to do today?” the Doctor asked him, continuing on with the conversation as easily as breathing. His mind worked so quickly, it was no surprise he was able to multitask so efficiently.

“That's what I _did_ today,” Lazarus snapped back, self-righteous indignation flooding his mutating heart. Hartley cringed at the bitter flavour of it.

“What about the other people who died?” the Doctor quickly began to lose his patience, growling at Lazarus in anger, thinking of the innocent lives lost tonight in this man's blind blind, heedless hunt for immortality.

Hartley wished the man would listen, because she more so than anyone else in the galaxy was qualified to tell him what a pointless hunt it was. But you sometimes people wouldn't listen to what they didn't want to hear. Sometimes it was pointless to even try, but that didn't mean she was going to stop.

“They were nothing,” Lazarus replied blithely, lip curled back in an animalistic snarl. “I changed the course of _history._ ”

“Any of them might have done too,” the Doctor countered, voice like venom. “You think history's only made with equations? Facing death is part of being human. You can't change that,” he calmed himself down, staring at Lazarus imploringly, begging him to understand.

This was the moment, the one where he offered him a chance, an opportunity to get out before anybody else got hurt. This was him extending a hand, and Hartley wished she could believe Lazarus was going to take it.

“No, Doctor. _Avoiding_ death, _that's_ being human,” he spat, like the man before him was disgusting, like he was wrong. Hartley knew better than most that the Doctor was rarely ever wrong. “It's our strongest impulse, to cling to life with every _fibre_ of being. I'm only doing what everyone before me has tried to do. I've simply been more...successful-” he cut off with a loud cry of pain, bones cracking under invisible pressure, the sound echoing around them in the acoustics of the cathedral. Hartley grimaced, watching on with a growing despair.

She could feel his desperation, his righteousness. He truly believed what he had done was for good, convinced he was in the right. But Hartley also felt the undercurrent of fear running beneath his sanctimonious shell. Despite his confident, self-righteous exterior, this man was terrified. But he'd die before he admitted it. Such was the folly of man.

“Look at yourself,” the Doctor said darkly. “You're _mutating_! You've no control over it. You call that a success?”

“I call it progress,” Lazarus argued sanctimoniously, the words spat around another grunt of pain. “I'm _more_ now than I was. More than just an ordinary human.”

Hartley glanced over at the Doctor, noting the way his lips were tipped upwards, passion in his deep, chocolate eyes. “There's no such _thing_ as an ordinary human,” he told Lazarus with conviction, but it went unheard as the mutated man collapsed again, convulsing violently.

Hartley stepped forwards, moving to comfort him in whatever way she could. No matter how vile and misguided the man was, she couldn't just watch him suffer without doing anything about it. The Doctor held out a hand, forearm pressed gently against her abdomen, stopping her from reaching him. He didn't look at her, but she understood the movement for what it was. He was trying to protect her, and her chest twinged with the weight of this knowledge.

“He's going to change again, any minute,” Martha whispered to them from where she was stood beside her wide-eyed sister, staring at the writhing Lazarus in abject horror.

“I know,” he replied under his breath. “If I can get him up into the bell tower somehow, I've an idea that might work.”

Hartley suddenly understood what he'd been trying to tell her before, and she felt dense for not realising it sooner. “Up there?” Martha confirmed, staring upwards with a frown.

But they couldn't talk any more, aware of Lazarus' attention focused back on them with a guttural snarl in their direction. The Doctor moved his arm from where it had been blocking Hartley, stepping away to continue circling the panting, sweating man, staring down at him gravely.

“You're so sentimental, Doctor,” Lazarus sneered at him with a series of heaving pants. “Maybe you _are_ older than you look.”

“I'm old enough to know that a longer life isn't always a better one. In the end, you just get _tired,_ ” he told the man with a conviction that hit Hartley like a dagger.

She winced, because the thought of _that_ being her future was a horrifying one. It terrified her, to the point where she sometimes felt like she couldn't breathe. But she knew this wasn't the time to focus on herself and her impending eternity, so she focused back on Lazarus, watching him watch the Doctor, nails biting into her palms in her anxiety.

“Tired of the struggle, tired of losing everyone that matters to you, tired of watching everything turn to dust. If you live long enough, Lazarus, the only certainty left is that you'll end up alone.”

There was a pregnant pause. “That's a price worth paying,” Lazarus finally said, and when Hartley looked over into the Doctor's eyes, she found them to be hollowed out with an ancient pain she could barely even begin to understand.

“Is it?” he countered darkly.

Lazarus contorted in pain, beginning to change into that _thing_ once more. Hartley cringed at the crack his spine gave, like it was snapping into two beneath his pallid, leathery skin. “I will feed soon,” he told the Doctor menacingly.

“I'm not going to let that happen.”

“You've not been able to stop me so far,” Lazarus said with an ugly sneer.

“Leave him, Lazarus!” Martha exclaimed suddenly from beside her, and Hartley whirled around with a gasp, having been caught up watching the Doctor that she hadn't even realised her friend had moved. “He's old and bitter. I thought you had a taste for fresher meat,” she said, attempting to sound enticing, but really just sounding scared.

“Martha, no!” the Doctor warned, but it was too late.

Lazarus lunged, mouth open in a furious snarl as he attempted to reach Martha. Their young friend turned and ran, sprinting for the stairs leading to the bell tower. With a muffled curse, Hartley raced after her, keeping up with ease, even in her towering heels.

“Doctor! The tower!” Martha bellowed back to the Time Lord, but Hartley didn't have the time to turn and look, shoving her way through the door then waving Martha and Tish up ahead of her. At least if she was at the back of the group she'd be the one most likely to take the hit.

Their heels clacked against the stone as they raced up the rickety old staircase as fast as they possibly could. Hartley really hoped the Doctor had a proper plan, because if there was one thing she knew about monsters, it was that you should _never,_ under any circumstances, trap yourself in a bell tower with one.

From below them, the sounds of snapping bones and furious, hungry snarls drifted upwards, and the girls in front of her came to an abrupt stop.

“Did you hear that?” Tish asked in a frightened voice, sounding much younger than she really was, like a little girl asking her sister if the boogeyman really was hidden in her closet.

“He's changed again,” Martha whispered back, just as nervously.

“Don't stop moving,” Hartley instructed them, pushing gently at their sides to get them moving again. “We need to keep going. Lead him to the top.”

They didn't wait any longer, obeying the older woman's order and beginning to run, holding onto the walls to steady themselves in their impractical heels as they climbed higher and higher.

They were just passing a row of windows when the Doctor's voice bellowed, “ _Hartley_!”

Racing towards the openings in the stone, Hartley stuck her head out into the open air, peering down at the Doctor, who stared up at them from the ground with a desperate, anxious expression.

“Take him to the top. The very _top_ of the bell tower, do you hear me?!” he yelled at them when he was sure they were listening.

“Up to the top!” Martha confirmed.

“Guys,” Tish grabbed at them in a panic, and Hartley glanced back to see Lazarus barrelling towards them. He was now completely transformed, snarling as his scorpion-like tail thrashed about behind him, knocking into the old walls of the cathedral, bricks raining down like deadly confetti.

Hartley shoved Martha forwards, making sure both sisters were ahead of her as they ran. The next flight of stairs was a tight squeeze, thin and narrow, but they went up single file, moving as fast as they could. It all passed in a bit of a blur of identical corridors and aching feet, but finally they were tripping out onto the top level of the bell tower, nothing but a rickety old wooden rail separating them from certain death.

“Get over there!” Hartley shouted at them, already herding them towards the opposite side of the circular landing, where they would be the furthest from the hungry, infuriated Lazarus.

“But there's nowhere to go!” Tish argued with a hysterical cry. “We're trapped!”

“This is where he said to bring him,” Martha shouted back over Lazarus' violent snarls, which were growing louder the closer he got.

“All right, so then we're not trapped. We're bait,” Tish spat.

But Tish didn't understand how this worked. She wasn't used to life with the Doctor, the risks it forced you to take every day – but there wasn't time to educate her. Hartley pressed both sisters behind her as Lazarus' skeletal pincers appeared first in the doorway.

“He knows what he's doing!” Martha insisted, referring to the Doctor so many metres down below them, fuelled by their faith. “We have to _trust_ him!”

“ _Ladies._..” Lazarus had finally appeared, bursting through the small door and swiping his scorpion tail at them threateningly. They had to duck to avoid it, and Hartley felt the wind brush her hair as it passed over her head.

“Both of you, whatever happens to me, stay out of reach!” Hartley yelled the two sisters. Martha was fighting to get out from behind her but she remained firm, forcing them to stay where she could protect them. “Stay safe! Promise me!”

“Hart-” Martha tried to argue, stubborn as they came.

“I'm _serious_ , Martha!” she shouted back over Lazarus' growing, hungry roars. “Stay _safe_!”

From below them there was a sudden surge of deafening noise. Hartley couldn't place it, to her ears it was nothing but a roar of inexplicable sound. She didn't have time to wonder further, focused on ducking under Lazarus' powerful, barbed tail.

Protecting both sisters at once wasn't easy. She took her eyes off Martha for one moment, pushing Tish out of the way of danger, and when she looked back Martha was hanging on for dear life, gripping the edge of the wooden landing as she screamed in terror, legs dangling into empty air.

“Martha!” Tish wailed, reaching for her sister only to be yanked back by Hartley who knew she'd be too close to Lazarus, within reach of his deadly grip. “Hold on!” she shouted, struggling to find a way to get to her sister. “Get away from her!” she screamed at the monster, who only hissed back.

The strange humming sound in her ears only grew louder, and Martha gave a cry of terror, doing her best to hold tight. Staring down at her friend, Hartley suddenly knew exactly what she had to do.

She turned to Tish whose eyes were wide in dread as she thought her sister might die. “When it happens, get to Martha!” she screamed over the loud roar of noise, the unbearable volume making her ears ache and her head throb.

“When _what_ happens?!” Tish shouted back in confusion, panic clouding her eyes. But there wasn't time to explain.

Whirling around, Hartley didn't hesitate. She just threw herself onto Lazarus who immediately turned his attention from Martha to her. Aiming for his eyes, it was all she could do to attack him, distracting him from her floundering friend.

That horrible noise was growing, her head felt like it might explode, and she knew she wasn't doing anything against Lazarus – she might as well have been a fly he was trying to swat away, an annoyance but not a necessarily problem.

She wondered if she'd failed, if they were all about to die or have their life energy drained, but before she could find out Lazarus gave a loud screech and began to fall sideways.

Everything seemed to slow down and she had the time to realise exactly what was happening. They were falling through the centre of the tower, nothing below them but fifty metres of empty air, the end a floor of solid stone. She'd never died from a fall before – she wondered whether it would hurt, or whether it would be quick and painless.

She felt rather at peace at first, like it didn't matter, like it wasn't a big deal. But the more she fell, the more panicked she became. She wished it would go quicker, but everything was so slow, and in her mind she had to deal with the knowledge that the pain was going to come, then beyond it, that encompassing, suffocating darkness, where nothing and no one existed – not even _her._

She watched as the landing grew further and further away while she dropped. That loud, unidentifiable sound finally stopped being so deafening, and as she fell she realised it was _music._

It was rather beautiful, really, like it was lulling her to her sleep. She couldn't manage a smile as she approached her death, only a tear fell from her burning eyes, but that didn't matter when she finally hit the unforgiving stone with a loud crunch, a wave of agonising pain, followed by absolutely nothing.

* * *

Until she snapped back to life, her respiratory system rebooting with a painful, violent gasp. Hands were on her shoulders, holding her still even as she fought to sit up. A voice was in her ear, familiar and soothing, but it still took another minute to finally make sense of the words being said.

“...you're _okay,_ Hartley. _Hart_ , you're all right...”

It was the Doctor, and the knowledge of this caused the panic to evaporate from her system. Her eyes rolled around in her head, searching listlessly before she eventually locked onto the sight of him.

He was leaning over her, expression simultaneously concerned and dark. She relaxed further, the sight of him like a balm to her adrenaline-flooded system.

Inhaling shakily, she coughed to clear her dusty airways, blinking her dry eyes and cringing at the metallic taste of blood in her mouth. Her head was aching more than it ever had before, and her back was throbbing, making her realise something must have happened to her spine when she'd hit the ground.

The memory of falling to her death made her shudder. She swallowed around the lump in her throat, looking back to the Doctor who slowly began to lift her up into a sitting position.

“You're okay...” he continued to coo, but it felt more like he was really reassuring _himself_.

“How long?” she coughed again, bringing a hand to her throbbing head.

“Over ten minutes,” he told her, grave and disturbed. Hartley grimaced at the thought of laying there, nothing but an empty shell, for that long. If their positions had been reversed, she wasn't sure she'd have been able to cope.

“ _Hartley_ ,” said a broken voice, and with a blink she gingerly leaned around the Doctor to see Martha and Tish kneeling behind him, gaping at her with tears shining in their similar eyes.

“Told you I was immortal,” she told Martha, aiming for humorous, but the horrified look on her face made it clear that the attempt was _not_ appreciated.

She glanced over to her right, taking in the sight of Lazarus laid there, completely bare and without question dead. Her gut twisted in dismay. She slumped against the Doctor, suddenly overcome with exhaustion.

“Can we go home?” she asked him in a small voice, pulling back to glance up into his eyes, which looked more haunted than she could remember seeing even in the months after Rose, all that time ago.

He nodded, not meeting her gaze as he wordlessly scooped her up, one arm beneath her legs and the other behind her back as he lifted her from the cracked, dusty floor. He stood still for a moment, cradling her almost _tenderly_ against his chest, and she allowed herself a brief second to revel in the soothing sense of connection after such a fleeting eternity of feelingless nothing.

“But she was _dead_! She fell. I _saw_ it,” Tish was hissing from behind them. Martha answered her in a matching hiss but the Doctor paid neither any attention, simply holding Hartley closer and beginning to walk. The gentle rocking of his strides made her want to sleep, but the fear of succumbing to the darkness again so soon kept her awake.

She occupied herself by pressing her ear against his chest, listening to the soothing thrumming of his twin hearts and sighing in contentment.

The sisters joined them on their walk back towards _Lazarus Laboratories._ Tish had questions, and the Doctor answered them, at first in clipped tones, but the longer they walked the more relaxed he became.

His grip on Hartley never once faltered.

Tish asked things about who they were and how they could do what they could do, but he didn't answer those questions, stonewalling her and changing the subject as they approached the building. The closer they got the better Hartley began to feel, her body healing itself more with every pump of her heart.

“You can put me down now,” she told the Doctor before they hit the barricades keeping the public away from the building. He hesitated, clutching her closer for the briefest of moments before reluctantly putting her down on her feet.

He kept one arm wrapped around her middle and she welcomed it, glad for his unyielding presence beside her. It made her feel safe, even in this dangerous world of theirs.

Martha and Tish's mother spotted them, scowling at the pair of travellers even as she desperately waved her daughters over. “We'll meet you back at your flat,” the Doctor said to Martha who looked like she desperately wanted to argue.

“I don't think your mum'll let you leave right now,” Hartley told her soothingly, her voice still croaky and rough. Martha understood, nodding her head as she cast her mum a grimace. “We promise we'll be there,” Hartley added, understanding the fear she couldn't help but feel.

They could disappear without saying goodbye. They _wouldn't_ , but all of them held the knowledge that they _could._

Martha nodded, hesitating a moment longer before pulling Hartley into a tight hug, clutching her firmly. The grip was painful to her still-sore body but she didn't complain, squeezing back warmly. “You sacrificed yourself for me,” Martha whispered in her ear, and Hartley smiled into her shoulder.

“And I'd do it again in a heartbeat,” she said, running her hand soothingly up and down her back. She pulled away, feeling Francine's eyes drilling a hole into the back of her head. “Go on, go placate your mum,” she said with a smile that was only a little bit forced. “We'll see you back at your flat later.”

Martha nodded, turning to stare at the Doctor with a hint of longing that only Hartley seemed to notice, before swallowing and joining the rest of her family.

The Doctor reclaimed his place beside her, hand splayed on the small of her back. He gently angled her towards the road that led to where they'd parked the TARDIS. That seemed like an entire _lifetime_ ago now, she mused, reminded of just how much could happen in so short a time.

They walked at first in silence, the Doctor still firmly beside her, refusing to move as if worried she would collapse on the spot if he so much as stopped touching her. She smiled fondly at his concern, bringing her hands up at rub at her cold arms.

Without so much as a word the Doctor shed his coat and draped it over her shoulders, making her smile despite the way her muscles still ached with every movement. “We're making a habit out of this,” she said playfully even as she tugged at the lapels of the tuxedo jacket, pulling it more securely around her. It was warm and his scent wafted around her, comforting in a way she couldn't quite explain.

“Well maybe if you stopped forgetting to bring a jacket every time we leave the TARDIS...” he sniffed indignantly, but there was a hint of a smile playing on his lips that made her laugh.

His smile grew at the sound and she beamed back, heels clicking against the concrete as they strolled in the direction of where they'd parked their home.

“What's your secret?” he asked her suddenly, the smile of wonderment remaining on his lips as he glanced to the side, looking down at her in the orange glow of the overhead streetlights.

“My secret?” she asked, smile faltering in her confusion.

“To happiness,” he elaborated, hands shoved into his pockets as he walked, not watching where he was going but rather staring at her like she were the ultimate riddle. She'd been on the receiving end of the same look from him countless times before, but never had it made her smile so. “You're always cheerful, always happy and _bright._ Even when you're not smiling you shine with light,” he said quietly. “After everything that's happened tonight, everything you've been through – how are you _smiling_ right now?” he asked, genuinely perplexed.

She considered the question, glancing up at the sky, disappointed when the lights of London kept her from seeing the full beauty of the stars. “Sometimes happiness is a feeling,” she finally answered him evenly, looking away from the starless sky and back at the Doctor, silently acknowledging that his eyes were a sight she'd _much_ rather spend time staring at. “But not _always_ ,” she said gently, “sometimes, it's just a decision.”

She smiled again and looked away from him, back at their path. In the distance she could see the TARDIS, shining blue under the glow of a streetlight, and she felt a wave of content settle over her soul at the sight of it.

“Who said that?” he asked curiously, a warm, unidentifiable note to his voice.

She grinned, glancing back up at him. “Me,” she said rather simply, smiling sweetly and turning back to face the approaching TARDIS.

Her hand was swinging idly by her side and she was stunned when the Doctor's crept into hers, intertwining their fingers like it was something they did every day. She looked up at him in surprise and although he wasn't looking at her, there was a smile on his lips that told her he felt just as content as she did. Hartley was overcome with a sincere happiness that was less about decisions and more about _genuine feeling_. And she _loved_ it.

The TARDIS welcomed them home with a warm, familiar hum in the back of their minds, and they kept their fingers linked even as they moved towards the console, pausing before going any further.

“Maybe I should check you over in the infirmary-” the Doctor began to say, already stepping in the direction of the door to the rest of the infinite ship.

“We both know I'm fine,” she said with a roll of her eyes, catching him by their joined hands and pulling him to a stop. “Come on, let's go meet Martha,” she added even as she made no move to disentangle their hands.

“Are you sure?” he asked warily. “You don't want to rest, or, or...”

“I'm completely and utterly fine,” she repeated, squeezing his hand to emphasise her point. “Back to normal. Guess it took awhile longer because of how... _violent_ it was,” she said, stumbling somewhat over the ugly word, forcefully keeping her mind away from the weightless sensation of falling and the feeling of her whole body cracking against unforgiving stone––

“If you're sure,” the Doctor said as he squeezed her hand in return, his thumb brushing over the back of it in a soothing rhythm, and she jolted back to the moment with a blink. The simple action had made her heart race and her skin prickle with awareness.

“Positive,” she assured him with her most convincing smile.

He finally let go of her hand so he could pilot the ship. She felt a keen sense of loss once they were no longer connected, intertwining her own fingers in an attempt to gain back the feeling of safety he'd provided.

With only a few theatrical twists they were back in Martha's flat, having travelled forwards a few hours to make sure she'd be home. By happy coincidence as they stepped from the blue box and into Martha's living room, the medical student herself was just shutting the front door after her, kicking off her heels and shrugging off her shawl.

“Told you we'd meet you,” Hartley told her with a soft smile, leaning back against the TARDIS, also enjoying the softness of the carpet against her feet – which, by now, were totally healed, though still stained red with her own blood.

She'd kicked off her heels in the console room, relieved to have the blasted things off her feet. It had seemed like a good idea at the beginning of the night, wearing such impractical, towering heels. She'd wanted to glam up for the evening, but now she knew it just wasn't something that was possible in their kind of lifestyle. It was an acceptable price to pay, though, for the wonders she saw.

“Were you gone long?” Martha asked curiously as she padded towards them.

“Gone long?” the Doctor repeated innocently.

“Don't give me that,” she scolded him lightly. “You've got a time machine. You could have been gone a week for all I know.”

Hartley smiled at her quick mind. “We came straight here,” she promised, holding a hand over her heart. “Time traveller's honour.”

Martha grinned, the expression genuine but also tired, something Hartley understood. She might have been back to complete health, but she _was_ exhausted – not to mention _starving._ But that would be solved soon enough, either they'd eat in the TARDIS or she'd get the Doctor to take them somewhere fantastic for food; she was craving pancakes.

“Something else that just kind of escalated, then,” the Doctor said to Martha, leaning back against the blue box beside Hartley, who smiled at the chaos that was their lives.

“I can see a pattern developing,” Martha replied coyly. “You should take more care in the future. And the past. And whatever other time period you two find yourselves in,” she added with a chuckle that Hartley couldn't help but echo.

The Doctor grinned too, the expression bright and mischievous. “It's been fun, though, hasn't it?” he asked with a brilliant gleam to his warm eyes.

“Yeah,” she agreed, cocking her head and meeting Hartley's eyes, who smiled along with them.

There was a beat, then the Doctor asked eagerly, “so, what do you say, one more trip?”

Hartley smiled, wide and confident Martha would agree, but to her surprise the woman considered it carefully before sighing and shaking her head in the negative. “No. Sorry.”

“What do you mean? I thought you liked it,” the Doctor muttered in sheer bewilderment, as though her answer simply just didn't compute.

“I do, but I can't go on like this. _One more trip_ ,” she quoted him sternly. “It's not fair.”

“What're you talking about?”

“I don't want to be just a passenger anymore. Someone you take along for a _treat_. If that's how you still see me, I'd rather stay here,” she muttered, and Hartley could see how hard it was for her to say it. Turning down the Doctor's offer, putting her boundaries in place, it took a lot of strength – a strength that some people just didn't have. She was impressive, Hartley had to admit.

She also considered what Martha was saying, and had to admit that she hadn't thought of it in that way. She'd have felt the same, in her position. Having the title of _Companion_ was such a powerful thing, and it _wasn't_ fair to dangle it in front of her as they had been, like a piece of meat held above a dog's head, too high for them to reach. It was almost cruel. Guilt bubbled in her stomach, and she frowned at herself, angry that she hadn't seen it sooner.

She turned to look at the Doctor, who had at the same time looked down at her. Their eyes met and one of the silent conversations that they'd begun to experience drifted in the air between them.

The Doctor was asking questions with his eyes. Was this what she wanted? Was it the right thing to do?

Hartley responded with nothing but a small, gentle smile, and it was all the answer he needed to make the decision for himself. She was just glad to have been included, smiling again, wider as they turned back to Martha.

“Okay, then. If that's what you want,” he said, but even Hartley had to admit, the solemn tone to his voice was misleading.

“Right,” Martha snapped, hurt by his apparent brush off. “But we've already said goodbye once today. It's probably best if you both just go,” she said tightly, turning away from them sharply, probably so they wouldn't see the pain in her eyes.

It did no good for Hartley, who felt it like a punch to the kidney.

The Doctor didn't move, standing there stoically, and Hartley had to roll her eyes. He was absolutely brilliant, beyond anything even imaginable, but he could still be so cluelessly _alien._

She let out a laugh, the sound bright and loud in the otherwise silent flat, and Martha turned back to face them with a deep frown. “What?” she asked, looking on the verge of taking offence, as though Hartley was laughing _at_ her _._

“He said _okay_ ,” she told Martha with a smile.

“Sorry?”

Hartley huffed, elbowing the Time Lord in the gut as a prompt. He flinched away from the assault, but she didn't look up to take in his expression, continuing to grin at a confused Martha. “ _Okay,_ ” he repeated, and she felt him nod his head towards the TARDIS.

Martha's eyes flickered between them and the blue box before she broke out into a wide, ecstatic smile, rushing towards them in sheer exuberance. She leapt into the Doctor's arms and he caught her with a grunt of surprise before chuckling as he squeezed her back. A moment passed and he placed her back on her feet.

“Oh, thank you, thank you!” Martha cried happily, throwing herself around Hartley too. Now that she was healed the embrace was easier to handle, and Hartley laughed as she hugged her, squeezing tightly.

They finally let go, and Martha smiled at them both in happiness. The Doctor nudged open the TARDIS door, waving for them to head in. “Well, you were never really _just_ a passenger, were you, Martha Jones?” he asked, and the girl grinned again before all but leaping inside the ship, absolutely without regard for the life that would await her at home while she gallivanted across the stars.

But Hartley had done the exact same thing, once upon a time, so who was she to judge?

She grinned, looking up at the Doctor happily before slipping in after Martha, the ship humming in her mind with joy. Team TARDIS 2.0 – next stop: everywhere.


	37. Charlie Chaplin Dreamin'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, new chapter alert. Warning: I absolutely do not claim to be a Charlie Chaplin expert. Everything I know comes from a whole lot of research and what I learned when I went to his house over in Switzerland last year. If you're some Charlie Chaplin scholar and it turns out I got something wrong, feel free to let me know. 
> 
> Also, if anyone catches my It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia reference, I will love you forever. (Hint: it's very close to the bottom).
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

**CHARLIE CHAPLIN DREAMIN'**

“ _Nothing is permanent in this wicked world – not even our troubles.”_

Charlie Chaplin

* * *

“And we're just going to waltz onto the set?” asked Martha, almost giddy at the prospect. She was incredulous, barely able to believe it. “It can't be that easy.”

“Usually is,” the Doctor sniffed. “Besides, we've got _this_ ,” he reminded her, flapping his psychic paper pointedly in the air.

“Will it be enough, though?”

The Doctor stared at her like she'd just asked him the most ridiculous question in the universe – and, Hartley supposed, he would know. “I'm landing the TARDIS inside the set,” he explained. “We won't need to pass security, and even if we did, it's the 1930s. I think we'd be able to handle it.”

Martha frowned at his tone, but Hartley just rolled her eyes, standing up properly and making her way down the ramp towards the doors.

“Can we go now, you two?” she complained impatiently. “I wanna meet the man who pioneered modern comedy.”

They stepped out into their next adventure, and Hartley saw the TARDIS had indeed landed them inside a production studio. Old-style performance lights hung around the concrete and wooden room, their light bright and jarring compared to the TARDIS' warm glow.

“I had no idea who were such a fan of classic comedy, Martha,” Hartley said, watching their friend with a smile as she took in everything around them with wide, gleeful eyes.

“I love it,” Martha nodded, tugging absentmindedly at the hem of her sweater as they shut the TARDIS door behind them, wandering deeper into the set. It wasn't empty, nor was it overflowing with people. Small groups of workers stood clustered around the room, clutching pens and clipboards in their hands, muttering amongst one another importantly. None of them gave the trio of travellers so much as a cursory glance.

The Doctor was right about one thing; act like you belong, and everybody will just assume you do.

“Growing up, my dad used to put _The Three Stooges_ on the telly for me when I couldn't sleep,” Martha continued, keeping her voice low so as to not attract any attention. “And when I was in school, I took extra media courses just so I had an excuse to watch old Charlie Chaplin movies for homework,” she said around a sheepish (but somehow still proud) little grin. “Have you ever met him before?” she asked the Doctor eagerly.

“Who? Charlie Chaplin?” he asked, hands tucked deep into his pockets. “Can't say I have, no.”

“I bet he's brilliant!” she said brightly, the excitement radiating out of her like sunshine through the clouds.

“Yes, well, don't get your hopes up _too_ high,” he sniffed. “He might end up banishing you from England forever.”

Martha had never looked more confused. Hartley giggled in amusement. “He met Queen Victoria a few years back – she knighted he and Rose before banishing them both forever,” she divulged in a playful and gossipy tone.

“You've been knighted?” was all Martha seemed to glean from the story.

“You're looking at _Sir Doctor of TARDIS_ ,” he told her with yet another self-important sniff. Hartley snickered, rolling her eyes at Martha and stepping out of the way of a young man carrying a tray of muffins and coffee. “Where do you s'pose Chaplin spends his time, eh?” the Doctor continued on before either woman could tease him further.

“Did they have trailers back in the 30's?” Martha asked curiously.

“You'd think they would,” said the Doctor, who apparently wasn't as much of an expert as he usually pretended to be. “Or at the very least, a dressing room.”

“Excuse me?” Hartley asked, stepping in the path of a flustered woman wearing a pencil skirt and a bun so tight it looked painful. The woman paused, glancing up from her clipboard to look at Hartley in surprise that quickly shifted into irritated. “We're looking for Mr. Chapman,” she said sweetly, “is he around?”

“Well, he should be on his lunch break––” the woman began, only to cut herself off with a scowl. “Sorry but, who is it that's asking, exactly?”

The Doctor between them, a charming smile lighting up his face as he confidently held up the psychic paper for her to read. “Don't mind us,” he said smoothly. “Mr. Chaplin himself requested our presence.”

But the woman didn't appear to look any more convinced by whatever it said on the paper. “Character consultants?” she asked suspiciously.

“He called for us specifically,” said the Doctor with a solemn nod.

She didn't look particularly satisfied by the response, but she also couldn't dispute the cold hard evidence that she held in her hand – the psychic paper almost certainly providing an accurate duplicate of Charlie Chaplin's unique signature. Hartley once more marvelled at its magic.

“Well, lunch is almost over. We're just about to shoot the next scene over on stage B,” said the woman, handing back the paper and glancing down at the antique watch (or modern, technically, from her perspective) that sat on her wrist. “He should be along soon.”

“Would you please point us in that direction?” Hartley asked her politely.

The woman frowned, remaining suspicious, but didn't end up saying anything in argument. She lifted a hand and pointed to the wall behind them, a large arrow painted onto its surface, the words _Stage B_ printed below.

“Thank you,” said Martha gratefully, but the woman had already turned to leave, her sensible kitten heels clicking against the concrete floor. “Blimey,” Martha murmured to Hartley, who gave a low hum of agreement.

“Shall we?” asked the Doctor, and they both nodded, following his lead in the direction of Stage B.

When they got there, the production team was in full swing, actors being handed props with makeup artists dusting their faces in expensive powders. Large, bulky cameras were being rolled around on wheels, strong looking men behind them. One person – likely someone higher up on the food chain, was shouting orders into a rusty megaphone, pieces of set rolling by as a dog barked in the far corner.

“I can't believe I'm actually _here_ ,” squealed Martha, keeping her voice as low as she could while still conveying her excitement. “How don't you do things like this every day? If I had a TARDIS of my own, it would just be a never-ending list of this kind of thing,” she gushed. “Imagine all the people you could visit!”

“Yes, well, I tend to like to space them out,” said the Doctor flippantly. “Don't want to use up all the good people in one go.”

“Yes, because _then_ where would we be?” asked Hartley coyly. “Going to see ABBA live in concert for a _fifth_ time?” she playfully shuddered.

The Doctor whipped around to pout at her. “You said you enjoyed those concerts!” he tried very hard not to sound like he were whining.

“I love ABBA as much as the next Brit, but there is such a thing as _too_ much of a good thing,” she told him mildly.

“Fine,” he muttered back childishly. “Last time I take _you_ to see ABBA.”

Hartley was unaffected, turning to grin at Martha companionably. Only Martha wasn't paying any attention, instead she was staring at the hustle and bustle of the set with a frown on her face. “I think something's wrong,” she told them in an undertone.

Hartley wasn't sure what she meant until she heard a voice over the crackly, early-model PA system.

“ _Mr. Chaplin? You're overdue on set; they're waiting on you. Mr. Chaplin?_ ”

The voice was growing more and more irritated as it spoke. The people on the set were beginning to mutter amongst themselves.

“That's odd,” said the Doctor, spinning in a slow circle, head cocked and eyes narrowed as if expecting to spot Mr. Chaplin when all the other people in the room couldn't.

“Think something's wrong?” Hartley asked in vague concern.

“Excuse me? Hello, yes,” said the Doctor, bringing a nearby young man to a stop. “Mr. Chaplin, is he often late to his own set?”

“No sir,” said the boy emphatically. “Hardly ever. Hope he's okay.”

“I'm sure he's just fine,” Hartley smiled at him kindly, and the boy's cheeks went pink as he scurried away.

“He's probably just sick,” Martha said, but even she was frowning in worry, convincing no one.

“Maybe we just came at a bad time,” Hartley suggested. “We could try another day?”

“Hm,” the Doctor hummed, licking his finger then holding it up to the air. He suddenly grimaced like he smelt something bad. “Ugh, it's a Thursday afternoon,” he groaned like somebody had told him he'd just stepped in cow dung. “Why would the TARDIS land me on a Thursday afternoon? She knows how I hate Thursday afternoons.”

Martha's face was scrunched, as if wondering how exactly a spaceship could possibly _know_ anything at all, but the Doctor continued on before she got a chance to ask.

“Come on,” he huffed, turning around and setting back off in the direction of the TARDIS. “Let's go land on a day worth our time.”

Martha looked surprised by the revulsion with which he spoke. “He really _does_ hate Thursday afternoons, doesn't he?” she said mildly.

“You should see him on Sundays,” Hartley laughed. Martha only looked more bewildered, like she'd never heard anything more alien.

The TARDIS was untouched, forgotten in the middle of the warehouse the crew were using as a storage space/soundstage. “We'll go forward a day,” the Doctor was saying as he carelessly pushed his way inside his beloved ship. “Great day, Friday. On the cusp of the weekend – everyone so amped from their week of work and excited for their upcoming free time. It's a hub of kinetic energy-”

The Doctor had cut off abruptly, and Hartley wasn't sure why until she stepped inside the TARDIS, the last one in before the doors shut after her with a foreboding creak.

There, at the console, stood none other than Charlie Chaplin himself. He was dressed as his character – the Tramp – complete with his bowler hat and cane, fake moustache secured into place. He was wearing something of a shellshocked expression, eyes wide with bewilderment and wonder as he took in all he was seeing.

Hartley turned to the Doctor accusingly. “You didn't lock the doors, did you?”

“Um,” said the Doctor, either unwilling or just too embarrassed to answer.

“Charlie Chaplin,” breathed Martha, surging forwards before either Hartley or the Doctor could stop her. She snatched one of his hands in her own, shaking enthusiastically. The dumb look on Chaplin's face was almost enough to make Hartley laugh. “I'm a big fan. Huge. I've seen every one of your films. _The Kid; The Gold Rush; The Circus. City Lights_ is my favourite, though. I've probably watched it about a hundred times over.”

Chaplin didn't seem to know how to reply, gaping back at her, utterly nonplussed.

“What she means is that she _will_ watch it a hundred times over,” said Hartley, hurrying to correct Martha's misstep. “Once you've finished filming it. On the set we were just on.”

“Ah,” Martha winced, “right.”

But Chaplin had apparently had enough of them yammering on. “Would someone tell me where exactly it is that I am?” he demanded, eyes still wide and echoing with fear as he struggled to process what was happening.

“You're inside a Police Box that happens to be much bigger on the inside than you're probably used to,” the Doctor explained haphazardly. “Why'd you even come in here, anyway? Most people just walk by it. Not usually something they notice – it's good like that; blending in when it needs to,” he said fondly, reaching out to gently pat the sprout of coral to his right.

Chaplin looked affronted, like something the Doctor had said had offended him. “It was on my soundstage,” he said sternly, fake moustache bristling.

“What, so you just thought-?” the Doctor began, about to start off on something of a tangent. Hartley silenced him with a sharp look that put him back on track. “All right, come on then, out of the time machine,” he muttered, moving towards Chaplin to guide him towards the doors.

But instead Chaplin just scrambled backwards, cane held out in warning, as if thinking the Doctor were about to attack. He stumbled, tattered shoes catching on the grating below. He threw out his arm to catch himself and it whacked the console with a click.

The lights up above them flickered wildly, and the room filled with a familiar wheezing that could only mean one thing.

“Oh no, what've you done?” the Doctor groaned. Chaplin looked dumbstruck, gripping the console with both hands to keep from falling over as the floor beneath their feet began to rattle something crazy.

The trip was more violent than usual. Hartley assumed it was because of whatever buttons Chaplin had unwittingly hit.

“Hold on!” the Doctor shouted over the TARDIS' loud complaining.

Hartley glanced over at Chaplin to see him looking particularly white in the face. Before she could begin to worry too much, the ship's juddering came to an abrupt stop, the familiar sound of the engines dying down until there were left in a still, tense silence.

Hartley tentatively climbed back up from where she'd fallen over. “What just happened?” she asked the Doctor, who leapt to his feet and began to check his beloved ship over.

“Someone's rerouted time capabilities to the warp drive. It overloaded,” he muttered, horror in his eyes.

That gave Hartley pause. “Doesn't overload usually mean _boom_?” she asked carefully.

“Not for a TARDIS,” he explained, eyes on the monitor as he hurried to try and fix the problem. “It just renders her inert. Like a failsafe – a safeguard put in place by the Time Lords in case this exact thing ever happened. But it doesn't make any sense, why would the pathways reroute?”

“Could it have happened accidentally when Chaplin hit the console?” Hartley suggested.

The Doctor's expression twisted as he considered it. “No, it would take a whole lot more fiddling than a simple knock like that,” he said, still furiously trying to fix the problem. “They'd have to do a full circle of the console, because every section needs to be activated in some way...” he trailed off. “Say Charlie, you didn't happen to be messing around with the console before we-?”

He cut off very suddenly, realising in the exact same moment as both Hartley and Martha that they were once more alone in the TARDIS. All eyes shot to the door to find it cracked open an inch, a sliver of sunlight shining through.

“Seriously?” breathed the Doctor, giving a huff of exasperation as he barrelled down the ramp towards the doors. “Why weren't you watching him?” he asked the women behind him in accusation.

“You didn't tell us to,” argued Martha.

“It was _implied_!”

They poured out of the doors to find themselves at least several decades away from where they'd just been. The TARDIS had landed herself on a nondescript street corner, and judging by the accents surrounding them on the footpath, the flashy cars driving up and down the street, and the palm trees lining the walkway before them, they were in modern day Los Angeles.

The street was crammed with people, residents and tourists alike, and the air was hot and humid. It was a picturesque view of a Californian summer, and if circumstances weren't so dire, Hartley would have spent longer appreciating it.

She pushed herself up onto her toes to try and spot Chaplin in the busy crowd, but she wouldn't have been able to spot the Incredible Hulk, let alone a short man in a bowler hat. The Doctor was having the same problem and he huffed in frustration.

“What do we do?” asked Martha, her voice a little shrill in her concern. “We can't just let Charlie Chaplin roam about modern-day LA.”

“No,” the Doctor agreed, “we can't.” He scanned the crowd again, doing a full circle before picking a direction. “Come on!” he said, urging them on – but not before taking the time to securely lock the TARDIS doors behind him.

“But – should we just leave the TARDIS out on the street like this?” Martha called, glancing back at the big blue box in concern. “I mean, what if somebody breaks in?”

“Impossible,” the Doctor replied, paying hardly any attention as he impatiently pushed his way through the throng of tourists in an effort to locate their missing historical figure. “Now that I've locked it, it's impenetrable.”

Martha stared back, seriously doubting that could be true. “But it's made of wood!”

“The outside's just a disguise,” Hartley told her, taking the reins of the conversation, seeing as the Doctor was distracted. “It's alien technology. He means it, nothing's getting through those doors without a key.”

“Why would a big blue box like that be a disguise?” Martha pressed. “It's not exactly modest.”

“Its chameleon circuit got stuck,” Hartley said offhandedly.

“Its what?”

Hartley smiled. “Never mind.”

“There!” shouted the Doctor suddenly, making an abrupt beeline for the street. Ducking out of the way of a pair of tall men carrying a mirror, Hartley threaded through the crowd after him, Martha close on her heels.

The blaring chorus of car horns met their ears and Hartley finally broke out of the crowd to find the Doctor standing with Chaplin in the middle of the road.

“Halloween's not for weeks, you moron!” shouted someone leaning out of their car as they swerved to avoid hitting the small man in a suit and that ridiculous bowler hat.

Hartley ignored the cars swerving around them, as well as the drivers' angry shouts for being in their way. She raced out onto the street and gripped Chaplin's arm. The poor man was staring out at the sea of sleek, shiny, modern vehicles in wordless shock.

“Chaplin,” she said imploringly, but he didn't acknowledge her in any way. “We need to get off the road.”

“Where am I?” he asked distantly, still in something of a daze.

Thankfully he was pliant at her touch, and with the Doctor's help Hartley was able to direct him off the street and back onto the pavement, much to everyone's relief. “You're in Los Angeles,” said the Doctor like a physician might break bad news to their patient.

“No, I'm not,” argued Chaplin, finally turning away from the glittering skyline and confusing machines to frown at the Doctor in frustration. “This isn't Los Angeles – I was just _in_ Los Angeles, and this isn't it. So I'll ask again; where _am_ I?” he demanded.

The Doctor dragged his hands down the length of his face. “You really shouldn't have messed with the TARDIS console,” he said tiredly.

“But he _did_ ,” Hartley countered. They couldn't put this back in the box; it was out, and now they had to deal with it.

“What's a TARDIS?” Chaplin asked tightly.

“That box you were in just a minute ago,” Martha explained. “It's called the TARDIS.”

“And we need to get back inside of it now,” the Doctor interjected, “so we can take you back to where – and _when_ – you belong.”

“I'm not getting back inside that thing,” Chaplin argued immediately, and Hartley winced. This was only getting more and more complicated by the minute. “Now, where the _hell_ am I?”

“Okay,” said the Doctor placatingly from where he stood behind Chaplin, his back to the sun, the light creating a halo effect around his head. “All right, I'll tell you.”

Chaplin was silent, impatiently awaiting a reply. The Doctor flailed, not seeming to know what to say. Hartley took pity and moved forwards, pressing a gentle hand to poor Chaplin's arm. “The box you were just inside of is a time machine,” she said with all the patience the Doctor could never manage. “Right now…you're in the future.”

Chaplin gaped at her, looking like he were trying to decide between slapping himself in the face in an attempt to wake up or take off at a run to put as much distance between him and these crazy people as possible.

“That isn't … it isn't possible,” he finally said, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.

“I'm afraid it's true,” said Martha softly.

Chaplin blinked rapidly, like something was stuck in his eye, and Hartley hoped he wasn't about to have a stroke. She scanned the boulevard they'd landed on, waves crashing to the beach to their far left. The palm trees were supplying little shade, but they were nice all the same. A few metres down the street was a coffeeshop, and luckily it didn't seem to look too overcrowded.

“Why don't we go have a cup of tea?” she suggested lightly. Chaplin blinked at her again, struggling to process the words. “Or a coffee, if you'd rather,” she offered, a smile on her face.

“Hart, we need to get him back to his own time–” the Doctor tried to argue, but she silenced him with a sharp look.

“The damage is already done,” she reminded him, and he looked away, chastised. “We might as well let him get his bearings before we cart him back home and disappear into smoke.”

“Some coffee would be much appreciated,” interjected Chaplin, whom it seemed had finally gotten ahold of himself, the shock slowly wearing off. Hartley attempted not to look too smug at his words.

The Doctor looked pleading to Martha, hoping for her support, but she was too excited at the prospect of coffee with Charlie Chaplin to side with him, and he wilted in reluctant acceptance. “Fine,” he muttered, wagging a finger in the comedian's painted face. “ _One_ coffee, but that's it. Then you're going straight home. You hear me?”

“Loud and clear.”

Martha rolled her eyes, already grasping a bemused Chaplin by the arm and dragging him through the thick crowd of pedestrians towards the coffee shop down the length of the boulevard.

“This could all go terribly, horribly wrong,” said the Doctor, staring after the pair of them in concern.

“Or it could all be just fine,” Hartley countered optimistically.

“Hartley, it's _us_ ,” he reminded her dryly, “since when are we _ever_ that lucky?”

She pretended to think about it. “Not often, but you like it that way,” she said with a glittering smile, bumping him playfully before heading off after Chaplin and Martha, leaving the Doctor to gather himself and follow.

Upon closer inspection Hartley found the coffeeshop to be a Starbucks with push leather seating and glass windows to give a perfect view out to the beach beyond the road.

Chaplin dazedly followed them all up to the counter, staring at the fancy, shining machinery behind the counter as well as the woman at the register sporting bright pink and purple hair, along with an impressive array of facial piercings. He looked vaguely ill at the sight of her.

“What d'you want, Charlie?” Martha asked eagerly, and Hartley felt her thrill at calling the comedy legend by his first name.

“Uh...” Chaplin muttered, not quite as articulate as Hartley had imagined him being. He gaped up at the menu, eyes narrowed in confusion. She felt how overwhelmed he was, his anxiety like an electrical current underneath her skin.

“He'll have a flat white,” she said to the girl over the counter. It was strange – she didn't look surprised to see a man decked out in (what appeared to be) a full Charlie Chaplin costume. Hartley supposed that with this kind of job, she saw plenty of crazy things that rivalled this. “Also a caramel macchiato, a hot chocolate, and...” Hartley trailed off, looking to Martha for her order. Martha tapped at the menu item she wanted. “And a chai tea.”

“Name for those?”

Hartley smiled. “Doctor.”

The neon-haired girl robotically relayed the total – at which Chaplin balked – and Hartley held her hand out to the Doctor who passed her the psychic paper without complaint. She tapped it against the reader and the girl nodded, waving them politely off to the side to wait.

“Wait, how'd you do that?” demanded Martha the moment they were out of earshot. “Was that the psychic paper?”

“Acts like a credit card if we need it to,” the Doctor sniffed.

“You mean it can trick machines too, not just people?” she hissed, staring at him, utterly stunned.

The Doctor gave a smug smile. “Great, isn't it?”

Hartley rolled her eyes and handed it back, watching as he placed it back in his breast pocket with care. She glanced over at Chaplin only to find him staring at the people around him in something of a haze. She suddenly realised that, what with the beach being so close by, people were streaming into the Starbucks wearing nothing but bikini tops and sarong wraps. She'd never seen anyone look so scandalised.

“Maybe we should sit down,” she suggested, angling Chaplin and Martha into a booth off to the side. They sat without any complaints, Chaplin seeming to have remembered his manners and now holding his bowler hat in a white-knuckled grip.

“We really can't stay long,” the Doctor was muttering as he took a seat on Hartley's other side. “If you see anything you aren't meant to, it could disrupt the flow of-”

“Oh, hush up,” Martha said sternly, and the Doctor fell sulkily silent. “Tell me, is the future anything like what you expected?” she asked Chaplin eagerly.

“He wasn't _expecting_ anything-” the Doctor tried again, but Hartley silenced him with another look.

Chaplin took a moment to gather his thoughts, very carefully keeping his eyes away from a nearby woman covered head to toe in tattoos, wearing only a string bikini and a baseball cap. “If what you're saying is true...” he began quietly.

“It is.”

“Then…this is _really_ the future?” he whispered like the thought terrified him. “I still don't understand,” he admitted without telling them his opinions on the current state of the world.

The Doctor glanced over at Hartley, who took it as a prod to explain. “We're time travellers,” she told him, leaning over the table and keeping her voice low. Anyone passing by would likely just think they were a group of British nutters, but it was better to be safe than sorry. “That's what we do. We travel throughout time to meet famous people in history. You stumbled onto our time ship, and I guess curiosity got the better of you and you fiddled with some buttons you shouldn't have – and so now here we are, in the year-” she glanced pointedly at the Doctor.

He held a finger up to the air then brought it to his mouth, sticking it between his lips. “2010,” he answered, utterly certain.

“2010,” she echoed with a sure nod.

“Bit different from the thirties, isn't it?” murmured Martha, eyeing a nearby gaggle of teenagers all with the white cables of headphones leading up to their ears.

“Doctor?!” a voice suddenly called from behind the counter. Hartley nudged the Doctor, who reluctantly climbed to his feet, disappearing into the growing crowd. He returned a few moments later with their drinks on a tray, handing them out to each person diligently.

“You'd make a good waiter,” Hartley teased. He sent her a dark look but otherwise didn't respond.

“But, there's something I don't understand,” said Chaplin as he robotically stirred his coffee with the supplied teaspoon. Hartley looked up even as she emptied tiny sugar packets into her own drink. “If you travel throughout all of time … why come to the set of _City Lights_?” he asked, befuddled. “Everyone's saying we're not going to so much as break even.”

Martha gave a wide smile into the rim of her cup. “ _City Lights_ is one of the greatest movies ever made,” she assured him without any regard for the sanctity of the space time continuum.

“Martha,” the Doctor interjected sternly, disapproval in his eyes.

Hartley rolled her own. “He's already _in_ 2010, Doc,” she reminded him tartly. “S'like I said: I think the damage is done.”

“I just realised,” said Chaplin abruptly, drawing the attention back to him, “we haven't even been formally introduced.” He turned to Martha, whose eyes went wide under his stare. “Martha, was it?”

She shook his hands with a nod, letting out a tiny squeak of surprise. He turned to Hartley next, who took his extended hand in both of hers. “Hartley Daniels,” she introduced herself with a smile. “You can call me Hart.”

“And you'd be _the Doctor_ , then?” Chaplin turned to the Doctor, eyebrow raised as he radiated skepticism.

“That's me,” the Doctor chirped as he took a deep sip of hot chocolate, a moustache of foam appearing above his lip. Hartley absentmindedly handed off a serviette and he took the hint, bashfully wiping at his mouth.

“But Doctor _who_?” demanded Chaplin. “I can't just call you _the Doctor._ ”

“Sure you can.”

Chaplin didn't seem to know how to respond to that, opening his mouth only to shut it again helplessly. Hartley swooped in before things could get awkward. “You should tell us more about yourself,” she said encouragingly. “It's not everyday we get to have coffee with the man who pioneered modern comedy.”

She'd been hoping to make him more comfortable, but unfortunately her words seemed to have the opposite effect. He blinked a few times, struggling to formulate a reply.

“Hey!” Someone had come to a stop beside their table – a tall, sun kissed guy clutching a skateboard at his hip, “cool costume, dude! You here for the film festival? I didn't know it was a dress-up thing.” He was staring straight at Chaplin, who stared back in bewilderment.

“Film festival?” asked Martha to cover up the comedian's hesitation.

“Yeah! The one down by the water?” the skater asked, looking confused now. “We do it every month, and this time it's Charlie Chaplin themed...but you knew that, right?”

“Of course,” Hartley swooped in. “Sorry, yeah. We're just suffering from a little sunstroke. We're not used to his American heat,” she said smoothly, really laying her accent on thick as she reached up to fan her face theatrically.

The skater grinned, wide and a little bit dopey, making Hartley wonder whether he were completely sober. The dazed, reddened look in his eyes made her think that wasn't the case. “Well, you should get down there soon or all the good seats'll be taken!” he said enthusiastically. “I can save you a spot, if you want?!”

“Kade!” shouted someone from near the exit, and the guy's head of curly blond hair turned to look.

“That's okay,” Hartley told him kindly. “We'll find somewhere to watch. Thank you, though.”

Kade shrugged as if it were of no consequence to him before looking back at Chaplin with that dopey grin. “All right. Again, man, great costume. You seriously look _just_ _like_ Charlie Chaplin.”

With that he turned and bounded off, leaving the quartet to themselves. Hartley sighed, taking a deep sip of her cooling coffee.

Martha turned to her and the Doctor expectantly. “What are the odds of the TARDIS taking us to a Charlie Chaplin marathon with Charlie Chaplin _himself_ on board?” she asked, squeaky in her shock. Hartley wanted to know the same thing, turning in her seat to look at him properly.

But the Doctor, however, looked far less impressed by the conundrum. “The TARDIS is sentient,” he explained as if it were something any first grader would know. “She's got a telepathic circuit; sometimes it helps me to fly to a specific date and time. Comes in handy, I'll tell you that.”

“And you think he must have accidentally activated the circuit when he was fiddling around with the console?” Hartley finished.

He nodded. “She might've gotten you all mixed up. Two minds from the future, one from the past, all of you thinking thoughts in some way related to Charlie Chaplin...” he shrugged. “It was bound to happen, really.”

The Doctor suddenly leaned around Hartley to get a good look at the clock on the far wall.

“We've been here too long already,” he said, turning to Chaplin with a frown. “Feeling up to stepping back inside that box?” he asked. “It's time we got you back home.”

But Chaplin was filled only with of a sort of stubborn curiosity that Hartley recognised as determination, and suddenly she knew in her gut that it wasn't going to be as cut and dried as the Doctor was hoping.

“I was hoping we could go see this film festival,” Chaplin said hopefully. “I'm quite curious as to how one can show feature films on a _beach,_ ” he sounded incredulous at the idea.

But the Doctor was already shaking his head. “Can't, I'm afraid,” he said, not overly apologetic, a note of detachment to his voice. “Knowing your own future is dangerous, more so than you know,” he told him darkly. Chaplin looked surprised. “Besides,” the Doctor suddenly chirped, “you've got a critically acclaimed film to shoot!”

They drained the last of their drinks and left the Starbucks. Outside the sky had begun to turn a navy blue, faint stars sparkling in the sky. The crowd was, if anything, only growing thicker with the late hour. Hartley supposed people were out for dinner, and also most likely the film festival that skater had told them about.

“C'mon,” said the Doctor, tucking his hands into his trouser pockets and leading them back down the length of the boulevard, “TARDIS is this way.”

Hartley sped up to keep close to him while Martha hung back with Chaplin, taking every moment of opportunity she had to talk with one of her childhood idols.

“Think Chaplin will let us hang around the studio back in 1930?” Hartley asked him curiously. “I've always wanted to see how a movie's made.”

“Do you have a favourite movie?” he asked, rather than answer the question. “A book adaptation, perhaps?”

“Ugh,” she grimaced. “Don't even get me started.” The Doctor only laughed. “What?” she asked defensively.

“I figured you'd be one of those humans.”

“Which humans?” she asked, taking offence despite not knowing where he was going with this.

“The humans who think they're too good for a well done film adaptation,” he told her with a playful little grin on his lips that negated the rudeness of the words.

“I'm not _too good_ for them,” she argued valiantly, trying very hard not to stick her nose up in the air. The Doctor looked to be suppressing more laughter. “I'm not!” she insisted. “Might I remind you that I'm a _literary scholar_?” she asked tartly. “So what if I prefer the book to the movie?”

“I didn't say anything,” he held up his hands in mock surrender.

“Oh, shut up,” she muttered, cheeks going warm as she looked away.

There was a moment of quiet, only the buzz of unimportant chatter and car engines surrounding them. “There has to be one book-to-movie adaptation you've _actually_ enjoyed,” he persisted, and Hartley rolled her eyes.

She took a moment to think, knowing he wouldn't give up easily. “Well,” she began slowly, “ _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_ was rather enjoyable.”

He nodded. “Not a bad choice,” he agreed. “And you've read the book?”

Hartley scoffed as they reached the TARDIS, pulling her key out from where it lay against her chest beneath her shirt. “ _Have I read the book_?” she echoed him sarcastically. “Honestly, have you even met me?” she asked. The Doctor rolled his eyes fondly.

Before Hartley could slide her key into the lock Martha reappeared, bursting from the swelling crowd with panic in her eyes. “I lost him!” she exclaimed without preamble.

The other two froze, staring at her wordlessly, unsure how to react. “You _what_?” the Doctor finally demanded, incredulous.

“He was right beside me, and I looked away for a second – just a _second_ – and he was gone!” she shouted, and Hartley dropped her key back into the folds of her shirt. “Where could he possibly have gone?” she asked, not really expecting an answer as she tugged anxiously at the hem of her sweater.

The lights suddenly went down, even those on the street slowly dimming, leaving them in the glow of the moon and the shine of a large projector screen that had been set up on the sand of the nearby beach.

“I think I've got a good idea,” muttered the Doctor. “We need to split up,” he continued, already leading the way across the empty road towards the beach. “Martha, you take the crowd to the left of here. Hart, you take the right. I'll stay up the back and try and spot him from higher ground. Shouldn't be that hard to find him, right?”

“Uh, I wouldn't be so sure about that, Doc,” Hartley murmured to him, something like dread in her gut as they looked out over the humongous crowd gathered on the sand. It seemed Kade had been wrong about the night's cosplay factor, because at least a fourth of the crowd before them were dressed up in their best Charlie Chaplin costumes.

“Well, that's just _spectacular_ ,” the Doctor drawled, the words thick with sarcasm.

“How're we meant to find him in this?!” asked Martha.

“I don't know,” said the Doctor, eyes on the huge screen above them which was now playing clips from some of Chaplin's earlier films. It seemed they weren't playing the full movies, but rather excerpts from all his films – no doubt so they could fit all the best bits into one night. “But we need to find him before the showing catches up to _City Lights._ He can't see films from his future.”

“That would be bad?”

“Very.”

“Do your best,” said Hartley, bumping Martha companionably on the shoulder. “Meet back here?” Martha nodded, and the Doctor waved them off, already pushed onto his toes in an effort to get a better look at the crowd.

Hartley weaved her way through the throng of gathered, excitable people. The scent of popcorn and fairy floss swirled around her nose, made stronger by the heat of the evening, and she guessed there was some kind of vender nearby selling such movie theatre staples.

Everywhere she looked it seemed there was another Charlie Chaplin look-alike in her vision. Old, young; male, female; thick, thin; tall, short. It seemed everyone and their mother had come dressed for the occasion.

Hartley dropped her head into her hands in sheer exasperation. She was looking for the real Charlie Chaplin in a sea of enthusiastic cosplayers from the future. When had this become her life?

She pushed on, gripping each look-alike by the shoulder and turning them to face her, only to find again and again that the person wasn't Chaplin at all, but a rather well-dressed fake.

The task seemed impossible. How were they meant to find him? There were at least eight _hundred_ people here, maybe even closer to a thousand. It was like a game, almost, one that seemed rigged in the opponent's favour. She considered shouting for him, but she knew she'd only look like a complete and total nutter if she did that and kept her mouth shut tight.

She wasn't sure how long she was searching, but soon enough there was a slight cheer from the crowd. Hartley glanced up at the screen to see a famous scene from _City Lights_ playing above them. She cursed, knowing they were almost completely out of time. They'd caught up to Chaplin's current present-day. Any longer and he'd see something he really, really shouldn't.

A mix between humbleness and mystification suddenly surged within Hartley, and she spun around, seeing with perfect clarity the man sat only a few rows behind her.

Chaplin – the real one – was sat on the beach between a young couple on a blanket and a small family with two kids in camping chairs. He was gazing up at the screen, a shine of tears to his eyes.

Hartley silently took a seat in the sand beside him, uncaring when it got all over her jeans and into her shoes. Chaplin didn't look up as she settled into place, but she could feel a tendril of awareness emanating from him and knew he knew she was there.

She knew she should stop him, rush him back to the TARDIS before the Doctor blew a fuse. But there was something about the wonder and awe in Chaplin's heart that kept her from dragging him away. She looked at him, his painted face illuminated by the dull glow of the projection, and softened at the tears glistening in his eyes.

“Charlie?” she asked quietly.

“All these people are here,” he whispered back without taking his eyes from the screen, “for _my_ films.”

“Yeah,” she nodded, casting her eyes back to the crowd which shook with laughter as The Little Tramp took a tumble on screen. Chaplin too stared out over his sea of fans, eyes sparkling with warmth and awe; awe that these people, so many years in the future, would care enough to come sit in the sand on a stifling night and watch his work.

“How am I to go back?” he whispered to her. “Knowing what I know now, _how_ am I to go back?”

He was begging for answers she didn't know how to give; asking a question she'd asked herself countless times before. How could she got back to ordinary life after seeing everything she had? Experiencing the entire universe, every asteroid marketplace and far off planet? How could she go back to linear time, to the simple, _human_ way of life?

It didn't feel possible. In a way it was cruel to give Chaplin a taste of something he'd never, ever have. But sometimes that was life: cruel and unfair.

“This is only the beginning,” Hartley eventually told him, the words coming to her in a flash. “You have so much more left to do, Charlie; and a fair way to go before becoming the man we sit here and watch today.”

The famous scene of _City Lights_ faded away along to the cheers of the jubilant crowd. The screen was black for a moment before suddenly filling with the openings of _Modern Times,_ the next film Chaplin had written and performed in his own time.

“We _really_ need to go now,” she said, reaching out to hold his arm, gently trying to pull him to his feet. But Chaplin wouldn't budge, eyes wide as he watched the footage on the screen before him, a scene he had yet to film, or maybe even write at all.

“How intoxicating,” he murmured, and Hartley held her breath, “to see what is to come.”

“That's why we have to go,” she implored him. “It's not good to know your own future. Too much could change.”

“Not if I don't let it,” he argued.

“No, Charlie,” she sighed. “You won't be able to help it. You're creating your own _paradox._ ”

Chaplin blinked. “My own what?”

“We have to go,” she said again, an edge of steel leaking into her voice. She wasn't kidding. She wasn't about to allow history to crumble because she'd been too kind to Charlie Chaplin. She stood to her feet, holding up her hands and waving them in the air, hoping to get the Doctor's attention from where he remained stood up at the top of the beach.

The people behind her complained loudly at her interruption, but some things were more important than their momentary inconvenience.

“What are you doing?” hissed Chaplin, and hoping the Doctor had seen her she dropped back down to her knees.

“I'm sorry, Charlie, but this is getting dangerous. We really, seriously, need to go,” she said firmly. Chaplin winced, staring up at himself on the big screen longingly, wistful and full of wonder.

To her horror, _Modern Times_ began to fade away, replaced with soft black, like the calm before the storm. But the calm never lasted. She looked up to see the Doctor _finally_ heading their way, wading through the Chaplin-enthusiasts as quickly as he could. But it wasn't quick enough.

“ _I'm sorry, but I don't want to be an emperor. That's not my business. I don't want to rule or conquer anyone. I should like to help everyone if possible – Jew, Gentile – black man – white...”_

It was the famous speech from the end of _The Great Dictator_ , Chaplin's first talkie – a film with sound, as opposed to his previous silent ones – and Hartley stared at Chaplin's face, watching the sheer shock play out across his aging, painted features.

“I don't believe it,” he said quietly. “I give in make _talkies..._ ”

Hartley couldn't resist, leaning in and lowering her voice. “Why don't you want to make talkies?” she asked him quietly.

Chaplin didn't answer for a moment, staring up at himself on the screen, at a loss. “People keep saying talkies are the future of film,” he whispered. “But I suppose I've always been a little afraid of the future, myself.”

Hartley pursed her lips, considering. “Tell you what, though,” she said, and he tilted his head to show he was listening. “They're some of your most popular works,” she whispered the secret with a smile. Chaplin met her eyes, tears sparkling in his own, before abruptly the moment was ended when the Doctor yanked Chaplin to his feet, a stern scowl on his face.

“Honestly,” the Doctor muttered, tutting in exasperation, forcefully dragging Chaplin back towards the boulevard where the TARDIS was parked. “Why does nobody ever listen? Do I just have a face that nobody listens to? Really, be honest,” he rambled, ignoring the loud shushing from all around him.

“Kind of,” Hartley said lightly. He scoffed, turning his nose away from her primly.

Martha was waiting at the back, an anxious look on her face. “Oh, thank _God_ you found him,” she breathed as they approached, wading their way up through the sand dune leading to the road. “I thought we were going to be solely responsible for Charlie Chaplin having disappeared in 1930. The conspiracy nutters would have had a field day.”

Hartley walked ahead of them, already pulling free her precious TARDIS key, slipping it into the lock and holding the door open. To her surprise Chaplin didn't put up a fight as the Doctor tugged him inside the police box. Martha shut the door after her, and the Doctor let go of Chaplin to race towards the console, not hesitating to take the famous comedian back where he belonged.

The ship juddered around them and Chaplin cried out, dropping his cane and crashing to the grating with a bang. The ride was just as wild as always, but within moments they landed with a low bong of the time rotor, the ship going still and its wheezing fading into nothing.

Hartley picked up Chaplin's cane, holding it in her hand a moment, marvelling over the fact that this was the _real_ cane used by Chaplin's character of the Little Tramp, before moving on and handing the cane over to its rightful owner.

“Don't worry, Charlie,” said the Doctor from the console. “1930, set of _City Lights._ You've only been gone five minutes. Mind you, you were still running late, so I'd get a move on if I were you,” he smirked.

“Are you sure he can't stay for one more cuppa?” Martha asked, disappointed that their time was coming to a close. “We could have scones,” she offered weakly. Hartley could tell she wanted more time with Chaplin. She had so many questions to ask, so many things she wanted to know and things she wanted to be able to tell him.

The Doctor just shook his head, but Hartley smiled. “It's time we let Mr. Chaplin get back to his life,” she said softly, reaching out to pat the man warmly on the shoulder. “He's got a lot of work to do,” she added with a small, secretive grin in his direction.

Martha wilted a little but Hartley knew she understood. Martha stepped closer and wrapped Chaplin in a hug that took him by surprise. He hesitated before gingerly wrapping his arms around her, patting her softly – if not a little awkwardly – on the back.

“You know, they say to never meet your heroes,” Martha murmured as she pulled back, eyes alight with laughter as she glanced back at Hartley, both recalling their adventure with Shakespeare the few weeks before when Hartley had said nearly the exact same thing, “but I'm really, really glad I met you, Charlie.”

Even from underneath all that makeup Charlie seemed to go just a little bit pink at the words. “Well,” he murmured, straightening his haphazard clothing. “Thank you, Martha.”

Martha stepped away, turning to Hartley and squeaking, “Charlie Chaplin knows my name!”

Hartley laughed, quickly swiping Chaplin up in a hug of her own, though hers was a little less intense. She squeezed once, then pulled away and offered him her brightest smile. “Stay hilarious, Chaplin,” she said warmly. “And don't forget – the future doesn't have to be scary.”

“No,” he agreed with a smile growing on his lips. “I don't think it does.”

The Doctor shook his hand enthusiastically. “If I were you, I wouldn't mention anything to anyone about this trip of yours,” he told the man quickly. “I'd hate for people to think that you're…” he didn't seem to know how to finish.

“Crazy?” Chaplin supplied.

The Doctor grinned. “That's the word.”

Chaplin nodded his head, agreeing. Then he turned away, taking in the TARDIS console room in all its alien glory before making his way down towards the doors. The wood creaked as he pulled it open, sticking his face back out into the 1930s before stepping back inside the ship and shaking his head at the brilliance of it all.

He looked up at the three standing around the console, a real smile on his face. “If you ever want to come to set _properly…_ ” he offered.

“We might just take you up on that,” the Doctor beamed. “See you round, Charlie Chaplin.”

And with that Chaplin stepped back out into his life, the TARDIS door swinging shut and leaving the three of them in contented quiet.

“Anyone else hungry?” Hartley asked suddenly. Her friends responded with vehement agreements and she grinned. “I don't feel like cooking,” she continued. “Let's get takeaway.”

“We could eat it in the media room!” added Martha eagerly. “I suddenly have an itching to watch some old films.”

“All right,” the Doctor began to pilot the TARDIS with a newfound bounce in his step. “I'll take us to _Galactic Ron's_ – it's basically a spaceship that doubles as a diner. And – since we're on an American kick – they have _the_ best meatball subs you've ever had in your _life._ ”

“Sounds good to me,” Hartley agreed. “I'll go make some drinks. How do we feel about homemade lemonade?”

“Keeping the American theme going?” asked Martha with a amusement in her voice.

“Rock, flag and eagle,” Hartley replied playfully as she disappeared into the depths of the TARDIS, heading for the kitchen and feeling a happiness deep in her very soul.

Something she'd told Chaplin, however, had stayed with her. The future could be scary. At one point she'd been terrified of it – how would she and the Doctor go on without Rose by their side? How would she tackle the potential eternity that now sat at her feet?

But she was realising that the future didn't have to be scary at all. It had brought them Martha, after all. And though their time with Martha was limited – as it was with every human they would travel with – it was full of possibility.

Maybe she could learn to embrace the future; like the Doctor did, and like Charlie Chaplin had just learned to. Maybe there was something beautiful about that; the unknown; the whats-to-come.

And suddenly she was _really_ excited for whatever came next.


	38. Glimpse

**GLIMPSE**

“ _Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know.”_

Ernest Hemingway, _The Garden of Eden_

* * *

“Morning,” Hartley greeted the Doctor, padding across the grating towards him where he lay with his head underneath the console. “What could you possibly be doing with the console this early in the morning?”

“Morning is a relative term,” he replied, voice slightly muffled from the interior of the console.

Hartley rolled her eyes, glad he wasn't in a position to be able to see the fond affection that had bloomed in her eyes. “Are you going to answer my question?”

“Recalibrating the sensors,” he told her, words accompanied by the loud clanging of metal and a sudden shower of sparks exploding from the top of the console. Hartley leapt back to avoid getting burned.

“Is it safe?” she asked warily.

“Safe is a relative term.”

Huffing, Hartley kicked him gently for his cheek. He gave a yelp as he finally slid out from underneath the console, one hand rubbing his barely-bruised hip.

“Uncalled for,” he deadpanned.

Laughing quietly, Hartley held out a hand. He eyed it for a moment, as if wondering whether it were going to grow teeth and bite him, before finally he took it and let her tug his lanky form to his feet. His skin was calloused and cool underneath hers, hand large and nearly enveloping hers completely.

Once he was on his feet he froze, hand still holding hers, head bent closer to her, shoulders hunched slightly to close the space between them. Hartley was confused a moment before she realised what was happening.

“Are you sniffing me?” she asked, unmistakably amused.

He let go of her hand at once, busying himself with brushing imaginary dirt from his pinstripe suit and collecting the tools he'd left scattered across the floor. “I can't help it – you, you smell different,” he muttered, not meeting her eyes.

“That'd be my new shampoo,” she told him, a smile still curving at her mouth.

There was a beat. “Coconut?” he asked, voice a little strained.

Hartley only laughed.

“Morning, you two,” came Martha's voice, surprisingly bright considering the early hour (which, again, was a relative term when it came to TARDIS time).

“How'd you sleep?” Hartley asked her with a smile, hopping up onto the jump seat, the puffy material making her bounce before she fell still.

“Like a baby,” Martha replied.

“You hungry? I could whip something up; I think we have enough eggs for omelettes?”

“Thanks, but I grabbed an energy bar on my way past the kitchen.”

Hartley frowned in disapproval. “That's hardly breakfast.”

Martha grinned. “I ate a lot worse during my time at med school,” she said lightly. “I think I'll survive.” She turned to the Doctor, who was stood at the console, jabbing his finger into a piece of piping in amongst all the other controls. “I know where I wanna go today, Doctor.”

“That so?” he asked distantly.

“Yeah,” she nodded even though he wasn't looking. “I wanna go somewhere with shopping.”

That finally pulled the Doctor from his stupor. “Shopping?” he asked, grimacing around the word like it left a bad taste on his tongue. Hartley supposed it paled in comparison to supernovas and alien worlds, but there was something intrinsically ordinary about it that left her feeling almost _normal._

“I need new trainers,” Martha replied defensively, bringing their attention to the worn out sneakers sitting in tatters on her feet. “You can't expect me to keep up with you in these ratty old things.”

“I could go for some shopping,” Hartley interjected, ignoring the Doctor's childish pouting. Martha smiled at her gratefully.

“Ugh, fine,” the Doctor relented, already working away at the console with steady, sure movements, barely needing to look to know where to put his hands.

Hartley knew he'd rather go liberate a slave race, or dance with Queen Nefertiti, or whatever it was that he did when he wanted to let loose – but he'd chosen the last four places they'd been and they'd all been run-for-your-life adventures. They were far overdue for a quiet day of nothing and he knew it.

“We'll go to Sujitkula's third moon,” he said as the TARDIS juddered beneath them. “They've got a nice little bazaar on the waterfront in the northern hemisphere. I'm sure you'll both be able to find something to tickle your fancy,” he added with a click of his tongue.

“You're not coming with us?” Martha sounded decidedly put out, and Hartley halfheartedly nudged at her aura, feeling the seed of disappointment in her gut.

The Doctor, unaware of Martha's dismay, sniffed indelicately. “I'm just gonna stay here; got some repairs I'd like to finish,” he said casually, oblivious to the way her shoulders slumped sadly.

Hartley couldn't help but wonder whether his sudden grumpiness had anything to do with the moments they'd been alone before Martha appeared. But that didn't make sense. What about her new shampoo could possibly cause such a mood swing?

The TARDIS landed with a thud and Hartley wasted no time jumping to her feet. “You're not gonna talk him into it, so don't bother trying,” she told Martha with a playful roll of her eyes. Martha's spirits lifted just a tad. “They take credit card?” she asked the Doctor keenly.

“If you're asking whether you can use the psychic paper, then yes,” he huffed, handing her the little slip of magical paper. “Here. Don't spend it all at once,” he added dryly.

Hartley gave a snort of laughter, turning away and rolling her eyes at Martha once more. “Come on,” she said, leading the way down the ramp. “Let's go enjoy ourselves while Mr Grumpy-Pants sulks away in his ship.”

Martha hesitated, eyes shifting between Hartley and the Doctor as if unsure what to do. Hartley waited by the door, pulling it open and hovering in the doorway, patient as she let Martha decide.

“All right,” Martha finally said. “See you later, then, Doctor.”

The Doctor lifted a hand, giving a distracted wave in their direction, attention already snagged by the readings on the console's monitor. Martha met Hartley at the door, stepping out into their destination with determination.

“Don't you go anywhere, Doc!” Hartley called backwards into the TARDIS. She heard the Doctor give a vague shout of assent before the door swung shut, blocking out whatever he'd been saying.

“What's the matter with him?” Martha was frowning as Hartley began to navigate the busy crowds, absentmindedly keeping an eye peeled for anywhere that sold shoes.

“Probably just woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” she said flippantly. “He does that sometimes; I wouldn't think anything of it,” she added with a smile. Martha hummed, lifting her shoulders in a shrug, but Hartley could tell she didn't quite believe her. “He probably just shorted out his sonic, or maybe the TARDIS turned the library into a labyrinth again. I'm positive you didn't do anything wrong,” she finished reassuringly.

“Yeah,” Martha finally agreed, managing a smile. “You're probably right.”

“'Course I am,” Hartley said with a grin, winding their arms together and using them to drag Martha along, leading her deeper into the throng of multicultural, multicoloured shoppers.

“It's all very...alien,” Martha said in an undertone as they ducked out of the way of a particularly tall woman with skin the colour of limes and red eyes glinting like rubies.

Hartley had long since become used to what it was like to be surrounded by aliens. To her, it had become something normal. Some days she almost found it strange to be on Earth, surrounded by nothing but boring old humans. She wondered, vaguely, if the Doctor ever felt the same way.

“I s'pose it is,” she allowed as they walked. “But that's the best bit, don't you think?”

But Martha didn't get a chance to reply.

“Free sample?” a short man in a grey suit with orange horns protruding from his head had appeared in front of them, holding out a tray of small, edible pebbles of some kind. Martha paused, eyeing the proffered food with a wary eye, likely wondering if it was safe to eat.

“Sure,” Hartley said, making the decision for her and scooping up two of the small delicacies. They were sticky to the touch and she fought back a grimace, keeping her smile in place as she passed one to a hesitant Martha.

Her friend took it, holding it up to the light with a wary frown before Hartley nodded encouragingly, and then they both placed them on their tongues.

It was sweet, almost sugary, but seemed to turn hot in their mouths, melting into something like honey. Martha gave a surprised moan, and Hartley licked her lips. “That's delicious!” she told the little alien. From beside her, Martha was stunned by how good it tasted, probably having expected it to be awful. “What is it?”

“Moon-sweet,” he told her in his squeaky voice, like she was supposed to know what that meant. She could only nod along. “It was my mother's recipe,” he added proudly.

“Do you sell them by the bag?” she asked.

“Indeed,” he said, brightening at the question. He ducked behind his stand, climbing up onto a stepping stool and producing a clear bag full of the small, squishy treats.

“We'll take three,” she told him, and his responding smile just about split his face in two. Martha flinched when his grin revealed rows of sharp, glistening teeth – not unlike those of a shark – but Hartley kept perfectly calm, patting her friend's shoulder reassuringly. “One for each of us, then another for the Doc,” she told her conversationally as she pulled the psychic paper from her pocket.

“That'll be twenty-two credits,” he told them and she swiped the paper over his machine, much like she might back on Earth. It beeped, and he smiled at them again. “Many thanks be to you!” he said happily.

Hartley wondered how Martha could possibly be scared of him. He was adorable in the sort of way a tiger cub was adorable; heart-meltingly cute but undoubtedly capable of taking a chunk out of your leg if it so pleased. Hartley just thought that was part of his charm.

Nudging Martha subtly, he friend managed a hasty smile back. “Have a nice day,” she said, and at least she didn't sound completely horrified, so Hartley counted it as a win. “How do you do it?” Martha asked her as they walked away.

“Do what?” she replied curiously, pocketing two of the bags and cracking open the third, fishing out a few of the treats and plopping them onto her tongue with a satisfied grin.

“Act like this isn't all completely freaky,” Martha said, doing a bad job of hiding her frustration.

Pausing, Hartley gave the area a cursory glance before pulling Martha over towards a bit of empty pavement, right beside what she could only assume was some kind of high-tech water fountain. “It's a little daunting at first,” she allowed, glancing up above them.

Instead of clear sky there sat a small handful of massive, breathtaking planets, hovering in the sky like decorations over a child's cot. Martha followed her gaze, stunned into silence by the humbling sight.

“But you get used to it,” Hartley continued, looking back down at the sea of aliens moving by them like schools of hungry fish, off to complete their shopping for the day. “They're just people, Martha,” she said. “People with jobs and families and dreams. They look a little different – so what? They're still intelligent lifeforms, deserving of basic human decency.”

“I never said they weren't,” Martha argued instantly, turning to look at her through narrowed eyes.

Chastised, Hartley bowed her head. “That came out a bit harsh,” she said apologetically. “All I'm trying to say is, try and look past the teeth and the horns and the green skin and tentacles. Once you do that, it's easy to forget they're even any different at all.”

Martha breathed deeply, eyeing the passing sea with a critical eye. “Aren't you ever worried they'll try and eat you, or something?” she asked. The words weren't said with disdain, but rather with a jovial curiosity that made Hartley smile.

“Sometimes, yeah,” she admitted, before holding out the bag of moon-sweet for Martha to share. Martha took a handful with a smile, leaning back against the fountain behind her as she ate, scanning her surroundings curiously.

“Oh, I think I see a shoe shop,” she said suddenly, and Hartley followed her line of sight to where she could see a kiosk filled with racks of shiny shoes. “Coming?” she asked, tossing the rest of her sweets into her mouth.

“I wanted to check out the jewellery kiosk over there,” Hartley told her, pointing in the direction she'd spied it. “Think you can handle going off on your own?”

Martha rolled her eyes. “I think I'll survive.”

“Come find me when you know what you want to buy!” she called to Martha's retreating back.

“Sounds good!” Martha replied, and then she was swallowed by the current of the crowd.

Hartley put her bag of moon-sweet away and headed in the direction of the small stand she'd seen a minute earlier. The kiosk was run by a humanoid girl, the only alien giveaway being the tail peeking out from behind her back.

“Need any help?” she asked Hartley in a bored, monotone voice. It was clear from her emotions that she was in the last place she could ever possibly want to be.

“Just browsing,” Hartley replied, and the girl barely blinked in response as she turned back to the magazine she was halfheartedly flicking through.

The pieces were all beautiful, made out of a stone that looked like opal, only brighter and more vibrant than she'd ever seen on Earth. She picked up a bangle, holding it up to the light and smiling at the way the colours sparkled in the light from the violet sky above them. Mesmerised, she slipped it onto her wrist, noting that it fit perfectly. She didn't see a price tag, and was just about to ask how much it cost when she heard a shout from behind her.

Spinning around in a rush, no idea what to expect but knowing it wasn't likely to be pleasant, she was surprised when she realised it was only a mother yelling at her small child, the little girl holding a deep red lobster-looking stuffed toy with tears rolling down her rosy cheeks.

Hartley supposed some things were the same no matter where in the universe you ventured.

Frowning, she turned back to the girl, asked for the price of the bangle. The girl told her in that same boredom-filled voice. Hartley agreed to buy it and watched curiously as the girl's tail moved in tandem with her arms, arranging a small bag for the bangle to go in.

“It's fine,” she told her quickly. “I can just wear it.”

The tailed-girl just shrugged apathetically. “Have a nice day,” she said, obviously obligatorily. Hartley smiled back anyway, admiring her new bracelet with interest as she turned, heading over towards a bookstore she could see nestled between what looked like a coffeeshop and a clothing store.

The books all looked more than fascinating, and she probably spent near half an hour browsing the shelves, looking for the perfect thing to buy. Finally she settled on some kind of epic, sci-fi romance novel – the blurb promised there would be time travel and, as a time traveller herself, she was always interested to read about it.

Martha found her then, tapping her on the shoulder to catch her attention. “Hey Hart,” she began, “mind giving me the psychic paper now? I found a few things I wanna get.”

“Sure thing,” Hartley handed over the little slip of paper. “And while you have it, maybe consider getting some real food to eat.”

“Ha ha,” Martha replied. Hartley could only roll her eyes, shooing her friend away and looking for somewhere she could relax and read her new book.

After a minute of searching, she wandered over to a large open space where people seemed to be eating their food, splayed out on a carpet of grass that smelled like caramel. It was soft to the touch and she positioned herself comfortably, reopening her bag of moon-sweet and cracking open her new book, content to waste time on soft grass in the glow of the violet sky and read – it beat skulking in the TARDIS with a grumpy Doctor. Hopefully by the time they went back his mood would be all but gone and then they could go do something fun.

She'd always wanted to meet Eleanor Roosevelt, she thought; maybe, if she smiled sweetly enough, he'd give in and take them.

She'd just finished the first chapter of her new novel when somebody flopped down beside her with a loud huff. They sat far too close, their sides pressed up against one another, and when she looked over she saw a younger man sitting before her, beaming at her goofily.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he said with a wide, confident grin.

Blinking, she debated whether to be bemused or freaked out. She settled for the former, cocking an eyebrow at him and subtly shifting away so their sides were no longer pressed intimately together.

“Is that supposed to be some kind of pick up line?” she asked him, careful and yet unmistakably amused.

The stranger laughed like she'd made a particularly funny joke. “I hardly think I need one at this point,” he said with just the tiniest hint of a lisp that she silently conceded was actually kind of adorable. “I do so love your attempt to keep the romance alive, however,” he added with a wag of barely-there eyebrows.

Narrowing her eyes, she stared at him hard. He seemed familiar, strikingly so. She felt inexplicably as if they knew one another and with the warm, affectionate way he was staring back at her, it seemed he felt the same.

“I thought I left you with the Ponds while I ducked off to get their anniversary gift,” he said before she could question him about it. He paused, eyes narrowing as he looked at her more closely. “Were you yanked here? It's never happened that quickly before,” he added thoughtfully.

She really wished she knew was the hell he was on about. “Sorry, was I _what_?” she asked in surprise.

His eyes narrowed into a look of deep thought, and it didn't escape her notice that he didn't answer her question. He was attractive, but in a goofy, eccentric sort of way. Wearing a tweed jacket that fell back to reveal deep red suspenders and a matching bowtie, she couldn't help but acknowledge it worked for him.

Again that feeling of familiarity swept over her, the force of it nearly stealing her breath away. She _knew_ this man, she was sure she did, but _how_?

“Do we know one another?” she finally asked, sliding her bookmark into place and shutting her new novel with a quiet snap.

Confusion swelled within the man, strong and just a little bit afraid, and then it burst into fireworks of surprise that were just as suddenly hidden behind a careful mask of cool indifference. It was almost like he _knew_ she was an Empath – like he knew she could feel his emotions almost as strongly as her own; and that he had something to hide.

“No, I don't think so,” the strange man said mildly, sitting up from where he'd been reclined on his elbows, adjusting his bowtie as if it were second nature.

She got the feeling he was lying but she wasn't about to call him out on it. The stranger cleared his throat, averting his gaze before seeming to change his mind and instead letting his eyes roam over her like she were someone he hadn't seen in a long, long time.

“I'm Hartley,” she told him politely, all the while knowing she should be getting up and walking away; but she found herself unable to do so. She had to figure out how she _knew_ him, or the mystery would eat her alive. “And you are...?” she prompted when he didn't immediately answer.

“Rory,” he told her quickly, too quickly, like it were a barefaced lie.

“Rory,” she repeated, voice heavy with skepticism.

“That's me,” he agreed with a rather unconvincing smile. “Uh, are you here with anyone?” he barrelled ahead, giving her no time to consider him further.

“Isn't that what the sly villain says right before they snatch the sweet, unsuspecting girl and take her far, far away where nobody will hear her scream?” she countered without pause, one eyebrow cocked at him doubtfully.

He looked affronted by the insinuation. “I'm just being friendly!” he cried out like she had offended him. “I'm tying to be _nice_ , so sue me,” he finished in more of a mutter to himself.

She took pity on him, deciding not to play any longer. “I'm here with my friend, Martha,” she replied, leaving the Doctor out of it. “She's off looking at shoes. She'll be back any minute, though,” she added quickly, and she watched as he rolled his eyes in exasperation.

“I'm not going to kidnap you,” he huffed like the mere thought were insulting. She gave an echo of a smile and they faded into silence. Hartley was surprised to note it wasn't at all uncomfortable, but rather kind of warm. Like they were old friends who didn't feel the need to fill quiet with unimportant chatter.

“When you sat down, you were talking like you knew me,” she began, unable to keep herself from pushing the point.

“You look like – like my…friend,” he finished rather lamely, frowning around the word like it didn't quite fit. There was another beat of easy silence. “Martha, eh?” he eventually said, strangely wistful.

Hartley bristled. “What of it?”

“That's a good name,” he nodded to himself, but she could tell that wasn't what he was trying to say. “No one – no one else here, with you?” he asked, sounding very much like he were walking on eggshells with every word that came from his mouth. As if one wrong word could catapult them into dangerous waters.

She narrowed her eyes, however was unable to deny that something about her trusted him. It was intrinsic, like the trust went down to her very bones themselves. Something told her she could tell him anything, even if she didn't fully understand why.

“Our friend,” she said, glancing in the general direction of the TARDIS. She couldn't see it, being too deep into the bazaar with the crowds too thick to spot it, but still it was comforting to know it was there, the Doctor inside, tinkering away as always. “He's somewhat of our designated driver,” she explained when the man said nothing.

“He didn't want to come with you? Enjoy the fresh air?” the stranger asked. He sounded like he was trying too hard to seem casual, and Hartley wondered why that was.

“He's sulking,” she rolled her eyes before averting her gaze back down to the new book in her lap, running her fingertips over the smooth, colourful cover.

“Sulking?”

“He gets in these moods,” she told him, wondering why she was saying anything at all. But, she had to admit, it was nice to talk about it with someone other than Martha, or even the Doctor himself. “Bit of a wild card, he is,” she explained with a helpless shrug. “Some days he's all about the fun. Others, he just likes to hide away in the TAR-” she cut herself off again. “In our ship,” she finished lamely.

“Maybe he's struggling with something; warring with himself,” the curious man suggested, but there was a knowing glint to his eyes that made her think he knew something she didn't. As if he had an understanding of the Doctor that not even she did. Suspicion was suddenly hot in her veins.

“Maybe,” was all she said, biting down into the flesh of her lower lip, tasting the berry of her lip balm.

“Are you happy?” he asked, and she turned back to him with raised brows.

“Happiness is a decision,” she told him on a whim.

The strange man smiled. “Not always,” he countered with that same knowing grin. “Sometimes it can be a feeling, too.”

The weight of her newest theory was heavy on her chest, as if someone had laid an anvil on her ribcage. How could this man know something she'd said to the Doctor, almost word for word? She was both thrilled and terrified to find she thought she knew the answer.

“Why ask if I'm happy?” she asked him, voice thready. She needed to know – needed to put together the pieces of the mystery before her. If she was right…how was this even possible? Were they creating some kind of paradox right now?

“ _Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know_ ,” the bow tie wearing man told her, the conviction in his voice telling her he believed what he was saying, and she felt warmed in a way she wasn't used to. She recognised the quote immediately, eyebrows raising in shock at the fact that any quote was uttered at all.

“Ernest Hemingway,” she said with a small intake of breath, “ _The Garden of Eden_.”

“You're certainly well read,” he commented with that same knowing little smile.

“I like books,” she told him, voice small.

“So I take it,” he nodded at the novel laying in her lap, cool cover pressing against her legs through the thin material of her worn jeans.

“Are you _sure_ we don't know one another?” she pressed, simply unable to drop it. She wouldn't say it out loud – she couldn't quite bring herself to – so she had to let him come to her. “You seem so familiar,” she whispered, raking her eyes over his face, taking in his wide forehead, sloping nose and strong chin. His eyes were the most wonderful shade of green, like she was looking down on a lush rainforest through the mist.

“Perhaps one day,” he told her cryptically, a smile playing at his pale lips, eyes crinkling subtly at the corners. “If I'm lucky.”

Her pulse stuttered, her theory only proved more right with every word the man said. But of course this strange man wasn't the _Doctor_ , because that was simply ludicrous…right? She'd _know_ if it was, and besides, why wouldn't he just tell her? Who knew if it was even possible for a future Doctor to cross into his own past to meet her?

Her eyes narrowed, staring at him like she were trying to see inside his very skull and to the thoughts within. He shifted away, averting his eyes like he was scared she might read his secrets in their depths. She shook herself sharply, telling herself not to focus on it. She should be getting back to the TARDIS anyway, she realised, beginning to pack up her things.

“Well, I should get going,” she said in a cheerful voice that was only slightly forced. Even by her standards, this was weird – and she'd once been killed by a giant _spider._ “My friend, the Doctor, he gets impatient if we dillydally,” she added with a smile. “Always something to do, with him.”

The man scrambled to his feet after her, rather clumsily too, very nearly tripping over himself in his haste to stand up. She watched him, soul alight with amusement, holding her book close to her chest, her new bangle sparkling in the light.

“This Doctor fellow,” he began somewhat stiltedly before she could say a final goodbye. “Is he...is he good to you?”

Frowning, she was confused by the unexpected question, although the answer came easily. “Yes,” she told him, smiling at the thought of the Doctor; the Doctor with his pinstripe suits, maniacal grin and ancient, stormy eyes. “I trust him with my...” she was going to say her life, but these days that held very little meaning, and didn't quite capture everything she needed it to, “...with _everything._ ”

The man stared back, thoughtful. “Is he the reason?”

Even more confused, she could only cock her head in question.

“The reason you're happy,” he elaborated, and she would have had to be blind not to notice the hope written into his deep-set features.

This took a little longer to consider, and she rocked back on her heels as she chewed over her answer. Martha made her happy, sure, and so did travelling, seeing everything she gets to see. But when she thinks of happiness, she thinks about the Doctor grinning at her from over the top of the console while the TARDIS lurches from beneath her, like the best kind of amusement ride in the whole known universe. She thinks of him catching her when the room tilts sideways, steady arms wrapped around her middle, his body firm and strong against her. It doesn't just feel like _happiness,_ but also like _home_.

“He's a big part of it, yeah,” she confessed, cheeks warm at the admission. “I should go,” she added quickly, glancing over her shoulder as if she could already feel the Doctor's impatience through the thick, rushing crowd.

“Harts!” the man called out before she could properly leave. She turned back, surprised by the nickname, her head tilted as she waited for him to speak. “This Doctor,” he said, lovely green eyes focused on her with an intensity she'd only seen on one other face in the universe, “be patient with him.”

“What makes you say that?” she asked, her voice quiet and careful but still heard perfectly over the roar of the bustling shoppers.

“I get the feeling that he's forgotten what it's like to be loved,” he said, and that goofy quality she'd first identified in him was gone, replaced by a calm steadiness, a conviction, a sense of _understanding._ “But I know that if anyone can remind him, it'll be you.”

Hartley swallowed around the lump that had appeared in her throat. She didn't dare take a step closer, feet remaining planted as though there were glued to the grass below. “Who are you?” she asked, a desperation leaking into her voice that certainly didn't go unnoticed.

The man smiled, the lightness reappearing in his eyes like a candle relit. “You know,” he said with a flap of his hand, goofy grin rematerialising on his face.

Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at him, barely daring to believe. It could have all been a hallucination – or worse, some kind of adversary trying to play an evil trick on her, get her to reveal her secrets to this man who couldn't _possibly_ be who she thought he was.

There was so much she wanted to ask, so many questions burning on her tongue, but she knew they would go unanswered so asking them was pointless. Pressing her lips together, she smiled at him, tentative and sweet, and he responded with a blinding, goofy grin, those eyes sparkling in such a familiar way.

“Are you happy?” she asked, turning the tables on him without giving it much thought. His grin never so much as faltered but his eyes shined with an emotion she couldn't possibly put a name to. Or perhaps she could, if she hadn't been so afraid.

“More than you can imagine,” he answered her with sincerity overflowing in his voice.

“Good,” she whispered, glad it hid the way her voice cracked.

His eyes moved away from hers for the first time in a while, moving up to look beyond her, where she knew he should just have been able to spot the blue of the TARDIS in the distance. “Don't want to keep him waiting,” he said, a playful undertone in his voice that made her heart beat faster.

“Wouldn't want that,” she agreed, but didn't move so much as a finger.

His smile widened impossibly, the glint to his green eyes growing softer. “You'll see me,” he told her.

“Will I?” she asked, and she felt like her _everything_ hung on his answer.

He didn't say anything, however, just smiling as he nodded for her to go. It was time, she knew, and she inhaled, nodding her head as she ran her eyes over him one final time, taking in his shiny shoes and suspenders and that brilliant, brilliant bowtie.

“See you soon,” she said with a note of hopeful promise.

“See you soon,” he agreed, more gentle than she'd expected, and with a final nod she turned and forced herself to march away, ducking into the flowing crowd of eclectic aliens. It was hard to keep from looking back, but she knew she had to, her heart beating wildly from within her chest.

She opened the door to the TARDIS, slipping inside without looking up. Once she was inside she pressed her back against the doors and dropped her chin to her chest, breathing slowly in and out.

“Hartley,” the Doctor's voice washed over her – the _now_ Doctor – and her entire body relaxed at the sound, her muscles uncoiling instantly, as if commanded.

She opened her eyes, glancing up at the Doctor. He was standing on the ramp before her, all tall and lanky, pinstripe suit and scuffed up chucks, his hands shoved shoved deep into his pockets. His cheekbones caught the light and his hair stood up wildly, almost defying the laws of physics in its rebellion.

She breathed a sigh of relief at the familiar sight of him.

_That_ Doctor had been nice: kind and sweet and goofy and completely adorable. _This_ Doctor, though – _her_ Doctor – was different. He was _home_ , and while she was comforted by the knowledge that she was still with him in his next life, she was comforted even more by the fact that she was right there with him, in that moment, in _their_ time.

“You all right?” he asked, rocking back on his heels and peering at her through narrowed eyes.

“I am now,” she told him with a hint of a cheesy smile, and though he seemed bemused by the comment, he still smiled back widely.

“Sorry about going all grumpy-grump on you before,” he apologised with a hint of reluctance, reaching up to tug at his ear self-consciously. “No real excuse, to be honest,” he added with a lift and drop of his shoulders.

“S'okay,” she told him, pushing off from the doors, her arms still curled protectively around her new book, fingers idly tugging at the little pompom of her bookmark. “I think I understand. All better now?” she asked as she approached, and he redeposited his hand back into his pocket.

“You betcha,” he said, clicking his tongue and grinning down at her. “Once Martha gets back, I thought we could try surfing in Honolulu, or maybe skiing in Switzerland?”

“Huh...lacks a certain _pizzazz_ ,” she mused playfully.

“I wasn't done,” he protested, wagging his finger at her in reprimand. “Skiing in Switzerland…during the Ice Age!”

Throwing her head back in an unbridled laugh, Hartley stepped closer to the Time Lord, resting her hand on his arm to steady herself. He watched with a proud smile as her giggles slowly petered off. “All right, colour me impressed, Spacewalker,” she finally said, smiling so wide her cheeks ached.

And she was home.


	39. 42

**42**

“ _Hope is like the sun_ , _which, as we journey toward it,_

 _casts the shadow of our burden behind us_.”

Samuel Smiles

* * *

“I mean, Julius Caesar,” the Doctor was saying casually, reclined in the jump seat, feet propped up against the console, “now _there's_ a great guy. A little musty smelling, sure, but _brilliant_ at darts.”

“You're insane, you know that, right?” Martha gave an easy laugh.

“You said you were curious about the other historical figures I knew,” he rebutted defensively.

“Yeah but, darts with Julius Caesar? You've gotta be making this stuff up as you go.”

Hartley laughed at the look of offence on the Doctor's face. She opened her mouth to interject only for her stomach to interrupt with a loud rumble.

The attention to shifted to her, the Doctor's eyes alight with impish amusement. “Hungry?” he smirked.

“Pizza?” she suggested, thinking longingly of her usual order from the pizza place in South London, one she'd discovered with Rose what felt like decades ago, now.

“I could go for pizza,” Martha agreed heartily.

“I can ring ahead,” Hartley told her, pulling her phone from her pocket and beginning to search for the saved number.

“Wait a minute,” Martha said suddenly, a frown on her face. “Aren't we in space or the vortex or something? How can your phone work out here? There aren't any towers.”

Hartley grinned, turning to look at the Doctor who mirrored the expression with excitement. He leapt from his position, eyes alight with eager enthusiasm. He so did love an opportunity to show off. “Pass me your phone,” he said to Martha, who did as she was told despite her confusion.

“You're gonna love this,” Hartley told her brightly, pausing her search for the number and leaning against the railing as she watched the Doctor produce the sonic from his pocket, holding it up to Martha's phone. Its familiar buzz filled the console room, a comforting sound, one that usually meant the Doctor was being his usual, clever self.

“Right, there we go,” he declared with a satisfied little smirk. “Universal roaming. Never have to worry about a signal again,” he said smugly, casually tossing the flip phone back to his newest companion, who plucked it from the air with a grin.

“No way. This is _too_ mad,” she trilled in disbelief, staring down at her phone with wide eyes. “You're telling me I can phone anyone, _anywhere_ in space and time on my mobile?”

The Doctor looked up from where he was fiddling with the console. “As long as you know the area code,” he replied slyly, and the roguish gleam to his eyes made Hartley's stomach clench. “Frequent flier's privilege,” he added, the smirk stretched across his face. “Go on, try it.”

Martha beamed back, brimming with excitement. She glanced down at her phone, just about to punch in a number when the TARDIS suddenly juddered, lurching violently to the side. Hartley's own mobile fell from her grip, landing on the grating below with a clatter. She didn't have time to worry about it, gripping onto the edge of the jump seat in an attempt to stay upright.

“Distress signal!” the Doctor cried, hands almost blurring as he furiously operated the controls of the TARDIS. “Locking on. Might be a bit of-” he was cut off by another great upheaval, and this time Hartley really did lose her balance, yelping as she hit the floor hard, “-turbulence. Sorry!” he apologised quickly, already leaping back to his feet.

Hartley climbed upright, a hand pressed to her hip where she knew a bruise would soon appear – and disappear just as quickly. The TARDIS finally stopped shaking and the Doctor turned to look at the door with unbridled excitement.

“Come on, you two!” he shouted back at them merrily as he made a beeline for the doors, barely pausing long enough to even check if they were following. “Let's take a look!”

Hartley picked her phone up off the floor, glancing down at it with a wince. The screen was cracked. Resolving to ask the Doctor to stop somewhere to get it repaired, she placed it gently on top of the gleaming console. She highly doubted she'd need it – she rarely ever did.

She made her way to the doors, idly considering turning back and getting a jacket just in case, but once she popped her head out of the strong blue doors she was met with a wave of heat so intense it made her eyes sting and her skin prickle.

“Whoa, now that is _hot,_ ” the Doctor was saying, pulling at the collar of his suit. Hartley stepped out after him, automatically pushing up the sleeves of her simple green button up. They were bathed in a distressing red glow, steam clouding around them in a fog, clinging to her skin like dew.

“It's like a _sauna_ in here,” Martha agreed, already peeling off her light jacket and tying it haphazardly around her waist. Hartley fanned herself with her hand but it offered little relief.

“Venting systems,” the Doctor explained, “working at full pelt, trying to cool down…wherever it is we are…”

He stepped back to survey the area they'd landed in. As far as Hartley could tell it seemed to be a sort of boiler room, full of wheezing, burning mechanical equipment. There was no indication of where – or when – they could be.

“Well, if you can't stand the heat,” the Doctor continued loudly, strolling towards the thick bulkhead door on the far end of the stifling room.

Hartley and Martha were quick to follow, the heat growing more and more unbearable the longer they stood there. It sizzled at their skin, beginning to prickle like needles. Stepping out into the next corridor, they found it to be much cooler than in the first room, although still uncomfortably warm. Hartley was just wiping the sweat from her brow when an unexpected shout broke through the still.

“Oi, you there!” the unfamiliar voice bellowed, and she jumped from the surprise of it. Looking up, she found three figures barrelling towards them at top speed. For a brief heartbeat Hartley thought they might have been trying to attack them, and she adjusted her footing so she was more grounded, preparing for a fight.

But then she took note of the panic lingering in all their hearts, a desperation clinging to them like a cloud, and she realised they weren't planning to attack them at all. She relaxed her defensive position, hands uncurling from fists she hadn't remembered making.

“Get out of there!” another of the three shouted wildly, this one female.

“Seal that door, now!”

They reached them, the woman coming to a stop in front of them while the two men hurried to the door they'd just come through, slamming against it and sealing it shut with a loud, screeching sound that rang with a note of finality. Hartley had a sinking feeling that it was going to be a little while before she would be seeing their big blue box again.

“Who are you?” the woman demanded, puffing from her run. Her expression remained unaffected, however, hard and full of ice even despite the raging heat of the corridor. “What are you doing on my ship?”

“Are you police?” asked one of the men from behind them, undeniably hopeful.

The Doctor turned to look at him in curious bewilderment. “Why would we be police?” he asked carefully. None of them seemed to be able to answer.

“We got your distress signal,” Martha explained in a tight voice.

“Is everything okay?” Hartley added, scanning the unfamiliar trio with a concerned glance, searching for any sign of injury. They didn't appear to be hurt, but she could tell they weren't 'okay' by any stretch of the imagination.

The three strangers shared a meaningful look, as though considering how to reply, but the Doctor interjected before any of them could speak. “If this is a ship, why can't I hear any engines?” he asked smartly, a frown creasing his brow.

“It went dead four minutes ago,” the woman, who by now Hartley could only assume was the captain, informed him briskly.

“So maybe we should stop chatting and get to Engineering – _Captain_ ,” the man behind them said snidely. Hartley frowned at him over her shoulder, not liking his attitude.

“ _Secure closure active_ ,” the toneless voice of the computer reverberated around them.

“What?” the Captain breathed, staring up at the ceiling with wide eyes as though the system might spawn a consciousness and answer.

“The ship's gone _mad_ ,” said the man behind them, but before they could press for more answers there was a shout from down the corridor. Everyone turned to see another woman barrelling towards them, leaping through a doorway just in time and only just barely avoiding being sliced in half as it sealed itself behind her.

“Who activated secure closure?” she demanded once she'd reached them, holding a hand to her side where Hartley imagined she must have had a nasty stitch. “I nearly got locked into area twenty-seven,” she added with a scowl. She abruptly noticed the newcomers' presence, eyeing the three of them with skepticism. “Who are you?” she asked warily, skin damp with sweat.

“He's the Doctor, she's Hartley, and I'm Martha,” their friend introduced them rather flatly, and Hartley couldn't help but notice her attention was diverted as she wandered away from the group, heading for the far wall.

“ _Impact projection forty two minutes twenty seven seconds_ ,” the computer's unfeeling voice droned from somewhere above them.

“We'll get out of this,” the Captain looked them in the eyes and swore it with the utmost conviction, “I promise.”

“Guys,” Martha's voice was faint from across the room. Hartley looked away from the Captain to eye her friend, who was now gaping out of the porthole in the side of the ship, her face bathed in a rich, golden light.

“Forty two minutes until _what_?” the Doctor was asking impatiently from behind her, but Hartley only kept moving towards Martha. She stopped at her side, and with a tremor of horrible foreboding turned her gaze to the porthole, spying what lay beyond.

A gasp ripped from her throat as she gazed upon the giant, scorching sun hanging bright and scorching against the background of inky black. The stifling heat suddenly made sense, she realised, and she swallowed around her dry throat as she stared out at it, noting with an increasing anxiety that they seemed to only be moving closer and closer. They were on a trajectory directly towards it.

“Doc,” she called to him, her voice cracking over the word. “You should come see this.”

In what seemed like an instant the Doctor's familiar lanky form was there, pressed against her side as he leaned over to get a good look through the porthole. He didn't gasp at the sight as she had, reacting rather with a contained, stony silence.

“We have forty-two minutes until we crash into the sun,” the Captain told them plainly. Hartley stared out at the mesmerising solar flares appearing across the sun's surface, like a fatal dance that only the soon dead would ever see.

“I think we'd figured that much out for ourselves, thanks,” she said, although her tone lacked bite, filled instead with a wary awe. She wasn't sure whether to be terrified or fascinated by the situation they'd found themselves in.

There was a long pause. No one said anything, nobody so much as moved. Perhaps they were all contemplating the fate that awaited them, or maybe they were just too scared to speak.

Then, in a movement so sharp it made Hartley jump, the Doctor leapt into action, sprinting away from her and back towards the Captain and her panicked crew.

“How many crew members on board?” he demanded, all but tripping over the words in his haste to get them out.

“Seven, including us,” she answered obediently.

“We transport cargo across the galaxy. Everything's automated. We just keep the ship space-worthy,” one of the male crew members informed him, narrowed eyes flickering out to the sun they were catapulting towards.

For once Hartley knew there were little options other than total evacuation, and she could immediately tell the Doctor had come to the same conclusion. “Call the others, I'll get you out,” he told the Captain in a hurry, abruptly making a beeline for the door they'd just come through, behind which sat the TARDIS.

“No, don't!” warned the Captain just as his hands slammed into the door, yanking it open with as much force as he could manage. The moment the bulkhead was open a blast of searing heat exploded out. The Doctor thrown backwards by the force of it.

Hartley didn't hesitate as she rushed to his side, grasping his shoulder and giving him a once-over as she helped him to his feet. “But my ship's in there!” he cried as the other woman of the crew slapped a welder's mask over her sweat-slicked face and began to force the scorching hot metal door shut.

“In the vent chamber?” asked the man to the side with wide eyes.

“It's our lifeboat,” the Doctor hissed, finally back on his feet, turning to stare at them all imploringly.

But the man only scoffed. “It's _lava_.”

“The temperature's going mad in there,” added the younger girl, whipping off her mask and peering at the temperature gauge up on the wall. “Up three thousand degrees in ten seconds, and still rising!”

“It's channelling the air,” explained the man. “The closer we get to the sun, the hotter that room's going to get,” he finished, a pitying frown twisting at his mouth.

To Hartley it wasn't even a question. “I'll go,” she told them without a second thought, already stepping in the direction of the scolding metal bulkhead.

The Doctor's hand snapped out, grasping her by the arm and pulling her to an abrupt stop. “Not even _you_ can handle those temperatures,” he told her quickly, a hardness to his usually-warm eyes.

“But I would _survive_ them,” she countered in a hiss, seeing it to be the only way.

“You'd die before you get three steps in, your skin melted off within thirty seconds,” he informed her sharply. She pulled her arm from his grasp with a frown, reaching up to wipe at her damp brow. “Who knows how long it'll take you to reanimate from that?” he mused sternly, telling her that there was to be no discussion. His word was final.

Hartley scowled in displeasure; they were a team, not boss and employee. She didn't appreciate being spoken to like she were his _subordinate._ The Doctor winced, seeming to realise he'd crossed a line, and his expression softened in apology.

“You're more help to us here,” he told her, logical and sincere. Hartley felt the fight drain out of her like somebody had lifted the plug to a sink.

She knew he was right – he always was, the bloody alien – but she couldn't help but feel useless and disappointed. She was frustrated that she couldn't do anything to help, but she knew better than to waste time arguing the point. It was no use her putting herself out of action; not when they still had a chance to save themselves and everyone else aboard this ship.

The crew of the doomed spaceship were all completely confused by the strange conversation taking place – the term 'reanimation' wasn't one usually heard when talking about a human being – but none of them had the time to be concerned with getting answers.

Hartley felt Martha's heart pulse with a mix of understanding and fear. “So, what you're saying is, we're _stuck_ here,” she said, her voice as stony as her expression. The Doctor pressed a hand against his head, taking a brief moment to himself as he furiously thought, trying to find them a way out of this.

“So, we fix the engines and we steer the ship away from the sun; simple,” he said abruptly, a desperation to his voice, knowing their time was measured. “Engineering down here, is it?” he asked loudly, pushing past the pair of men in front of him and rushing off to the right, all but throwing himself down the modest flight of stairs and charging into the room below.

Hartley cast a look at Martha, whose eyes were heavy with concern, but there was no time for one of her typical heart-to-hearts. They needed to save their lives before they could spare time to talk about their feelings. _Priorities._

“Blimey, do you always leave things in such a mess?” the Doctor asked loudly as Hartley ducked her head to move further into the room. Seeing what the Doctor meant, she could only blink in surprise. The entire engine room was in shambles. It looked as though someone as taken a crowbar to the mechanics, the metal twisted and scraped into one massive, gnarled mess.

“Oh, my God,” the Captain gasped in shock, making it clear that this was a new occurrence. It hadn't been like this the last time she'd been there.

“Oh, it's _wrecked_ ,” said the guy to her right. Hartley stepped closer, lifting a hand to the ruined machine, only to pull it back with a hiss when the hot metal burned her skin, charring it black in only that nanosecond of time.

“Pretty efficiently, too,” the Doctor confirmed as he wandered further into the damage, scanning the sabotage attempt with a trained, critical eye. “Someone knew what they were doing.”

“Where's Korwin?” the Captain demanded. “Has anyone heard from him or Ashton?”

“No,” replied the other woman, but Hartley was barely listening, glancing over at Martha, who was still gaping at the destroyed engine in something akin to horror.

“You mean someone did this on _purpose_?” she asked, sounding sick to her stomach. Nobody gave her any response.

The Captain began to shout into the intercom, loud and desperate, but she was met only with static-y silence.

“Oh, we're in the Torajii system! _Lovely_ ,” the Doctor said with unrestrained glee from where he was peering down at a data screen, reading the translated words spread across it with a wide grin. Hartley shot him a chastising look, his pleasant reaction wildly inappropriate for the situation, but it went unnoticed. “You're a long way from home, Martha. Half a universe away,” he hummed, a small grin clinging to his mouth.

“Yeah. Feels it,” Martha muttered, glancing again over the mutilated engine, fear swimming deep in heart. She could sense something was deeply wrong, just as Hartley could. Their sense of discernment was finely tuned, as all companions of the Doctor's were. They knew when trouble was coming, could almost feel it in the air like a storm brewing on the horizon.

Hartley could feel the Captain's fear, a sharp itch of panic irritating her insides. She was more than scared, she was terrified, and if that alone wasn't enough to tell her they were in deep water then all one had to do was look at the sabotaged engine room. She didn't know what was coming, but she did know it wasn't going to be anything good.

“And you're still using energy scoops for fusion?” the Doctor continued casually, turning away from Martha to face the Captain, who seemed to freeze up at the inquiry. “Hasn't that been outlawed yet?” he asked conversationally. The question seemed perfectly innocuous to the untrained ear, but Hartley knew better. She could see the glint of suspicion in his eyes, the hint of something that suggested he knew a secret – though, she did have to admit, that was _hardly_ new.

Sometimes she thought the Doctor probably knew every secret in the universe. It was a lot of power for one man to hold – but then again, she supposed the Doctor wasn't just _any_ man.

The Captain of the ill-fated ship exchanged a long look with the man on the ladder above her, then she turned back to the Doctor, features fixed into an expression of pure indifference, as though her moment of hesitation had never happened.

“We're due to upgrade next docking,” she said briskly, making it clear that was all that was to be said on the topic. “Scannell, engine report!” she snapped at one of the two men who quickly appeared at the data reader, tapping away at it hurriedly.

It beeped, the sound loud and jarring, and he shook his head with a grim frown. “No response,” he told his Captain in a lilting Scottish accent.

“What?”

He turned, marching over to the hulk of destroyed metal and crouching in its mess, scowling at the mess of frayed wires that were now all but useless. “They're burnt out. The controls are wrecked. I can't get them back online,” he informed her gruffly.

“Oh, come on,” the Doctor cried, whipping off his clever-glasses and squinting at the man much like he might at a gameshow contestant who couldn't come up with the right answer to a simple question. “Auxiliary engines. _Every_ craft's got auxiliaries.”

“We don't have access from here,” the Captain told him in the sort of voice that made it obvious she was biting at her patience. “The auxiliary controls are in the _front_ of the ship.”

“Yeah, with twenty-nine password sealed doors between us and them,” the one she'd called Scannell said dryly. “You'll never get there in time.”

“Can't you override the doors?” Martha questioned in a puff.

“No,” he shook his head. “Sealed closure _means_ what it says. They're all dead-lock sealed.”

Hartley realised what this meant in the same instant the Doctor did. “So a sonic screwdriver's no use, then,” he muttered, hands stuffed in his pockets as he turned to curl his lip at Hartley, sharing his disappointment.

“ _Nothing's_ any use,” snapped Scannell impatiently. “We've got no engines, no time, and no chance.”

“ _Hope is like the sun_ ,” Hartley quoted with a tiny, self-satisfied smirk on her cherry lips, “ _which, as we journey toward it, casts the shadow of our burden behind us_.” Her words were met with suffocating silence, and her smirk dropped, replaced by an awkward sort of wince. “It's Samuel Smiles,” she said in explanation, giving a helpless little shrug.

“That was well chosen,” the Doctor murmured in approval, and the tension in her shoulders eased.

“I thought so,” she replied, meeting his eyes with a renewed smile, and for a brief heartbeat she forgot they were on a spaceship on a collision course with a sun. But then a throat cleared from across the room, and she was snapped from her daze with a blink.

“Who's got the door passwords?” the Doctor asked quickly, not seeming to take as long as her to regroup. He stared between the crew before them, eyeing each of them closely as he impatiently awaited a reply.

“They're randomly generated,” said the unnamed man to the right, stepping forwards as he spoke, accent matching his crew-mate's. “Reckon I know most of them. Sorry – Riley Vashti,” he introduced himself quickly.

“Then what're you waiting for, Riley Vashti? Get on it.”

“Well, it's a two person job,” he began to explain as he turned and yanked free a large backpack from a shelf above him. “One, a technish for the questions, and the other to carry this,” he said, holding up the hulking thing so they could see. “The oldest and cheapest security system around, eh, Captain?”

“Reliable and simple, just like you, eh, Riley?” she bantered back thinly. It was growing hotter with every passing tick of the clock. The temperature rose and rose, and Hartley felt rather like a sardine in a can, stuck in the oven and left to boil. She wondered if it could possibly get any hotter, wiping again at the sweat gathered on her brow, but decided not to ponder it too long.

“Try and be helpful: get abuse,” Riley muttered as he shouldered the heavy backpack with a huff. “Nice.”

“I'll help you,” Martha spoke up suddenly, and Hartley looked over at her in surprise. “Make myself useful,” she added, taking the extra equipment from him with a wry sort of smile.

“It's remotely controlled by the computer panel,” he explained as they turned to leave. “That's why it needs two.”

“Martha,” Hartley called out before her friend could disappear. Martha turned around, eyebrows raised expectantly. Now that she had her attention, Hartley wasn't quite sure what to say. Nothing felt right on her tongue, everything passing through her head sounding too cliché or insincere to be worth it.

“Be _careful_ ,” the Doctor spoke up, saving the moment by a thread. Martha smiled, bright and beautiful, and Hartley desperately hoped it wouldn't be the last time she saw it. They wouldn't get her killed – they _couldn't._

“You too,” she nodded, eyes sliding between the pair of them. “Both of you.”

And then she was gone, racing off after Riley into the rising temperatures of the failing ship. “Think she'll be okay?” Hartley murmured to the Doctor quietly, voice only just carrying over the loud, angry hissing of the vents around them.

“Yeah,” the Doctor said, but she wasn't sure she was convinced.

“ _McDonnell. It's Ashton_ ,” a new voice crackled over the intercom and the Captain, who she now knew to be named 'McDonnell', raced over to it with a gasp.

“Where are you?” she asked hastily, slamming her finger down on the button. “Is Korwin with you?”

“ _Get up to the med-centre now_!” the voice demanded, and McDonnell didn't so much as hesitate. She leapt into action, spinning on her heel and charging towards the doors. The Doctor was just as fast, racing after her in a flurry. Hartley did pause, taking another moment to again mop the sweat from her brow before taking a deep breath of hot, tangy air and darting after them.

The med-centre was up another flight of stairs and through a door covered by a thick, plastic divider. From behind it, Hartley could hear an agonised shouting and her heart squeezed in her chest at the horrible sound.

McDonnell would have been impossible to stop, barrelling through the divider and all but throwing herself to the man's side. He was being held down by two new people, a man and a tall woman with curly hair. The man – Korwin, she presumed – was writhing on a table, suffering nearly unbearable pain.

Hartley winced at the weight of his agony, the pain like phantom razorblades slicing at her own skin.

“Korwin!” McDonnell shouted, terror and panic warring in her heart. “What's happened? Is he okay?” she demanded. Hartley put aside her phantom agony and darted to her side, assisting in holding down Korwin's flailing legs.

“Help me!” he cried desperately. Hartley's heart broke at the look on his face, features scrunched in white-hot agony. His eyes were tightly shut, and Hartley could only assume it was against the raging pain within. “It's burning me!” he sobbed.

“How long's he been like this?” the Doctor wasted no time, leaping over the man and assessing him carefully as he fished the sonic from his pocket.

“Ashton just brought him in,” said the new woman, the bright, happy purple of her shirt greatly contrasting the tense desperation of the situation.

Over Korwin's screams Hartley could just hear the gentle buzzing of the Doctor's screwdriver as he scanned him.

“What are you doing?” the Captain hissed, leaning over Korwin protectively. Hartley suddenly knew that if she found the Doctor's actions to be anything other than genuine, she'd toss him out into the vacuum of space without so much as blinking an eye.

“Don't get too close,” the Doctor warned her without thinking it through.

“Don't be so stupid. That's my _husband_ ,” McDonnell snarled, shoving the other man out of the way so she could get closer to the writhing victim. He bumped into Hartley but she didn't acknowledge it, too involved with holding Korwin's legs down, keeping him from hurting himself or any of them.

“And he's just sabotaged our ship!” snapped the man. McDonnell spun around to stare at him, uncomprehending. “He went mad,” he continued, voice hard and gravelly, like he were a long-time smoker. “He put the ship onto secure closure, then he set the heat pulse to melt the controls.”

“No way. He wouldn't _do_ that,” cried McDonnell as she struggled to keep her husband still.

“I saw it happen, Captain.”

The Doctor, however, was ignoring the bulk of the conversation, more concerned with whatever was ailing the poor man, thumb holding down the button on his sonic. “Korwin? Korwin, open your eyes for me a second,” he told the man in a calm, conversational voice.

“I can't!” Korwin cried in agony.

“Yeah, course you can. Go on.”

“Don't make me look at you,” he wailed desperately, “ _please._ ”

“Hart!” the Doctor said sternly, the call of her name more of an order than anything else.

“Hey Korwin,” she said, relying on instinct. “Hey, you're all right,” she murmured to him in her most soothing voice. Apparently the point of her task was more for a distraction than anything else, she realised as the Doctor let the man's legs go and fetched a hypo-gun from a tray off in the corner.

“Sedative?” he asked the new woman in a low voice. She nodded and the Doctor didn't hesitate in pressing the end to Korwin's neck, sending him to sleep to give him a reprieve from the pain. He lost consciousness abruptly, his agonised, horrified screams coming to an end as his head lolled back onto the thin pillow beneath.

“What's wrong with him?” McDonnell barked, demanding an answer.

The Doctor considered the question carefully, turning around and leaning back against the table, arms crossed as he mused aloud. “Rising body temperature, unusual energy readings. Stasis chamber. I do love a good stasis chamber,” he murmured, nodding to the machine before them that took up most of the room. At first glance she'd thought it might have been an MRI machine, but things were never that straightforward in her travels. “Keep him sedated in there. Regulate the body temperature. And, just for fun, run a bioscan and tissue profile on a metabolic detail,” the Doctor continued, barely paying any attention as he spoke.

Sometimes Hartley forgot that the Doctor was more than just a mad man with a box. He was a _Doctor_ ; 'of everything', he would tell her, and it was times such as these that made her wonder whether that _wasn't_ totalhorse-shit.

“Just doing them now,” said the woman, who Hartley now realised must have been the on-board doctor.

“Oh, you're good,” the Doctor took a moment to grin. “Anyone else presenting these symptoms?” he continued on without missing a beat.

“Not so far.”

“Well, that's something.”

“Will someone tell me what is the matter with him?” McDonnell's voice was stony as could be, but still rattled with a hint of fear. Hartley understood – the person she cared for most lay unconscious before her, and there was nothing she could do to help. If Hartley were in that position, if it were the Doctor on that table, she didn't know how she'd cope.

“Some sort of infection,” the Doctor answered her quickly, the words almost offhanded. “We'll know more after the test results. Now, allons-y, back downstairs,” he ordered them. The Captain exhaled shakily, staring down at her sedated husband. “Hey. See about those engines. Go.”

McDonnell seemed to desperately want to argue, but she knew she had responsibilities, other people to look after, so with a sharp nod she turned and marched from the room after her crew-mate.

The Doctor turned to follow them, but when Hartley moved to do the same, he spun around and pulled her to a stop. “Not you,” he said briskly, casting a glance back over at the unconscious Korwin. “I need you to stay here.”

“I'm not going to be any help up here,” she argued with a frown.

“To be honest, Hartley, you'll be even less help down there,” he told her bluntly, and though the callous words stung a little, she knew he had a point. She wasn't exactly knowledgeable about engines, so what good would she be to them in the engine room? “At least here, you can keep Korwin calm. Nobody can do it better than you,” he finished with a tiny smile, taking the sting out of his previous words. “Okay?”

With a small sigh, Hartley nodded her head. “Okay,” she agreed, and he smiled at her gratefully before turning to leave.

“Call us if there's news,” he shouted back to them. “Any questions?” he added as an afterthought, pausing briefly in the doorway.

“Yeah. Who are you?” the woman beside Hartley asked with wide, bewildered eyes.

The Doctor grinned wide and bright, wholly disarming to Hartley, who stared back just to enjoy the sparkle in his eyes. “I'm the Doctor,” he said smugly, pausing an extra second to shoot Hartley a playful wink before disappearing from sight.

Hartley and the other doctor were left in the room alone. There was a long, pregnant pause before the woman cleared her throat and set to work analysing the samples. Hartley knew they couldn't continue in silence, so as she took a seat beside Korwin she pondered what to say.

“My name's Hartley, by the way,” she said gently. “What's yours?”

“Abi,” the woman told her, shooting her a strained smile then returning her attention to the readings before her.

“Been a doctor long?” she asked conversationally as her hand hovered over Korwin's, wondering whether she should touch him.

If it truly _was_ an infection, did that mean it could be transmitted? What happened to her if she caught it? No matter what she would obviously survive, but at what cost?

These questions only bred more questions, like an endless cycle of what-ifs that threatened to drive her to insanity.

How was she supposed to survive being plunged into a sun? Surely not even _her_ brand of immortality was great enough to withstand _that_. So then, was this the end to her forever? If they didn't fix things, if they didn't right all of this and save everyone aboard this ship – including themselves – then was this burning, scorching, hungry sun to be her final resting place?

“Graduated from Nebulous City about seven years ago, now,” Abi told her, jerking her abruptly from the tornado of dangerous musings swirling from within her head.

Blinking back to the room, she made a snap decision and pressed her hand against Korwin's. His skin was scolding hot to the touch, and Hartley yanked her hand back as if she'd just touched a burning stove. Abi didn't seem to notice, too busy poring over the data on her pad.

“That a good university?” Hartley asked, tucking her stinging hand between her legs and peering across the room at the other woman curiously.

Abi broke away from her work to shoot her a perplexed expression. “It's only the best university in this star system,” she said as though this was something Hartley should have already known. Her eyes narrowed, her stare becoming more suspicious. “Where did you say you were from, again?”

“Far off,” Hartley answered without missing a beat, waving her hand casually at the question. “We're travellers,” she added with a hint of a smile. Her trustworthy face came in handy, as the pretty doctor's skeptical expression melted, replaced by an apathetic acceptance.

“What do you do, then?” she asked, though Hartley got the feeling it was more to fill the silence than it was for curiosity sake.

“I'm a writer,” she answered honestly, “or, I was, before I started travelling.”

“What'd you write?”

“Children's books.”

“Is that what you always wanted to do?” she continued, sounding minimally interested, though Hartley couldn't really fault her for it. They were all under a lot of stress, and if making idle chitchat was what got her through, she wasn't about to say no.

“I wanted to write novels,” she divulged with a small, wistful smile. “Big, epic fantasy stories that people lost themselves in for days.”

“Why didn't you?” Abi asked, attention split as she furiously typed away at her keyboard.

Hartley lifted her shoulders in a shrug that went unseen. “Children's books are just easier to get published. Nobody was interested in my fantasy manuscripts – not even once they knew I held a Masters in Literature – so I wrote some simple kids' stories to get my foot in the door. Wasn't until I had a few published that I realised the transition from children's to adult's fiction is harder than it sounds.”

She paused, looking back at Abi, who was still furiously typing away at the keys, desperate to save her crew mate.

“Doesn't matter any more,” she finished with another shrug, “that was a whole 'nother life.” Abi hummed in vague acknowledgement, but her shoulders weren't quite as tense as before and Hartley knew the chatter was somehow helping. “Did you always want to be a doctor?”

“My whole life,” Abi nodded quickly, pushing away from the screen and over to some kind of a futuristic printer, which began to spit out clear pieces of plastic with data scribbled onto them. “I grew up forcing my older siblings to pretend to be my patients,” she said with a barely-there smile, pressing a hand to the top of the machine as she waited for it to stop printing. “I'd diagnose them, prescribe lollies as medicine.”

“That sounds sweet.”

Abi gave a ghost of a smile. “Didn't think I'd end up a med officer on a low level cargo ship,” she said, no bitterness in her voice, just a sad acceptance. “Always dreamt of opening my own clinic, somewhere in need of better healthcare, so I could help those in need,” she added, an old, forgotten yearning to her words.

“You still could,” Hartley encouraged. Abi only smiled back weakly. Before she could press any further the printer-like machine gave a beep, and Abi's attention turned to the results it had spat out. She held them up to the light, scanning them with narrowed eyes, lips moving silently as she read along.

Hartley's focus drifted to the man laid unconscious before her, eyes roaming over his still form with caution. She felt oddly like she was being watched, but knew it couldn't have been possible – his eyes were shut tight, breathing shallow but even. Then she saw his hand twitch, a simple flex of his fingers.

“Hold on,” Abi said aloud suddenly from behind her, and Hartley looked up from where she'd been staring at his twitching fingers.

“What?” she asked, taking in the note of concerned confusion to her voice. But before the other woman could answer there was a blast of static from the intercom.

“ _Abi, how's Korwin doing_?” the Doctor asked over the connection. The sound of his voice was like a drug to Hartley's system, her muscles uncoiling from where they'd been tensed. “ _Any results from the bio-scan_?”

“He's under heavy sedation,” Abi told him factually. “I'm just trying to make sense of this data. Give me a couple of minutes and I'll let you know.”

The Doctor made a sound of distant acknowledgement before the sound of the static disappeared and they were plunged into silence once more.

“What is it?” Hartley asked, made particularly nervous by the anxiety Abi felt, like coils of rope tightening in her gut as she stared hard at the readings before her.

“I'm not sure,” she replied gingerly.

“Talking about it might help it to make more sense,” she suggested, hoping the help. The woman was quiet another few moments, brow pulled down in a confused scowl, before she relented and began to speak.

“It's his biological make-up – it's _changing_ ,” she began in a befuddled voice, like what she was seeing was beyond her comprehension. “But that isn't possible, it goes against everything I've ever been taught.”

“But, the universe is pretty big, right?” Hartley tried, thinking of all the impossible things _she'd_ seen over the last few years. “Surely there's the possibility of _something_ unknown getting into his system?”

Abi didn't reply, continuing to pore over her findings, a troubled frown on her face. From the corner of her eye, Hartley caught sight of their unconscious patient moving again, this time the muscle in his forearm flexing, his fingers jerking to the side.

“Abi,” she began around the lump growing in her throat, keeping her eyes trained on Korwin. “I'm no expert, but somebody who's just been heavily sedated...they _definitely_ shouldn't be able to move, right?”

“What do you-” Abi's confused words were cut off by her own sharp gasp as she turned to see Korwin sitting up. “Korwin?” she asked, voice shaky as she watched him throw his legs over the side of the table, eyes still shut tight.

“Abi, run!” Hartley called to the other woman, stepping in his path before he could so much as take a step in her direction.

“This is Med-centre,” Abi yelled into the intercom by the wall. Hartley knew it was probably too much to ask for her to leave easily. “Urgent assistance requested! _Urgent_ _assistance_!”

“Burn with me,” Korwin said, approaching the pair of them slowly, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world.

“Korwin, listen to me, we're not the enemy,” Hartley tried to say, hands held up in a placating gesture. “Don't hurt her,” she insisted as he only continued to grow closer. Hartley backed up, pushing gently into Abi's front, forcing her backwards. “Korwin, you don't want to do this.”

“Burn with me,” he said again, but his voice was distorted, dark and growling, like that of a beast. There was this feeling coming from him, something hot and angry, full of ancient pain and lonely desperation. She felt it in the way she just _felt_ things, with a part of herself that she'd yet to fully understand.

“Korwin, you're _sick_!” Abi cried from behind her, and the pair were stopped as they hit the wall. With nowhere to go, Hartley could only try her best to shield the woman she barely knew, glaring at the approaching opponent and trying not to let panic overwhelm her.

“Burn with me,” he said a final time, and acting on instinct Hartley's arm came up, preparing to hit him in self-defence.

He deflected her attack with all the ease of a lazy god, smacking her arm away before inhaling sharply and wrenching open his eyes. All Hartley could register was a bright, blinding white light – so brilliant it all but burned her retinas to a crisp.

Crying out at the pain, she threw herself back in a desperate attempt to get away from the scorching heat of the light. It encompassed her, like they were already on the sun's surface, and she screamed out at the blistering heat that seemed to melt her very skin, nerves sizzling like they were laid on a barbecue.

Everything disappeared in a white-hot blaze, and she was once more plunged into the deep oblivion of death.

* * *

Snapping back to life was never a pleasant experience. Her airways were dry and full of dust, and her respiratory system restarted with a painful burn. Desperately gasping for much needed air, her eyes fluttered open to see the Doctor hovering over her, concern with just the tiniest trace of impatience written clear as day across his face.

Groaning, she let her head fall back to smack into the hard, hot floor beneath her. “Again?” she rasped, reaching up to rub gently at her aching throat.

“Afraid so,” the Doctor replied. “All right?” he continued in a murmur.

“Help me off the floor?” she mumbled back. His strangely warm hand wrapped around her own as he gently pulled her to her feet. She was unsteady, but quickly got used to it as she held onto him for extra balance.

“I thought she was dead,” said the familiar voice of the ship's Captain, icy and accusatory.

“Nope, just knocked unconscious,” the Doctor replied, letting her stay leant against him for support. Her skin felt like it was still bubbling from some unnamed source of heat, but there wasn't anything she could do about it.

“So _she_ survives while Abi's rendered nothing but ash?” McDonnell demanded furiously. “How convenient.”

Hartley whirled around to peer at the far wall, where she was horrified to find the smouldering outline of what had once been Abi. Tears came to her eyes, pain stabbing her insides with more force than even her most recent death.

“If you're trying to insinuate that Hartley had anything to do with this, you're _wrong,_ ” the Doctor's voice was hard, leaving no room for argument. “She's as much a victim as everyone else.”

“Then why is she still breathing?” McDonnell hissed wrathfully. Hartley knew the woman didn't wish her dead, but she also knew it didn't seem fair that she would survive while one by one her crew was rendered to nothing but ash. And she was right; it wasn't fair.

“I don't know,” the Doctor lied.

McDonnell rubbed her hands over her eyes. “What happened?” she turned, demanding answers from a bewildered Hartley, who was still just trying to get used to having skin again. “Did my husband do this?” she asked with a voice wavering in strength. She was terrified of the answer, maybe because she already knew.

“I'm sorry,” Harley told her quietly, pushing the thoughts of Abi from her mind. There would be time to grieve later; in the here and now they had a crew to save. “But it wasn't Korwin anymore – it was something else.”

“What d'you _mean_ , 'something else'?” McDonnell snarled, her denial a tangible thing.

Hartley tried to figure out how to explain it, teeth grit as her sluggish brain still struggled to wake up. “When it spoke, it wasn't with a human voice,” she settled for saying, lips pressed together in dismay.

“We heard,” the Doctor said. She looked up at him to find him frowning, the look in his eyes tinged with a dark concern. “Burn with me,” he echoed its words, his familiar voice making them sound far less terrifying than they had falling from the unnamed thing's stolen lips. Even still, an unpleasant shiver ran down the length of her spine. “How did it do this?” he asked her, nodding his head at Abi's resting place.

“I don't know,” she replied. Her memories of what had happened were vague at best. “I just remember this _burning._ It was so hot; I couldn't breathe, my skin felt like it was bubbling off. Then, everything just...went dark.”

McDonnell inhaled sharply, running her hands down her face before taking a seat on the small set of stairs placed against the wall. She entire body was heavy with both physical and emotional exhaustion, and if Hartley thought she could help, she would have tried to ease her pain. As it was, she knew she'd only make things worse by talking to her.

“How long do we have?” she asked the Doctor instead, voice low and subtle once she knew McDonnell wasn't paying any attention.

“Twenty-four minutes,” he told her flatly, and she swallowed around the lump of fear in her throat.

“Martha?”

“Still working on those doors,” he said, swiping up another sheet of readings and holding them up to the light with a critical eye. Hartley let go of his arm, leaning her weight against the table behind her and watching him work as she strived to ignore the exhaustion and hunger that was creeping over her. She knew her body needed calories to properly heal, but there were more important things to worry about than her stomach.

“Doctor,” said McDonnell from where she sat, having gathered herself in the brief moment she'd had alone. “Is the infection permanent? Can you cure him?” she asked, sounding rather matter-of-fact about the whole thing, like they were discussing clock repairs and not the life of her husband.

They all turned to look at the Doctor, who had stopped scanning the test results to stare back at her. He seemed to weigh his words carefully before answering with a diplomatic, “I don't know.”

“Don't lie to me, Doctor,” she said without missing a beat, eyes steely and hard. “Eleven years we've been married. We chose this ship together. He keeps me honest, so I _don't_ want false hope.”

The Doctor paused only a moment before telling her, “the parasite's too aggressive. Your husband's gone. There's no way back. I'm sorry.” His voice was cool and detached, and Hartley knew it was to keep his own emotions from shining through.

She abruptly had the strongest urge for the TARDIS, to have the luxury of curling up in the media room with some old movie, snuggled under a thick blanket with the Doctor by her side. She could see it in her mind's eye; his jacket would be gone, leaving him in his dress shirt, but the sleeves would be rolled to his elbows, and his shoes would be gone, revealing the colourful, mismatched socks he was so fond of.

She wanted to burrow into him and feel his chest move as he laughed, hear his lilting voice as he babbled on about historical inaccuracy in the film they watched, his scent surrounding her, comforting her in the way only he ever could.

It was a forbidden desire, even innocent as it was, and she shoved away the mental image with difficulty, coming back to the present in time to see the devastated look on McDonnell's face, her eyes dropping to the floor as she whispered a broken, “thank you,” to the Doctor for his honesty.

“Are you certain nothing happened to provoke this?” he continued, leaning his weight against the table behind him and crossing his arms over his chest. “Nobody's working on anything secret? Because it's _vital_ that you tell me.”

“I know every inch of this ship,” McDonnell replied stonily. “I know every detail of my crew's lives. There is _nothing_.” But there was a flicker of guilt in her heart that told Hartley she wasn't being truthful.

“Where's the sense in lying?” Hartley asked her sharply. “We're all going to lie unless you tell us the truth,” she said sternly.

McDonnell took on a defensive stance. “I _am_ telling the truth,” she lied again.

The Doctor was as unconvinced as Hartley. “Then _why_ is this thing so interested in you?” he countered.

The Captain's eyes flickered away for just the briefest of moments, and in that split second, Hartley _knew_ she was lying, she knew it with every bone in her body. “I wish I knew,” she said.

Hartley wanted to argue some more, call her out on her lie, but she suddenly knew pressuring the woman would get them nowhere. It would only make her more defensive. Instead she crossed her arms over her chest and reluctantly kept her mouth sealed shut.

“ _Doctor, we're through to area seventeen_ ,” Martha's voice flooded the room through the intercom. The Doctor broke his stare with McDonnell to hurry over to intercom hanging on the wall, pressing his finger down on the button to speak.

“Keep going,” he told her quickly. “You've got to get to area one and reboot those engines.”

There was silence as the comm flickered off, but then the Doctor went right back to work analysing the results from Abi's tests.

“What do we do now?” the man with them asked – Scannell, Hartley recalled distantly.

“Only thing we can do,” the Doctor replied, rolling up the sheets of results and shoving them deep into his pockets. “We've got to get that engine up and running.”

The dash to the engine room was done in silence for the most part, but halfway there the Doctor dropped to the back of the group with Hartley, hand catching at her elbow to grab her attention. She kept walking, but angled her head up so she could look at him properly.

“How are you?” he asked quietly, his full attention on her as he spoke, eyes roaming over her body as though searching for any sign of a lingering injury. There wouldn't be one, they both knew, but the effort was sweet nonetheless.

“Alive,” she answered him, uncharacteristically dull.

“Did it hurt?”

“It always hurts,” she said honestly. He didn't make any attempt to hide his grimace, as though the words themselves had caused him physical pain. “Doctor,” she began suddenly. She hadn't planned to say anything, but the urge to ask was stronger than she'd expected. “If we fall into the sun...” she trailed off, glancing up at him to see him peering back at her curiously. “That's not something I'm going to be able to wake up from, is it?”

His shoulders dropped as he sighed, and a crease appeared between her eyebrows at his grim expression. “You're a fixed point,” he reminded her. “A universal fact.”

“So I _would_ survive,” she whispered, unsure how she felt about that. She didn't necessarily _want_ to die, but being the only person aboard this ship to walk away alive was a terrifying one. Why should she get to survive while so many others didn't? What made her so special?

“I don't know how it would work, but yes,” he answered her as imperturbably as he could. However there was still a tiny quiver to his voice that nobody except her would have been likely to notice. She nodded slowly, his answer greeted met with cool acceptance. “You're not scared?” he asked from the corner of his mouth, unheard by the others up ahead.

“I'm with _you_ ,” she replied, bumping his hip with her own in a playful move. “Why would I be scared?” And it was true; she was with the Doctor, who she knew would never let anything bad happen, not to her or anyone else. Not on his watch.

He didn't respond, but looking up into his face she caught a glimmer of a barely-there smile. A sliver of pride hummed in her chest at being the one to put it there. It was nice to know that even in such dire circumstances, they could still make one another smile.

The temperature within the ship was only rising, her skin going from damp to slick and her clothes clinging to her body uncomfortably in the heat. The others were just as hot, wet with sweat as they finally made it to the engine room to finish repairs.

The Doctor opened his mouth but got no chance to speak as Martha's voice flooded the room, full of a panic that sent Hartley into high alert. “ _Doctor! Hartley!_ ” her friend cried over the intercom. “ _We're stuck in an escape pod off the area seventeen airlock! One of the crew's trying to jettison us! You've got to help us_!”

“Why is this happening?” McDonnell asked aloud, but neither traveller had time to answer.

“Stay here. I _mean_ it this time!” the Doctor commanded them sharply, tone leaving no room for argument. Hartley had already left the room, all but tripping out into the hall. She didn't know where she was going, but had latched onto to this growing panic within her chest, letting it guide her like a light in the dark. “Jump start those engines!” the Doctor bellowed as he barrelled out of the room after Hartley.

_Not again not again not again not again––_

“Faster!” she yelled at the Doctor, picking up her pace as she leapt over a jumbled mess of cords on the floor, none of the obstacles in her way slowing her down for a moment. The ship was getting so hot, it was like being cooked in an oven. Running was difficult in such high temperatures, but it didn't stop her. She ran as fast as she could ever remember running, her desperation to save Martha outweighing everything else.

The sound of the Doctor's chucks slapping against the metal floor helped. The sound was uneven, she could almost pretend it was the soothing rhythm of his twin hearts, but the fantasy didn't last long. Soon they were bursting into the room where their adversary was standing, face hidden by a welder's mask.

The Doctor threw out an arm and Hartley's torso caught on it, forcing her to an abrupt stop. Gripping his arm tightly, Hartley's hands balled up the fabric of his sleeve, holding on and staring at the possessed man in fear, her heart palpitating in her chest.

“That's enough! What do you want?” the Doctor demanded in a loud, commanding voice. “Why _this_ ship? _Tell_ me!” he ordered.

The possessed man didn't pause, pulling back his fist and then slamming it into the keypad sitting at the door. Sparks erupted, smoke pouring from its fractured systems, but he merely pulled his hand back, unaffected by the sizzles of electricity it gave off.

Once that was done he turned to face them, posture perfectly straight. He stepped closer, moving mechanically, like someone who'd read about the theory of walking but had never actually done it themselves.

“Come on,” the Doctor said goadingly, his arm still held out as though to protect Hartley, his forearm pressed against her abdomen like a barrier. “Let's see you,” he continued as it grew closer still, not stopping until they were face to face, nothing but that mask between them. “I want to know what you _really_ are.”

Nothing happened for another long moment, and then its hand moved up to the visor covering its eyes. Giving a hiss of fear, Hartley flinched back and squeezed her eyes shut tight, expecting to be hit by that same blinding, white-hot pain as before. But before the pain could begin the figure gave a loud groan, almost as if in agony, and she warily cracked open her eyes to see him doubled over in pain.

“ _Airlock sealed_ ,” said the computer tonelessly. The figure got back up, standing perfectly still for an extra few seconds before turning and walking past the two of them like they weren't even there, like it were unaware of the world around it.

Hartley and the Doctor watched him go, waiting until he'd disappeared around the corner before the latter leapt across the room, heading for the intercom, slamming his hand on the button to warn the others.

“McDonnell?” he said into the speaker. “Ashton's heading in your direction. He's been infected, just like Korwin!”

There was a lengthy pause filled with disconcerting static, and Hartley's chest froze, fearing the worst. Then Scannell's voice was telling them, “ _Korwin's dead, Doctor_.”

They had no time to react to this news, because the computer's detached voice washed over them, proclaiming emotionlessly that, “ _airlock decompression completed. Jettisoning pod._ ”

“No,” the word ripped from Hartley in a gasp. Her legs were moving before she'd given her body the command, and then she was moving so fast that she slammed into the bulkhead with enough force to rattle her own skeleton. The metal was scolding hot against her skin but she didn't care, moving so she could see through the window in the airlock door.

Martha was across the room, trapped in a small escape pod. As soon as their eyes locked there was a relief on her friend's face, assuming she was saved. She smiled, banging harder on the window she was pressed against, lips moving as she yelled something, but whatever it was, Hartley couldn't hear it through the layers of thickened glass and the loud humming mechanics of the pod.

“Doctor, open the door,” she ordered him quickly, never taking her eyes off Martha, who was banging more desperately now, glancing to her right at something Hartley couldn't see.

“Hartley,” the Doctor said quietly.

“Doctor, don't just stand there,” she barked, hands splayed against the glass like if she tried hard enough she might be able to phase through it and save her friend. “Open the bloody door!”

The temperature flared and she flinched away from the hot metal of the door, chest suddenly feeling too tight for her heart to keep working. The Doctor took up her place at the window, shouting, “I'll save you!” through the glass.

Martha wouldn't have been able to hear, but he kept shouting it anyway, the desperation in his voice growing with every syllable.

“It's happening again,” Hartley breathed, terrified screams and the memory of a hand slipping out of reach running like a loop through her head. “It's happening _again_ ,” she said in sheer disbelief. She thought she'd be able to protect her. She'd been so _sure_ that the past wouldn't repeat itself. That she'd keep Martha from leaving them like Rose had, and yet here they were, Martha drifting further and further towards a hungry sun, slipping out of reach forever, exactly like Rose.

“Hartley,” the Doctor appeared in front of her, hands gripping tightly at her shoulders, the weight helping to ground her. “Hart, it'll be okay!” he told her, but she could barely hear him over the rushing of blood in her ears. “I've got Scannell on his way with a spacesuit,” he said, squeezing her tighter. “I'm going to go get her. She'll be all right.”

She couldn't seem to calm down, panic like a fire in her gut. The Doctor suddenly ducked closer, face hovering near hers, and for one terrifying second she thought he was actually going to kiss her. It couldn't have possibly been a worse time, and she was almost ready to flinch away only for him to just gently press his forehead against hers, their foreheads touching intimately.

Immediately a calm like none other came over her. The sound of her own pounding pulse disappeared, and the swirl of unpleasant memories in her head came to a stop, replaced by a tranquil kind of a silence. She felt something brush up against her mind, like she had back in New New York. It didn't last long, but it was soft and gentle and felt like it _belonged_ there, and her body calmed down, her mind right along with it.

A moment passed and the Doctor finally moved away, taking that encompassing calm with him. But its effects remained, muscles loose and relaxed, her internal storm calming to a gentle shower.

His hands pressed down on her shoulders, he stared at her carefully, watching for her to react.

“I'm okay,” she assured him once she was sure she was. “Sorry,” she added. She was embarrassed – she knew how the Doctor loathed emotional outbursts, particularly when they were short on time.

“Don't apologise,” he said firmly. She swallowed around the lump in her throat, nodding her head obediently.

“How'd you do that?” she asked, her voice weak but still steady.

“It'd take too long to explain,” he said, giving her another once-over to make sure she really was fine before nodding to himself and stepping back, turning to glance out through the window again with a worried frown.

“It's my fault,” she said dismally, filled with self-loathing as her eyes moved down to the floor beneath her feet.

“How do you figure?” he asked as he looked over at the doorway distractedly, waiting impatiently for Scannell to appear.

She lifted her shoulders. “I was the one who wanted to invite her to come with us,” she said quietly. If she hadn't been so set on having Martha with them, she'd be safe at home instead of hurtling towards her death with a man she didn't even know.

“We're not doing this,” said the Doctor sternly. Hartley blinked up at him in surprise. “We're not playing the blame game. It'll get us nowhere, and you're better than that.”

She didn't think she was, but the last thing she wanted to do was start an argument, so she nodded her head. At that moment Scannell rushed into the room, holding a case in his hands with a helmet tucked under his arm.

“Why'd you need this?” he was asking before he'd even fully entered the room, the Doctor already snatching the items from his hold.

“I'm going out to get Martha and Riley,” the Time Lord replied without pause, not even looking up as he began to force the spacesuit over his pinstripe one.

Scannell seemed to be lost for words, gaping at the alien as he tried to process what he was saying. “He can't be serious,” he turned to Hartley as though she might shed light on the situation.

“He's right,” Hartley agreed, turning to the Doctor, chin tilted upwards stubbornly. The Doctor glanced at her, not understanding. “It should be me,” she said, only the tiniest tremor in her voice to give away her nervousness.

“That's _not_ what I meant!” Scannell protested, but neither traveller paid him any attention.

The Doctor never stopped pulling on his suit, though his expression went from concentrated and worried to warm and just a little sad. “I need to be the one to do this, Hart,” he told her, glancing up from under his lashes as he pulled the thick gloves on over his long fingers.

“But if anything happens to me, it won't _matter_ ,” she argued.

“Of course it will,” he countered sternly, adjusting the settings on the suit's control panel with only half his concentration. “But that's not why.” She opened her mouth to argue further, but he interrupted before she could get going. “You don't know how to bring the pod back in,” he said, cool and calm, and she lost her fight like air let out of a balloon. “It would take too long to teach you. I need to go _now_ , while they're still within the shields.”

“But-” she tried to protest even though she had no proper rebuttal.

He brought his hands up to cup her face, and though she knew it was impossible to feel his warmth from through the thick material of the gloves, she could _swear_ she still could. “Hart,” he said her name gently, more gently than she'd ever heard it, and she realised her eyes were stinging with tears.

“If anything happens to you-”

“It won't,” he assured her with a barely-there hint of a smile. “I'll be out and back in before you've even had time to worry.”

“I think you underestimate my ability to fret,” she said with an accompanying smile that was so small it was practically microscopic, but he saw it all the same.

“Wait, Doctor,” Scannell spoke up from behind them. The pair broke from their half-embrace to look at him. “I can't let you do this,” he said, expression hard with concern.

“You're wasting your breath, Scannell. You're not going to stop me,” the Doctor deadpanned, double-checking the integrity of his suit. 

“You want to open an airlock in flight on a ship spinning into the sun,” Scannell argued incredulously. “No one can survive that.”

“Oh, just you watch,” the Doctor drawled as he readied his helmet.

“You open that airlock, it's _suicide._ This close to the sun, the shields will barely protect you.”

“If I can boost the magnetic lock on the ship's exterior, it should re-magnetise the pod,” the Doctor snapped back at him, a deadly glint to his eyes that told him to stop trying to talk him out of it. “Now, while I'm out there, you have _got_ to get the rest of those doors open. We need those auxiliary engines. Hart, go with him.”

“I'm staying,” she said flatly, leaving no room for argument. The Doctor glanced at her but knew better than to argue the point, smart enough to know when to choose his battles.

“Doctor, will you _listen_?!” Scannell snapped desperately. “They're too far away. It's too late.”

The Doctor looked over at him, a steely look to his usually-warm eyes. Hartley thought vaguely that he reminded her of a storm, but the idea faded as she realised this was it, that he was about to step out into the vacuum of space within spitting distance of a sun, nothing but a suit to protect him.

“I'm not going to lose her,” he said, his voice full of pain, the memory of Rose – and so many others, she was sure – flickering behind his eyes.

She grabbed his arm, stopping him from pulling on his helmet, and he shot her an impatient look, knowing that didn't have time, only to stop short at the look on her face. Her delicate brows were pulled into a deep frown, and her striking, dark blue eyes were glistening, not with tears but with a renewed determination, lips pursed together with purpose.

Grasping his head in her hands, she pulled herself closer. “Come backto me,” she ordered him firmly, drawing the promise from him with everything she had.

“I will,” he vowed. She knew that they had no time and that it would have to do. Nodding her head, she drew him closer and pressed a gentle kiss to his sharp cheekbone, the usually-cool skin now warm under her lips.

She pulled away, watching as his Adam's apple dipped when he swallowed before he nodded, stepping back and pulling on his helmet. Without pause he moved towards the bulkhead, pressing the button and watching it open, then stepping inside and letting it close securely behind him.

“Here, I need to go,” said Scannell, handing over a small walkie-talkie looking device. “You can talk to him through this.”

She took it from him, glad her hands weren't shaking, and nodded. He smiled back, the expression tight and insincere, before turning and rushing from the room to complete the task put to him by the Doctor.

She peeked out the window of the bulkhead. The airlock was already open, and she could just spy the Doctor leaning out of it, reaching for the controls to pull the pod back in. The sun shined too bright in her eyes, stinging her retinas, and she ducked back down, clutching the walkie-talkie like it were a lifeline; like if she gripped it tight enough, it might just keep the Doctor safe.

A long minute passed, the longest of Hartley's life. She couldn't hear a single thing from beyond the soundproof bulkhead door, and the not knowing was killing her. The only noise she could hear were the Doctor's breaths from the speaker of the device clutched in her hands. He was panting with exertion, occasionally grunting with the effort.

Eventually she couldn't take it any longer, and she brought the walkie up to her mouth, lips brushing the metal of the gadget. “Doc?” she asked, voice sounding small and anxious to her own ears. “How's it going?”

“ _Hart_ ,” his voice crackled through the speaker. “ _I can't, I can't reach_!” he cried, groaning as he stretched for the controls. “ _I don't know how much longer I can last, Hartley_!” his words were like a plea, like she could do something to help. She wished she could; in that moment she knew she would have done anything.

She could barely imagine how hard it was, the sheer heat from the sun alone. Even with his Time Lord biology he would be struggling. Teeth grit in her worry, eyes burning with emotion, she lifted the walkie to her lips again.

“You can _do_ this,” she promised him, her voice thick with an all encompassing, absolute conviction. “You can _save_ her. Just like you save me, all the time.” He gave another loud cry, and her heart tightened in her chest, like somebody had it in their fist, squeezing it into dust. “Don't give up,” she begged him. Even though all she wanted was him back by her side, safe and out of harm's way, she knew it couldn't come at the cost of Martha. It just couldn't.

There was a beat, then a large, agonised shout. Holding her breath, she listened to the Doctor's own, panting breaths.

“ _I did it_ ,” he finally said, sounding utterly exhausted. “ _I did it_.”

“You did it!” she cried in celebration, holding the walkie-talkie against her chest in a hug, like if she squeezed tight enough the Doctor would feel her embrace. “You're coming in now, right?” she asked hurriedly. “You can't be in there when the pod gets back.”

The Doctor didn't immediately reply but when he did, it wasn't with anything that made sense. “ _It's alive_ ,” he said with a ragged gasp.

“Doctor?” she asked gingerly, clutching the walkie with everything she had, knuckles white from how tight her grip had become.

“ _It's alive_.”

Confused, her heart slamming almost painfully against her sternum, she stood back up, peeking through the window out into the airlock, spying the Doctor kneeling in the open space, staring out into the face of the scorching sun. In the distance she could see the pod approaching the airlock, getting closer with every passing beat of her heart.

“Doctor, you need to come inside _now_ ,” she hissed into the walkie, panic gripping her. From over the speaker she heard him give a loud, pained shout, and her heart stuttered in her chest.

A few moments passed, then the pod had finally re-docked at the ship and Hartley breathed a brief sigh of relief. She moved back, glancing at the remaining un-destroyed control pad on the wall. Desperate, she slammed her hand at the buttons at random, praying one of them would open the bulkhead.

“Doctor!” she said into the walkie as she pressed at the pad. “Doctor, what's wrong?” she demanded anxiously.

She was met with nothing but static in reply, and just when she began to think the absolute worst, the door flew upwards to reveal the Doctor. Crouched on the floor, his helmet lay discarded to the side. She uncaringly threw the walkie-talkie aside like it were trash, rushing to him and collapsing at his side. Her knees cracked against the metal floor, but she didn't care, grasping at his suit and trying to ascertain what was wrong.

“Doctor!” she yelled as she watched him writhe, gripping his head like he had the worst migraine in the universe. “Doctor, what _happened_?” she pressed anxiously, wrapping an arm around his shoulders in an attempt to soothe him. Terror was striking her like lightening, sizzling down her spine and settling in her belly like radioactive sludge.

He threw her off of himself with a loud cry then slowly began to crawl, seeming desperate to get away from her.

“No, Hartley!” he shouted at her, still scrambling to get away. Then she noticed that his eyes were screwed shut, and horror hit her like a wave.

“Doctor? Doctor!” Martha was shouting, finally reappearing from the pod, but Hartley didn't even have it in her to feel relieved. “Hart!” she exclaimed, stepping closer to embrace her, only to stop short at the terrified look on her face. “What-are you okay?” she asked, but Hartley could only nod her head at the Doctor who Martha had yet to notice. “Doctor!” she cried, rushing to his side, but he gave a loud, guttural cry, flinching away from her urgently.

“Stay away from me!” he cried. Hartley couldn't help but pick up on the pure _fear_ that was pumping through his body. All his barriers – all the walls he'd built to keep her from sensing his emotions – they were all gone, evaporated like mist in the air. He was scared, more scared than she'd ever felt, and it terrified her.

Footsteps hit the floor behind them, Riley and McDonnell arriving by their side. “What's happened?” the Captain barked.

“It's your fault, Captain McDonnell!” the Doctor snarled without pause.

“Riley,” McDonnell snapped again, but this time there was an unmistakeable tremble in her voice. “Get down to area ten and help Scannell with the doors. Go!” she demanded, and after a moment of hesitation, he turned and obediently legged it back down the corridor, leaving the three women alone with the Doctor who continued to writhe on the floor in agony.

“Doctor!” Hartley called, eyes stinging with her emotions. She held out a hand, wanting to touch him but too afraid that she might only make it worse. What was wrong with him? Was he going to die? Regenerate? Her blood went cold at the thought.

“You mined that sun!” the Doctor growled to McDonnell as though she hadn't spoken. His words made her snap to attention, turning to stare at the Captain with wide eyes. Whatever was happening, she knew now it was this woman's fault, and she felt a flare of anger stronger than she knew how to handle. “You stripped its surface for cheap fuel. You should have scanned for _life_!” the Doctor hissed, writhing in pain.

“I don't understand,” McDonnell cried helplessly, confused and rightfully scared.

“Doctor, what are you talking about?” Martha asked, her dark eyes round with fear.

“That sun is _alive_. A living organism. They scooped out its heart, used it for fuel, and now it's _screaming_!” he bellowed, fury emanating from him like a stench. His eyes were scrunched shut, face gleaming with sweat, like he was burning alive from the inside out.

What was going to happen to him? What could she possibly do to help? She suddenly felt more useless than ever, standing there, watching on with trembling hands and a racing heart.

“What do you mean?” McDonnell cried, scared by his words. “How can a sun be alive? Why is he saying that?” she demanded of Hartley and Martha, but neither could answer.

“Because it's living in _me_!” the Doctor roared. Hartley felt physically sick, watching as he writhed in agony, eyes screwed shut as he suffered.

“Doctor!” she shouted over his cries, over the loud hum of the machine and the roar of the approaching sun. There was so much input, she felt hyper vigilant, skin tingling with awareness.

“Humans!” the Time Lord spat venomously, ignoring her calls. “You grab whatever's nearest and bleed it dry! You should have scanned!”

“It takes too long. We'd be caught,” the Captain explained in a rush. “Fusion scoops are illegal!”

All terror gone from Hartley in that moment. It was replaced by a furious rage that few in the universe had ever had the misfortune of witnessing, or ever would. She pushed to her feet so that she stood face to face with the dishonest Captain, her thunderous expression making McDonnell wary.

The Doctor shouted, crying out in agony from behind her. Each sound was like a stab to her chest, a physical pain that only spurred on her rage, like a cattle prod to an angry bull. “ _You_ did this,” she hissed at the Captain, whose eyes were now wet with guilty, horrified tears.

“I didn't know,” she cried, but Hartley was beyond listening.

She wasn't sure she'd ever experienced such fury, such blinding outrage. She could feel it building within her, a battery gathering charge. She didn't know what to do with it, didn't know what was going to happen next. She wasn't certain she could control whatever was coming, whatever her ire was leading to. She felt strangely like she might explode outwards, but she didn't try to contain it. If they were all going to die anyway, she wasn't going to go out bottling up her emotions.

Then, “ _Hartley_!”

Freezing, the sound of the Doctor crying out her name shifted something within her. As though unplugged, all the charge gathering within her died, replaced by a tired worry. McDonnell would be dealt with – for now, the Doctor needed her. And that was far more important.

She spun away from the weeping Captain, dropping down beside him with such force that her knees cracked again, but she paid no heed, leaning towards the panting Doctor. “I'm here,” she promised him, gritting her teeth against the onslaught of terror he was emitting.

“You've got to freeze me, Hart – quickly!” he shouted at her, growing desperate.

“What do you mean, freeze you?” she asked, voice raised to be heard over his tortured cries.

“Stasis chamber,” he explained in a rush. “You've got to take it below minus two hundred. Freeze it out of me! It'll use me to kill you if you don't. The closer we get to the sun, the stronger it gets!”

He gave another agonised scream. Hartley leapt forwards, wrapping an arm around his back and pulling him up. Martha didn't hesitate, hurrying towards them and taking up his other side.

“Med-centre, quickly! _Quickly_!” he shouted through his cries.

“Where is it?!” Hartley shouted at the Captain, who still looked rather like somebody had slapped her across the face.

“I'll show you,” she said, turning and beginning to jog down the corridor.

Hartley and Martha had to practically drag the Doctor down the halls; he struggled to get his feet to cooperate, the pain radiating through his body making it hard to move. “You'll be okay,” Hartley kept saying repetitively, like a chant. “You'll be fine.”

It took them longer than she would have liked to get to the med-centre, the ship long and seeming to stretch on forever. It wasn't easy to get the writhing Doctor up the stairs, but they managed, tumbling into the med-centre with low grunts of exertion. But there was no time to share the relief, Martha immediately racing over to the far table where an instruction manual lay idle.

Without Martha there to help her hold the Doctor's weight he collapsed to the floor. Hartley wasn't strong enough to carry him on her own, and so she had to let him fall, crouching down with him, her body positioned over his as though to protect him from the threat. It would do no good, she knew; the threat was already _inside_ him.

“Hart,” he groaned in her ear. She could do nothing but hold him tight, one arm around his back, her other hand winding into his hair, gripping his head. She pressed her forehead against his, just like he'd done only a short while ago, hoping it would offer him the same comfort it had her.

Whatever he'd done for her, however, she didn't seem to be able to replicate, and he only continued to cry out in terrible pain, slumping until his damp hair was pressed against her chest. He sucked in a series of shuddering breaths and nuzzled into her in a daze, barely aware of the comfort he was blindly seeking, and unable to stop himself.

“Hart, get him up!” Martha yelled over her shoulder, and although Hartley wanted to stay where she was, comforting him the only way she possibly could, she knew his best shot of survival was the stasis chamber. McDonnell stepped forwards, helping her heft the Time Lord up onto the bench with only slight difficulty. “Minus two hundred, yeah?” Martha checked from where she was stood by the controls.

“No, you don't know how this equipment works. You'll kill him. _Nobody_ can survive those temperatures!” McDonnell argued loudly, striving to be heard over the Doctor's cries.

“He's not human,” Martha countered, just as loud. “If he says he can survive, then he _can._ ”

“Let me help you, then.”

“You've done enough damage,” their companion spat at the Captain venomously, and McDonnell flinched back like she'd been struck.

The Doctor was struggling to get positioned in the chamber, body thrashing in an attempt to combat the pain he was in. “Ten seconds,” he told Martha in harsh pants. “That's all I'll be able to take. No more.”

“Got it,” she nodded, turning back to the controls, ready to work.

“Hartley,” he hissed, and Hartley stepped closer on his other side, reaching down to grasp his hand. His skin was hot to the touch, uncomfortably so, but she didn't care, gripping him tightly and leaning down over him. She'd happily scorch her own skin if it meant offering him all the comfort she possibly could.

“Right here, Spacewalker,” she promised him, free hand moving up to press against his face. A hint of his stubble scraped against her palm and she pressed harder, thumb brushing against the ridge of his cheekbone.

“It's burning me up. I can't control it. If you don't get rid of it, I could kill you. I could kill you _all,_ ” he told her, head tossing from side to side like he were in a nightmare he couldn't escape. “I'm scared!” he admitted with a gut-wrenching sob. Hartley mirrored the sound, gripping his face and hand tighter, refusing to let go. “I'm so _scared_!” he cried louder. A tear finally escaped her eye, rolling down her cheek, hot and unwelcome.

“You'll be okay, Doc,” she promised, whispering it to him like it were a sweet nothing, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. “I'm right here. You'll be fine.” She moved her hand to his hair, threading her fingers through the dark, soft, gravity-defying strands.

“Just stay calm,” Martha jumped in, bending down to speak with him too, and Hartley felt sharply like she were intruding on something private, something she wasn't entitled to. “Just believe in me,” she said in a hopeful voice. The Doctor's thrashing never ceased.

“It's burning through me,” he gasped violently. “Then what'll happen?”

“I've got you,” Martha promised, reaching for his other hand.

“Hart-” the Doctor called instead of acknowledging her and Hartley ducked closer, hand still pressed to his face. He leant into the touch like it were a balm to his pain. “Hart, if I-” he tried, crying out again in agony. Another tear slipped from her eye, trailing down her face and dripping off her chin. “If I regenerate-” he began again, brow furrowed as he fought to keep his eyes shut, fighting bravely against the blistering pain.

The thought of him regenerating was painful, almost too much to bear. She knew he would still be _him,_ but at the same time, he just _wouldn't._ “Won't come to that,” she assured him with a light sniffle, moving her hand so their fingers were intertwined.

“If it _does_ -” he cut off with another shout. “If it does – whoever they are...they'll still...” he couldn't get the sentence out, thrashing about where he lay. She didn't know exactly how that sentence finished, and imagining was a dangerous game. She closed her eyes, bringing their connected hands up to her forehead and pressing.

Gathering every feeling of love and comfort she could muster, she tried to push it towards him, much like she'd done to the alien all those months ago during their visit to C.S. Lewis' estate. His pain didn't seem to lessen, but he gripped her hand impossibly tighter, a silent acknowledgement that he felt it. She pressed a delicate kiss to the back of his back, gently brushing her thumb over his skin.

Martha had given up trying to comfort him, instead turning back to man the controls, a frown gracing her lips.

A few extra moments passed as the medical student prepared the machine, then she looked over at Hartley, concern written across her face. “Are you ready?” she asked bracingly, shooting her a meaningful look.

Hartley wasn't ready, not really. But she knew this was the Doctor's only shot at survival, and she could put aside her fear if it meant his safety.

“It's time,” she said to the whimpering Time Lord below her. He gave a terrified sob, writhing again, and with a small sob of her own Hartley reluctantly disentangled their hands. She brushed her thumb across the Doctor's cheek one final time, saying a silent prayer to whatever god might be listening, then forced herself to take a step back.

Martha used the controls to roll the Doctor backwards into the chamber, typing in the correct sequence. But then she hesitated, turning to look over at Hartley as if asking for permission. It was difficult to give, but Hartley forced herself to nod her head once, telling her to do it.

Though she was full of fear, wondering if this decision was going to kill him, she swallowed back the wary hesitation and pressed the button with force.

Immediately the room was flooded with the Doctor's tortured screams. If she'd thought he'd been in pain before, it was nothing compared to now, his cries of agony unlike any she'd ever heard. A sob tore from her chest and she brought up a hand to press over her mouth, expression scrunched in emotional pain as she listened to his howls of suffering.

The sounds were like bullets to her insides, and she almost felt like she wouldn't physically survive his cries. She felt selfish for thinking such a thing. She was filled with only a removed empathy while _he_ was going through the real pain, the genuine torture that she could barely even comprehend.

Biting down on her tongue, she held her breath, aware that her face was now wet with tears.

Looking over at Martha, she found her frowning, eyes glistening with tears that she hadn't yet shed. Hartley could only wrap her arms around herself in a weak replication of one of the Doctor's firm, comforting hugs. She tried her best to fill her mind with the memory of the sound of his laughter, but it just wasn't enough to drown out his tormented screams.

Abruptly the machine died, its terrible hum petering off into nothing, and the Doctor's cries of pain ceased. Hartley would be glad, but she knew it hadn't been long enough, knew it hadn't done what it was meant to do.

“No! Martha, you can't stop it. Not yet!” the Doctor yelled from within the machine, desperation in his voice.

But Martha hadn't stopped it, she looked just as shocked as Hartley felt, panic splayed across her face. “What happened?” she hissed at McDonnell, who stood off to the side with wide eyes.

“Power's been cut in Engineering,” she gasped.

“But who's down there?”

“Leave it to me,” the Captain said, eyes grave as she turned and ran from the room, like she were rushing off into battle. Hartley wanted to stop her, offer to go with her to keep her safe, but the thought of leaving the Doctor's side was too much to bear, so she selfishly remained where she was, unwilling to let him out of her sight. She watched McDonnell disappear out the door and firmly ignored the swooping feeling in her gut that told her she wouldn't be seeing the woman again.

“What do we do now?” Martha asked, shrill with panic.

“We wait,” Hartley replied, hands twitching as she longed to grasp at the Doctor, feel him, alive and solid beneath her. But she wasn't sure what would happen if she touched him now, so she only clenched her fists so tight that her nails bit into her palms like teeth, the pain a frail distraction.

Martha desperately punched at the controls on the side of the stasis chamber, muttering to it thoughtlessly, begging it to come back online. “Come on,” she pleaded with it. “You're defrosting,” she said to the Doctor in a helpless voice fraught with tension. Hartley ducked to glance at the Doctor inside the chamber; the frost that had coated his body was disappearing as the sun within him thawed him out.

“Martha, listen! I've only got a moment,” the Doctor shouted at their companion from within the machine. “You've got to go!”

“No way,” Martha responded without a hint of hesitation.

“Get to the front!” he yelled at her through his pain. Hartley gut clenched and she pressed a hand over her stomach where she could feel his pain as though it were her own. “Vent the engines. Sun particles in the fuel, get rid of them!”

Martha's face grew stormy. “I am _not_ leaving you,” she argued stubbornly.

“You've _got_ to...give back what they took!” he shouted, struggling to get the words out through his haze of agony.

“Doctor!” Martha cried, helpless.

“Please go!”

Martha's eyes shifted between the Doctor and Hartley, indecision in their depths. “Go, Martha,” Hartley told her quickly. “I'll stay with him. You need to go and _save_ us all,” she said, voice raised to be heard over the Doctor's cries.

Hartley could tell she still wanted to argue, but by now she knew better than to do so. With a sharp nod, she turned. “I'll be back for you,” she vowed over her shoulder, and Hartley sent her her best imitation of a smile before she disappeared out the door, gone from sight.

The Doctor was writhing from his place on the table, his agonised cries hurting Hartley more than any of her deaths ever had. “Doctor,” she said his name like a prayer, like saying it might somehow bring him peace, but just as quickly had to leap back as he all but threw himself from the stasis chamber. “Doctor!” she cried, stepping towards him as he flopped to the floor. “What's happening?!”

“I can't control it!” he shouted, eyes still screwed shut, doing everything in his power to contain the sun within. “Hart – I _can't control it_!”

“You can!” she argued loudly, throwing caution to the wind and dropping to his side. He was thrashing on the floor in his pain, and without a moment's hesitation she threw her arms around him.

“Get away!” he hissed frantically. “I'll only hurt you!”

“You won't!” she promised him, despite it being impossible to say for sure. “You won't hurt me!”

“It's not _me,_ Hartley!” he yelled, bucking in an attempt to throw her off, but she held tight, crouched over him protectively, refusing to do the smart thing and let go. She'd happily burn again if it meant the Doctor was safe and unharmed. “It's what's _inside_ of me! I can't control it much longer!”

“You can do this, Doc,” she assured him, voice low in his ear, another hot tear sliding down her face, passing over her lips. She briefly tasted its salt.

“If I hurt you-” he cut off, writhing again, and this time it was harder to hold on. He was still burning up, scolding to the touch as if he were being roasted from the inside out. Touching his skin was like pressing her hands against a burning stovetop, but that wasn't enough to stop her. “If I hurt you, I couldn't live with myself!"

“We make a good pair, then,” she told him with something of a forced chuckle, pressing into him tighter, ignoring the sizzling of her own skin. “Because I happen to have this handy little talent,” she said, making her voice impish, “I never _stay_ dead.”

“Hart – you need to go!” he shouted at her, utterly deaf to her words, throwing his head back against the pain. “ _Run_!”

“I won't!” she shouted back defiantly, emotions crashing through her like some kind of dam had broken within. “I'm not just some companion! I'm the _Heart_!” she yelled at him forcefully, voice shrill and desperate as she held onto him with everything she had, another tear sliding down her face. “And I might not know exactly what that means yet, but I do know I'm _not_ leaving you! Not now, not _ever_!”

“ _Burn with me_ ,” he growled suddenly, in a voice that wasn't his own.

Stricken, Hartley gave a helpless sob. “Okay,” she agreed, knowing that she wasn't speaking to the Doctor anymore, but instead the sun inside of him. “Okay, we burn together, then,” she cried out, holding him as he continued to thrash, like a wild animal caught in a trap.

A bright light enveloped them. White-hot and terrible, it held the same burning pain that had killed her earlier, the feeling like she were being flayed alive. Her screams matched the Doctor's, but she stubbornly refused to let go. She would't leave him, she _wouldn't_ ; not for a moment. He had to know she was there, that she refused to abandon him, even at the end. He had to know that she would die for him – her best friend, her family, her _everything._

Crying out in their shared pain, she came to peace with the knowledge that she was going to die again, and that endless, inky black would once more settle over her. All she could hope for was that when she inevitably woke back up, the Doctor's smiling face would be there to greet her, hand held out to help her to her feet.

In a shocking turn of events, however, the blinding light and suffocating heat abruptly came to an end. The fight left the Doctor in a rush and he collapsed to the floor, unmoving. Hartley felt his emotional signature disappear from beneath her and sat back on her heels, staring down at him in horror.

“Doctor!” she called shrilly, reaching down to shake his shoulder in a panic, only for a relief like none she'd ever experienced to rush through her when he gave a low, exhausted sort of a groan. He was alive, he was okay. “Doc,” she said again, more gentle as she leant down and gently helped him roll onto his back so his face wasn't pushed against the hot metal floor.

His eyes were still shut, and for a moment she was unsure, not knowing what had happened – but then he opened his eyes and she was met with the familiar, sparkling brown depths she so loved, and she gave a choked sort of a laugh in her relief.

“You're okay!” she cried, pressing a trembling hand over her mouth as she gazed down at him. He surprised her again, giving that roguish sort of smile in response. Her laughter was impossible to stem, and for once she was the one offering _him_ a hand, pulling him up to his feet.

The moment he was upright she slammed against him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and tucking her face into his neck, breathing him in, sweat and ash and all.

“You're okay,” she repeated without thought, a reassurance for herself, lips brushing the exposed skin at his throat. He gave a deep grumble of a laugh, his own face pressed into her hair as he embraced her in return, gripping her as though, for a moment there, he'd thought he might never get a chance to do so again.

“So are you,” he said into the crown of her hair, the words warm with relief.

She smiled into the junction of his throat just as the computer's emotionless voice washed over them. “ _Impact averted. Impact averted. Impact averted._ ”

“We live to play another day,” she said brightly, eventually pulling away from their tight embrace to grin up at him. She brought a hand to his face, brushing her thumb over the apple of his cheek once more as she stared up at him in happiness. The look in his eyes was rather indescribable, a sort of wonderment that she didn't understand, giving off a warmth she felt hotter than even the sun they were flying so close to.

“Doctor!” Martha's loud shout broke the connection between them, and Hartley stepped away from the Doctor just in time for their friend to fly through the doorway, concern heavy in her heart. “Doctor!” she cried again, launching herself into his arms. He caught her with a grunt, then laughed as she hugged him, squeezing back tightly.

She pulled back to see Hartley smiling, and threw herself at her too. Hartley caught her with a yelp, then laughed as Martha gripped her tightly.

“We're okay!” she cheered into her shoulder. “We're all okay.”

“Yeah, was rather a close one, wasn't it?” the Doctor mused, already pulling the the fastenings of his borrowed spacesuit, eager to peel it off.

“You can say that again,” Martha puffed, releasing Hartley from her embrace and stepping back, wiping a hand over her sweat-slicked brow.

“Was rather a close one,” he repeated with an impish, tongue-touched grin, like he'd just cracked the most clever joke known to alien-kind.

It wasn't actually funny, but the relief pulsing through them was so strong that they both giggled, feeling almost high from the fact that they'd survived. The Doctor finished shedding the spacesuit, laying it over a railing off to the side and then running his hands down the lapels of his wonderful blue suit.

And just like that, Hartley knew things were going to be okay.

* * *

“This is _not_ your ship,” said Scannell as he stared at the beautiful TARDIS. Hartley leant back against its cool, blue, wooden exterior, taking comfort in the familiar feeling of it against her.

“Compact, eh?” the Doctor crowed as he stroked a hand down the door, a fond smile on his face. “And another good word, _robust._ Barely a scorch mark on her,” he announced proudly.

“We can't just leave you drifting with no fuel,” Martha interjected, staring at Riley in particular, who smiled back easily.

“We've sent out an official mayday,” he told her with a shrug. “The authorities'll pick us up soon enough.”

“Though how we explain what happened...” Scannell trailed off with a helpless shrug. Hartley understood, explaining that that sun was alive, that it had gotten aboard a ship and killed most of its crew – it wasn't going to be an easy thing to do. But she knew they could handle it.

“Just tell them,” the Doctor answered him evenly, pushing open the TARDIS' door with a familiar creak, “that sun needs care and protection just like any other living thing.”

With a distant, respectful nod of acknowledgment, the Time Lord stepped inside his compact, robust ship, disappearing from sight. “He's never really been one for goodbyes,” Hartley told the pair of men with a small, fond smile on her lips.

“If you hadn't come when you did...” Scannell trailed off again, but there was no need to finish, they all knew what he was saying. “Who are you?”

She smiled again, the expression a lot wider than before. “Something of a universal helpline, I guess you could say,” she told him impishly. He looked confused, but Riley gave her a responding smile that left her content, and she nodded at him. “Stay brilliant, boys,” she said in farewell, grinning one last time before turning and ducking inside the TARDIS, who welcomed her home with a familiar hum in the back of her mind.

The Doctor was standing immobile by the console. He didn't seem to even notice when she came to a stop beside him, staring at the time rotor distantly. She wondered what he was thinking, but thought that it wasn't something she was likely to ever be privy to.

“You were really scared today, huh?” she asked softly, turning so her back was leant against the console, staring up at him gently, eyes full of a kindness he'd come to crave. He didn't answer her, keeping his eyes on the time rotor, which bobbed silently in its glass casing. “It's okay to admit when you're afraid,” she told him quietly, fingers twitching, wanting to reach for his hand. But she held back, having a feeling it wouldn't be well received.

He said nothing for a long moment, and just when she was about to give up he spoke, voice so quiet she nearly missed it. “I thought I was going to regenerate,” he divulged softly, Adam's apple dipping as he swallowed, “and that was the worst part, I think.” He didn't break his gaze from the time rotor, and the way he was staring made her think that he was seeing something she never would. “I'm not ready to change,” he confessed, surprising her with his honesty. “Not yet. I've barely even begun.”

She felt honoured that he was telling her something so personal. When they'd first been thrown together all those years ago, she never imagined they'd get to this point, where he'd tell her the things weighing on his brilliant mind. She was warmed with the knowledge that this was where they were, now. She unconsciously shifted closer, smiling up at him softly. “But you're okay,” she told him, gentle and sweet. “You're still you.”

He nodded, but his eyes were now downcast, flickering over the flashing controls dully.

“But, for the record,” she began sincerely, “even if you _did_ change, you'd still be you. And _that_ won't _ever_ change.”

He looked up from the console, meeting her eyes and showing her the hint of relief in their chocolate depths. She smiled, the expression kind and tender, but before he could speak the doors opened with a loud creak and Martha swanned up the ramp, arms swinging at her sides. Hartley couldn't help but notice she looked mighty pleased with herself, resolving to ask about it later.

“So – didn't really need you in the end, did we?” she joked, but the Doctor didn't react, turning his deep, never ending gaze back to the time rotor. “Sorry,” she apologised quickly, realising the joke was in bad taste. “How are you doing?”

The Doctor turned his big old eyes onto Martha, who frowned under the weight of them, before he abruptly spun around, beginning to pilot the TARDIS with every bit of his usual enthusiasm. “Now, what do you say? Ice skating on the mineral lakes of Kur-ha,” he suggested eagerly. “Fancy it?”

Martha sighed, and Hartley knew she was disappointed by his brush off. “Whatever you like,” she told him, eyes downcast and shoulders slumped.

Concerned, Hartley kicked out her foot, nudging the Doctor in the shin with the toe of her shoe. He didn't so much as flinch, eyeing Martha evenly for a moment before looking over at Hartley warily, a sort of a question in his eyes. Nodding at Martha, she silently told him to repair the damage he'd caused.

She expected him to say something, but instead he reached into his jacket pocket and produced a familiar key hanging from a long, silver chain. “By the way, you'll be needing this,” he said, voice low and serious.

Martha looked up, gasping quietly at what she saw. “Really?” she asked like she barely dared to hope.

“Frequent flier's privilege,” the Doctor smiled, the expression finally genuine. Martha cupped her hands, holding them out like he were about to hand her the most precious gem in the galaxy. His smile widened, and he gently deposited the key into her hands. Hartley reached up to grasp her own key which hung, as always, from around her neck. The metal was cool and reassuring under her palm, and she smiled gently at the memory of receiving it. “Thank you,” the Doctor added sincerely, and Martha smiled back before the expression dropped into one of horror.

“Oh, no,” she gasped. “Mum.”

She turned and hurried to the other side of the room, fishing her mobile from her pocket, hastily dialling her mother's number. While Martha was on the phone, Hartley turned to the Doctor who was working away at the controls in a calm, unhurried manner. “TARDIS key?” she asked, leaning back against the console with raised brows.

“She's earned it, wouldn't you say?” the Doctor replied evenly.

  
Hartley looked back over at Martha, who was idly rubbing at a smear of dirt on her hand as she spoke with her mum. “Yeah,” she agreed with a smile, thinking that if the young medical student hadn't been so quick on her feet and wickedly intelligent to boot, they might not have made it back inside their beloved TARDIS at all. “Yeah, she definitely has.”


	40. Human Nature & Family of Blood

**HUMAN NATURE & FAMILY OF BLOOD**

“ _Dreaming is an act of pure imagination, attesting in all men a creative power, which if it were available in waking, would make every man a Dante or Shakespeare.”_

H.F. Hedge

* * *

_The sound of weapons discharging echoed around them, blasts of light shooting by their heads, dangerously close to killing them dead. “Get down!” he shouted, loud and desperate, shoving Martha to the floor and kicking the TARDIS' door shut in one smooth movement._

_Hartley was already standing, helping Martha upright while he clamoured to his feet, stressfully running a hand through his hair. “Did they see you?” he demanded the moment they were all standing once more, grasping Martha's shoulders and looking her directly in the eyes. Her dark gaze shone with confusion and a hint of terror, but she still answered obediently._

“ _I don't know.”_

“ _But did they see you?”_

“ _I don't know. I was too busy running!”_

“ _Martha, it's important. Did they see your face?” he hissed impatiently, knowing they had no time._

“ _No, they couldn't have,” she finally said, throwing her hands up helplessly._

_He whirled around to look at Hartley, grasping at her shoulders and looking deep into her endless blue eyes, expression grave. “And you?” he barked._

_She looked apprehensive as she thought back over the encounter they just had. “I can't say for sure,” she finally replied, her voice thick with a weary anxiety. “But I don't think so.”_

_He exhaled sharply, letting her go to run his hands over his head again, only serving to make his untameable hair even more wild. He spun in a circle, making a beeline for the console and sending them into the vortex in only a few short movements._

_The ship lurched to the side even more violently than usual and they all very nearly lost their footing, grabbing onto the nearest thing to hold themselves steady. He stared at the monitor, horror stabbing through him as he realised they weren't in the clear, not at all._

“ _Argh! They're following us,” he spat, shoving the monitor away from him with a grunt._

“ _How can they do that? You've got a time machine,” Martha exclaimed._

“ _Stolen technology,” he explained in a rush. “They've got a Time Agent's vortex manipulator.” At the mention of Time Agents he noticed Hartley freeze from the corner of his eye, but they had no time to reminisce about the past. “They can follow us wherever we go, right across the universe. They're never going to stop-” he cut himself off, realisation trickling down his spine like ice cold water, “...unless. I'll have to do it.”_

_He sucked in a sharp breath, wondering absently if the air would taste different as a human. He cast a look over at Hartley to find her staring back at him with such unwavering faith that it nearly hurt. She trusted him to get them to safety. She didn't know, didn't understand what these things were, what they could do – would do – to them both._

_They could smell him; his biology gave off a distinctive scent, one that would be inconveniently easy to trace – but they couldn't smell_ her. _That was their saving grace, the thing that would hopefully keep her safe. Because there were very few things that could destroy her permanently. He could count them on one hand – and this? This was likely to be one of them._

_He whirled around again so he was staring at her. She peered back, eyes wide and full of a blind faith that twisted his twin hearts._

“ _You'll be okay,” he promised her, and confusion swam in her sparkling eyes. “I don't have time to explain, but I'm going to make you forget for a while,” he told her, and the confusion turned to apprehension with an electric gleam of fear. “You'll still be you, but there's a chance they'll be able to sense you. So I need your empathic abilities shut off, and the only way to do that is to change the way you think. Re-write your neural pathways, in a sense. Hide your abilities deep down in your subconscious, where not even you'll be able to find them.”_

“ _Why?” she asked, straight to the point, chin tilted upwards in show of bravery. There was a bang from outside the TARDIS' doors, and the ship lurched again._

“ _To save you,” he said once they were back on their feet. “Hartley, do you trust me?” he asked quickly, taking two great steps towards her. They were stood nearly chest-to-chest, but she didn't shy away, staring up at him with shining bravery._

“ _For all of time,” she replied without so much as a moment of hesitation, sincerity gleaming in her brilliant blue eyes._

“ _I'm sorry,” he told her, voice thick with regret, and her eyes became wet as she peered back. “I'll see you soon,” he promised her, and she nodded courageously, trusting him in that moment with everything she had inside of her. He was sure the weight of that trust would one day crush him into dust._

_There was another loud bang just as he brought his hands up to her temples. The process itself was quick, a rushed job, but one that would hold up for the timeframe they needed. He felt everything she was pulse inside his head, warm and familiar and sweet, and he wanted nothing more than to stay there and bask in the connection, but there was no_ time.

_Hartley's eyes slipped shut and all at once she lost consciousness, knees giving way as she crumpled to the floor. He caught her in his arms but had no time to arrange her, simply laying her safely on the grating below then turning to look at Martha, who stared back at him with wide, panicked eyes._

“ _Martha, you trust me too, don't you?” he asked in a hurry._

“ _Of course I do!”_

“ _Because it all depends on you,” he said quickly, stepping over Hartley's unnaturally still form and moving around the console, keeping himself from looking back._

“ _What does? What am I supposed to do?” Martha demanded._

_He pulled an ornate, silver pocket watch from where it sat tucked beneath the console. He took a beat to stare at it before swallowing and holding it up for his companion to see._

“ _Take this watch, because my life depends on it,” he told her, fast and serious, not hint of mirth in his expression. This was life or death, for more than just those in the TARDIS with him. “This watch, Martha. The watch is-”_

John Smith awoke with a gasp, blinking up at an unfamiliar ceiling with wide eyes.

It took an embarrassingly long minute for him to remember where, and _who_ , he was: he was in his flat in Dublin, laying in his bed. It had all been just another dream – and he was completely and utterly _human._

The sound of his alarm blared through the room, bouncing off the four small walls around him. With a groan he stood to his feet, turning off the blasted alarm and plunging him into a thick, uncomfortable silence.

He was used to it, his head seeming to be full of nothing _but_ uncomfortable silences, these days. He sighed, moving over to start the coffee brewing and quickly changing into his clothes for the day; trousers and a blue sweater. Running his hands through his temperamental hair, he ate some cereal with a cup of coffee then went to brush his teeth before finally making sure he had all his notes for the coming day and darting out the door.

It was a simple routine, one he'd grown used to since moving to Dublin. The university was only a few streets away, so he usually walked, always silently cursing the squeaky, uncomfortable dress shoes he wore on his feet.

His Monday morning lecture was easy, it always was. The laws of physics were simple, and the class was always attentive, if not at least too hungover to be disruptive. His TA, the young Martha Jones, was there as always, smiling at him brightly as she went about organising notes for the class.

He drifted from one class to the other just as he always did, sipping lukewarm coffee and trying very hard not to think too deeply about his recent slew of strange, impossible dreams. This, of course, failed miserably, and he was lost in fantasies of this whole other life his slumbering mind had created for him when he smacked into another body, his cup of coffee dropping to the ground and the small pile of books slipping from underneath his arm.

“Oh! I'm so sorry!” a feminine voice cried out, soft and sweetly apologetic. A desperate hope sprang up within him – _please let it not be her –_ but he knew it was useless; when had his luck ever been that good?

Sure enough when he glanced up to see who he'd bumped into, he came face to face with Hartley Dempsey, Professor of Literature over in the Harrison Wing. She was smiling at him apologetically, the light pink of her professional shirt bringing out the strawberry-blonde in her long, beautiful hair. Her deep blue eyes – such a unique, stunning colour – seemed to shine as they focused on him, stealing his very breath away.

They were the same eyes he'd been dreaming about ever since he got to Dublin two months ago. Ever since he'd first caught sight of her, she'd been there when he fell asleep, only she wasn't a stranger – she was his friend, laughing at him unabashedly and affectionately calling him _Spacewalker._

“Are you okay?” she asked him back in reality, and he realised with a sinking gut that he'd just been gaping at her like an utter _idiot_.

“Yes, yes. Fine, completely fine,” he said quickly, nearly tripping over the words in his haste to get them out. She was still staring at him, but this time with a different shine to her eyes, less concerned, more amused? Fond? There was the faintest hint of a smile on her mauve painted lips, and he was mesmerised by them until they pulled down into a grimace, head tilted down to look at herself.

It was then he noticed the large brown stain on her lovely shirt, and the way she was holding the wet fabric away from her skin with a wince.

“I'm _so_ sorry,” he told her, horror prickling at him. He lifted a hand to his hair, running a hand across his scalp in frustration at himself. “I – oh, God...” he trailed off anxiously, cheeks heating up.

She looked back up at him, but she wasn't scowling, just smiling sweetly. “It's okay,” she assured him quickly, probably in an attempt to keep him from spontaneously combusting, which suddenly seemed like not such a terrible idea. She glanced down at the small, delicate watch resting on her left wrist, pretty mouth twisting into a concerned frown. “Only, I have a class in less than an hour,” she murmured worriedly. “No time to go home and change...”

“My, my office – it's only just around the corner,” he offered before he fully knew what he was saying. “You can clean up and, and...” he faltered, words escaping him.

The look on her face wasn't in anyway reluctant, instead she was smiling at him, the full force of the expression making him feel faint. Maybe he needed to sit down. “That would be amazing,” she said, her voice warm with gratitude.

“Right,” he nodded, turning on his heel to lead her down the hall towards his office.

“Uh, John?” she called from behind him, and he was shocked that she had known his name at all, let alone used it so casually. He spun back around, blinking at her in surprise. “Your books?” she asked, glancing pointedly at the scattering of books he'd left spread across the floor, forgotten.

His cheeks warmed again, and he hoped they weren't visibly turning red – he'd already embarrassed himself enough for one day.

“Right,” he nodded, clearing his throat and ducking down to gather his things. She remained standing, her hand still pulling her coffee-covered shirt away from her body. He didn't imagine it was very comfortable. “It's Hartley, right? Hartley Dempsey?” he asked once all his things were together, waving a hand in the direction of his office.

“Yeah,” she nodded, her modest heels clacking softly against the linoleum floor. “And you're John Smith? Science department?”

“That would be me, yes,” he nodded, grip tightening on his stack of books.

“I'm over in Literature,” she told him casually, and he nodded slowly, as if he didn't already know exactly who she was.

She was hard to forget, once you'd noticed her. They hadn't been formally introduced, but he'd seen her across the room at many of the various meetings the university held. She always held herself with a natural grace, as if she'd grown up in nobility of some kind, and her smile was enough to blind anyone with eyes.

“Busy day?” she asked conversationally, and he suddenly realised he was being awfully rude. Why was he cursed to be so socially awkward? What had he done wrong in his past life to make him this way?

“Oh, you know,” he said, waving his free hand around vaguely. “Lectures are over for the day. Just office hours, now.”

“Lucky you – I've still got two lectures and a meeting to get to,” she said as they came to a stop outside a simple blue door. He cracked it open, waving her inside ahead of him.

It was a small office, modest at best, with a big bookcase off to the side, holding mostly scientific journals that he felt as if he'd owned forever yet never properly read. His desk was cluttered, but to him it was an organised sort of clutter. Even still, he felt self-conscious as he started forwards to tidy it for company.

“I, I've got some tissues over here,” he said, realising belatedly that there was actually very little for her use to clean herself up with. She smiled anyway, moving over to the box of tissues and beginning to blot up the stain on her shirt.

He couldn't help but notice it was turning the pink material virtually see-through, and he cleared his throat, averting his eyes as he moved over to his desk, fishing around in his deep, barely-used drawers and pulling out a creased, but blessedly clean, button-up shirt.

Awkward and wary, he held it out to her. She took a moment to look up from where she was working on her own shirt, and when she did, her eyes flickered between his nervous face and the proffered shirt for a few moments without saying anything. Fearing the worst, he opened his mouth to apologise, but then she smirked, the expression slightly more devious than he'd expected to come from someone like her.

“People will talk,” she commented even as she took the shirt from his hand, unfolding it and holding it up to the light. John watched her, again feeling heat creep up from his neck and spread unbidden across his stubbled, pale cheeks. She seemed to take pity on him, and the deviousness in her expression melting away, replaced by an innocent gratitude and gentle smile. “Thank you, John,” she said sincerely.

“Of course, yes,” he stammered, shoving his hands deep into his trouser pockets. “Least I can do, being it my fault you're in this predicament in the first place,” he added clumsily.

“Mind turning round?” she asked suddenly, and his brow furrowed in confusion. “So I can change?” she elaborated, and he cleared his throat as he spun like a dog on command. “So, is John Smith your real name?” she continued conversationally, and he tried not to think about the fact that she was utterly shirtless just a couple of feet behind his turned back.

“Why do you ask?” he cleared his throat again.

“Just seems like the _ultimate_ ordinary name,” she replied, voice slightly muffled as she pulled off her shirt. “I can't imagine naming my child something like _John_ if his last name was already going to be _Smith_ ,” she told him, the sweet, lighthearted tone in her voice telling him that no offence was intended.

“My parents were a rather unimaginative pair,” he told her simply, but there was a hint of amusement to his own voice that surprised him. “How did you end up as a _Hartley_ , Hartley?”

“My mother read it in a book,” she replied, the warmth in her voice just as surprising. “My parents aren't particularly imaginative, either.”

“Did you take on that particular trait, too?”

“My Masters in Creative Literature leads me to believe not.”

The banter was easy between them, almost scarily so. It went deeper than even his persistent dreams of late; it was like the familiarity was seated deep within his very bones. Like talking with her was something he'd been doing for years, as opposed to all of five minutes.

“How do I look?” she asked suddenly, and he hesitated only an extra moment before turning to look at her.

It was something primal within him that reared its head at the sight of her in his shirt. They'd only barely _officially_ met, and already he was imagining how it might smell when she gave it back – _if_ she even gave it back; both possibilities sounded equally pleasing.

“Looks good,” he told her, voice strained and an octave higher than usual.

She didn't seem to think it odd, simply unleashing the full force of her smile onto him, and he swallowed around the nervous lump in his throat. He knew he should say something, and had his mouth halfway open, praying something coherent would pour out, when there was a knock on his office door.

“Am I interrupting?” Martha's familiar voice rushed over him, and he spun around to face her, something of a welcoming smile on his lips.

“Not at all,” he said loudly, to cover the sound of his own racing pulse. “Martha, this is Professor Dempsey,” he said quickly, gesturing between the women politely. “Professor, this is my TA, Martha Jones.”

“Actually, we already know one another,” Hartley said, a kind smile on her face, sparkling in her eyes. “Hey, Martha.”

“Hey, Hart,” Martha replied, surprising John with how casually she addressed her.

“So, uh, how d'you know each other?” he asked, fumbling for the words as he shoved his hands back down into his pockets for lack of anything better to do with them.

The two shared a smile. “We're flatmates,” Hartley revealed, and John's eyebrows shot up into his hairline.

“Really?” he asked, surprised.

“Yeah,” Martha chimed in, leaning against the doorjamb, holding a stack of papers close to her chest. “Have been since I moved here. She was the first friend I made,” she said, but there was something to her eyes, a sort of gleam that made him think there was more to the story. It wasn't his place to ask, however, so he just nodded his head understandingly. “I didn't know you two knew each other,” she added, more slowly, and John didn't miss the way her eyes slid down to the shirt Hartley was now wearing, one that very obviously wasn't her own.

“Oh, we don't really,” he said quickly, reaching up to tug at his ear. “Only just met.”

“Spilt his coffee all over me,” Hartley said, glancing over at him with laughter in her eyes. “It was one hell of a meet cute.”

John spluttered, but Hartley's tinkling laugh ringing throughout the small office was enough to soothe his embarrassment over the brazen comment. He'd often wondered what the beautiful literature Professor might be like – in situations other than the science-fiction madness his subconscious had concocted – but in none of his musings had he imagined her to be so forward, and he even less expected to _like_ it.

“Anyway, you left these in the class, Professor,” Martha interjected, probably for the best, or he might have just continued to stare at Hartley like some kind of doting fan. She walked between them and sat the stack of papers down on his cluttered desk. “Still want to grab a quick sandwich from the café before your class, Hart?” Martha's words had kind of an impatient bite to them. Hartley seemed to notice as well, shooting her friend a curious look before nodding her head and picking her things up again, cradling them in her arms.

“I'll wash the shirt and get it back to you soon,” she promised him politely as she passed, heading for the door where Martha was now waiting.

“Take your time,” he said, thinking silently that he wouldn't actually mind if she kept it. That, however, seemed hardly an appropriate thing to say to a colleague he barely knew, so he kept it to himself.

“See you tomorrow, Professor Smith,” Martha said with a tight smile, turning and heading out.

Hartley paused in the doorway, seeming to hesitate before she looked back over her shoulder, giving him that smile, the one so intensely kind and sweet, it hurt his hearts – _heart, singular, why would he have two_? – and he was helpless to do anything but smile back.

“Thanks, John,” she said, voice melodic, full of sincerity and warmth.

“Any time, Hartley,” he replied as evenly as he was able, and he was rewarded with an even larger, dimple-touched smile before she turned and disappeared out the door. He remained perfectly still until the delicate sound of her clicking heels finally faded, then he sagged against the filing cabinet behind him, unable to quell the smile on his lips.

* * *

Hartley was a ball of excited energy when she woke up two days after her cliché meet cute with the handsome physics professor. She could hear Martha in the kitchen and hurried to shower and dress, donning a professional red dress that she knew made her look cute, and simple black pumps to make her legs look longer.

She spent longer on her makeup than usual, but took care not to make it look like she'd put _too_ much effort into it.

Martha's eyebrows rose when she stepped from her room, messenger bag slung over her shoulder, an eager smile on her lips.

“What're you all dressed up for, then?” her flatmate asked curiously, pushing the toaster in her direction so she could make her own breakfast.

“Nothing,” Hartley shrugged, utterly innocent.

She saw the moment Martha caught sight of the male dress shirt slung carefully over the zipper of her messenger bag. “Going to see Professor Smith again?” she asked, and Hartley could tell she was making a point to sound casual.

“I need to return his shirt,” she said simply, leaving out the fact that she very much _wanted_ to see him again.

“And if you happen to look drop dead gorgeous while doing it...” Martha trailed off pointedly.

“Then so be it,” she said impishly, moving to pull the jam and butter from the door of the fridge. “Come on,” she sighed, bumping Martha's hip with her own when the younger girl didn't react. “You've gotta admit, he's _pretty_ pretty,” she trailed off cheekily, ducking her head to catch Martha's gaze. She was expecting an exasperated sort of indifference, but instead she saw a pain that caught her off guard. “Martha? You alright?”

Martha seemed to be chewing on her next words, debating what to say. Deciding to give her space, Hartley grabbed her toast and began to butter it. “S'nothing,” her friend finally muttered, and even though it couldn't have been a more obvious lie, she accepted it with a hum and continued her task. “You're just gonna go see him?”

She nodded. “During his office hours.”

“Bit untidy though, isn't he?” Martha pressed.

Hartley lifted her shoulders in a shrug, depositing the knife into the sink and taking a bite from her toast, the raspberry jam tart on her tongue. “Most men are,” she said, leaning over the counter to flip through the mail from the day before. It was mostly just junk, catalogues from businesses, but she fingered through it anyway, letting it distract her as she ate her food.

“I work with the man, and let me tell you, he's a bit... _weird_ ,” Martha continued like she was trying to convince Hartley of something, but the older woman had stopped paying attention, eyes scanning a section of shoes on sale on the page before her.

“What else can you expect from a mad man with a box?” she muttered without so much as a second thought.

Martha went deathly still. “What did you just say?” she gasped, breathless, as though something had stolen the air from her lungs.

“Hm?” Hartley hummed, blinking back at her uncomprehendingly.

“You, you just said-” Martha cut herself off abruptly, taking a step backwards, like she needed the space. Confused, Hartley looked away from the catalogues, standing back up and opening her mouth to ask more when her phone beeped from her bag.

“That's my alarm,” she said, moving around to turn it off. “If I don't leave now, I'll be late for my lecture on Medieval Literature.” She swallowed her last mouthful of toast, then ran her hands down the fabric of her dress to make sure it was crumb-free. She was halfway to the door when she noticed Martha wasn't following. “You're not coming?” she asked curiously, one hand moving to press gingerly against her elaborate braids, making sure they remained in place. “I thought you wanted to get some reading in before your first class?”

“I actually have somewhere I need to go first,” Martha said, voice weak and distracted. “I'll meet you at the café for lunch as usual, yeah?”

“Of course,” Hartley agreed without pause, shooting Martha a smile that went unnoticed. She took a moment to wonder if she should be properly worried by how her friend was acting, but decided she was a grown woman who could handle herself – if Martha needed her help, she'd surely ask for it. “See you later?”

“Yup,” she replied, and with a final shrug Hartley turned and left, the door to their modest flat clicking shut after her.

Her lecture went well (apart from a rather lewd suggestion from a boy with buzzed hair wearing a pair of pastel shorts, but not even that could damper her mood) and the moment the hall had cleared she left for the science building, where she remembered John's office to be. She stopped on the way at the coffee cart, debating whether or not to get something for an embarrassingly long amount of time, before she finally threw caution to the wind and got two to go.

He was thankfully in his office, the door held open by a small blue doorstop, and she paused at the threshold, peering inside. He was sitting in his desk chair, but it was pushed back to the window where the natural light of day spilled in through the glass. It hit his wonderful hair, covering him like a blanket and making him seem to almost glow. The whole thing was rather picturesque, and it very nearly stole the breath from her lungs.

He was leaned back in his chair, a pair of glasses perched low on his nose and a small book held in one hand. With his other he seemed to be sketching, moving his hand across the page in smooth, sure strokes, charcoal staining his fingertips.

She watched him work, completely oblivious to the world around him, until finally she could justify it no longer and rapped her knuckles against the doorframe.

He jumped, losing his grip on the sketchbook. It hit the floor with a muted thump, but he whirled around to look at her, eyes growing wide when he saw who it was. “Professor Dempsey,” he said in a rather loud voice, scrambling to his feet in a hurry.

“Hartley, please,” she told him, unable to quell the amused smile tugging insistently at the corners of her lips.

“Right – yes,” he nodded, and she could see him swallow from where he stood. She moved deeper into the room, taking it upon herself to sit down in one of the two chairs facing his desk. He cleared his throat, bending to scoop the diary from the floor.

“You can draw?” she asked, curious.

“Just rough sketches,” he shrugged humbly, shutting the book and wiping his black-smeared fingers on a small cloth.

“Do you sketch often?”

“Not really, but lately I've been having these dreams...” he trailed off, suddenly looking shy, as though he'd said too much. “You don't want to hear about that, though,” he muttered awkwardly.

“Sure I would,” she argued, leaning forwards on her leather perch, hands twisting together in front of her. “I love hearing about people's dreams.”

He blinked in surprise. “Why?”

“ _Dreaming is an act of pure imagination, attesting in all men a creative power, which if it were available in waking, would make every man a Dante or Shakespeare_ ,” she said the words with a reverence in her voice that even she could hear. She hadn't meant to say it at all, in fact, but the words had spilled out of her, unbidden.

“Who said that?” John asked, his voice quiet and pensive, and she got the feeling that he was truly taking in what she'd said, rather than passing it off as unimportant babble from a typical literature fanatic.

“H.F. Hedge,” she told him, and for the first time since they'd met, a hint of a meekness tugged at her smile, shy about her odd little habit of sprouting out quotes whenever she found one to suit.

John didn't seem to think her strange, however. He was smiling at her, the expression unexpectedly warm, and she felt contentment nuzzle in her stomach, cheeks hot with a happiness that took her by surprise.

“Sorry,” John said suddenly, and she noticed he was still standing, head angled downward to look at her where she sat in her seat, “you needed something?”

She picked up the shirt, holding it out to him with a smile. “Just thought I'd come and give this back,” she told him simply, and he stared at the proffered shirt for a full five seconds before finally taking the garment from her, nodding down at it as he cleared his throat.

“Thank you, yes,” he said, laying it carefully on a clear space on his desktop, right beside a stack of books and a lone, oddly placed fob watch. It was silver, covered in odd circular designs that made the linguist in her curious, but he shifted in front of it unconsciously, and her attention moved back to the topic at hand.

It was then she realised she was still holding their cooling drinks. “Oh, I got you a tea,” she said with a small squeak, picking up one of the small cups and handing it over. John looked surprised, blinking at her extended arm. “I know most people go for coffee, but there are so many different kinds, and I've never been one for it myself, so I wouldn't know where to begin,” she told him, hoping the accompanying giggle didn't make her seem too childish.

“Right, yes,” he said abruptly, finally taking the cup from her hand.

Their fingers brushed and she felt a lurch in her stomach. His touch felt familiar, and she could almost _remember_ what it was like to hold his hand; which was, of course, completely ridiculous, because how could she possibly remember something that had never happened?

“Thank you,” he added after clearing his throat, stepping back and taking a sip of the drink. His eyes went wide with surprise, and he looked down at it in interest. “Black and sweet,” he murmured, “just how I like it. How'd you know?”

She lifted her shoulders in a shrug, cupping her palms around her own cup, a shy smile flickering at her lips. “Just a talent, I s'pose,” she replied meekly, watching curiously as he wandered closer. Instead of sitting in his chair behind his desk, he moved to the one beside her, pausing only a moment before sitting down, turning towards her so their knees nearly brushed.

“You can guess how people have their tea?” he asked, an amused sort of grin on his face, making her think suddenly that he really _was_ rather beautiful, in an impish, foxy kind of a way.

“Not everyone,” she admitted, meeting his eyes, and the smile slid off his face, replaced by a look of surprise, cheeks turning the slightest bit pink. “Much work today, then?” she continued conversationally, keeping things from turning awkward as she nodded towards the stacks of essays covering his desk.

“My students don't seem to be the kind to take advantage of my office hours,” he said, taking another sip of his tea. “At least, not until grading comes around, then it's a different story,” he added with a huffing laugh.

“Where were you before this?” Hartley asked without thinking. The urge to know more about him was persistent, like an itch she needed to scratch. He paused to consider his answer.

“Cambridge,” he finally told her, nodding to himself like he was assuring himself it was correct. The motion was strange, but she didn't think too much on it. “Yes, I taught science for the University of Cambridge.”

“What made you move?” she questioned, eager to know more.

He paused again, but this time for a different reason. “Tell you what,” he said, hint of impishness reappearing in his eyes, “an answer for an answer.”

Laughing, Hartley reached up to brush her hair away from her face, tucking a thick lock of it behind her ear and smiling at him coyly. “You've got yourself a deal,” she agreed, and he grinned as though he'd won the lottery. There was a beat as he smiled at her expectantly, and she realised he was waiting for an answer to her previous question. “Well, this is my first year teaching,” she revealed with a shrug. “I only finished my Masters last Spring.”

“Did you always want to teach?”

“I love talking about literature,” she responded honestly. “What could be a better job than one where I get paid to share my passion with young people?” It wasn't an answer per se, but he either didn't notice or didn't mind, moving on with ease when she asked, “yourself?”

“I just...fell into it, I suppose,” he told her with a vague shrug. “After I got my Doctorate I was offered a job teaching, and well, I guess it seemed like a good idea.”

“Do you still like it?” she asked, curious as she leaned forwards, their knees brushing again, making her skin buzz like a schoolgirl with a crush.

“Has its merits, I s'pose,” he said, mirroring her action and leaning in towards her.

“But why the downgrade?” He met her eyes, confused by the question. She motioned to the office in general. “You left _Cambridge_ to come teach at a small university in the middle of nowhere,” she reminded him with a small laugh.

John smiled, meeting her eyes. “I would hardly call it a downgrade,” he said, and something about the spark in his eyes made her skin feel warmed, like his smile held all the heat of the rarely-seen sun.

Knowing her own smile would never compare, she grinned anyway, drinking down the last of her tea. “I believe you were going to tell me about your strange dreams?”

He gave a nervous kind of chuckle, sitting back in his chair. “Oh, you really wouldn't be interested-” he tried to say, but she sent him a quiet scolding look, and he fell obediently silent. “Right, we've been over this, haven't we?” he murmured, vaguely chastised. She smiled, amused by his puppy-like expression, and he gave a joking sigh as he reached for the journal he'd been using when she'd arrived. “Don't, don't laugh,” he begged gingerly, and she lifted her free hand to her chest, making a crossing motion over her heart in promise.

Hartley watched as he opened the journal, holding it close to his chest for a few moments as he flicked through the pages, presumably choosing the right one to show her. When he held it out to her he kept his hands on it, not letting her take it, but she supposed that was his prerogative and leant over to get a better look.

Writings and sketches littered the paper, mostly done in the soft curves of pencil or the sharp lines of charcoal. The drawings were strange, familiar in an unfamiliar kind of a way. There were robots with plunges attached to their metal bodies, and rough outlines of what she could only call aliens, tentacles hanging limply in place of a mouth.

He slowly turned the pages, letting her get a good look at each one, though his eyes never left her face. She could feel the weight of his stare, but it was easy to ignore when she was trying to think about why the journal felt like something she'd seen before.

Words jumped out at her, words that shouldn't have made sense but somehow did.

_Face of Boe. Dalek. Ood. Raxacoricofallapatorius. TARDIS._

He turned another page, and this one held a sketch of a person. It was a girl; beautiful – almost stunningly so. Without thinking Hartley reached out a hand, dragging her fingertips over the charcoal drawing, somehow knowing that had the drawing been in colour, the hair would be yellow and the eyes would be a glittering hazel.

“Rose...” she murmured thoughtlessly, a hint of wistfulness in her heart.

She felt John freeze up from beside her, and blinked back to herself, looking over at him sharply. “How did you know her name?” he asked in bewilderment, eyes wide with surprise.

“What?” she asked, thrown by the question.

“Her name,” he repeated, watching her closely, with just the tiniest hint of suspicion in his gaze. “Her name's Rose. That's what I call her, at least. But how did _you_ know that?”

She was at a loss for what to say. She didn't know the answer, had not a single clue why she would know the name of this figment of his imagination. It was crazy, how could she _possibly_ know?

There was a voice in her head, small and quiet, but still heard all the same. It told her that she knew because she, too, knew Rose. Knew who she was. Knew her enough to call her a friend. But how was that possible?

“I-I don't know,” she finally stammered, eyes flickering back down to the image, once more struck with the feeling that she _knew_ this girl. “I just...I looked at her and knew her name was Rose,” she told him in a muted whisper.

John now didn't look so much suspicious as intrigued, a spark of _something_ to his eyes that floored her. In for a penny, in for a pound, she figured.

“To be honest, all of this looks weirdly familiar,” she admitted quietly, finally taking the book from him in a flare of stubbornness. He let her take it, his eyes wide as he listened to her talk. “It's like I've read about it before, or _seen_ it before, or _something_...” she said, flicking through the pages faster, growing desperate for answers she was already sure she wouldn't find.

“There's something else,” he added, leaning over her again, and she felt her pulse pick up in a flurry, something like panic striking her. Who was this man, and why did her world feel like it was suddenly tilting on its axis? He took the book back, flipping through it purposefully until he found a certain page. He hesitated an extra moment before handing it over, a wary look on his face.

She took it, pausing a beat to steady herself before looking down. What she saw for some reason didn't surprise her as much as it probably should have.

She was looking at a rough sketch of herself. Granted, it was vague and could have been anyone, but something told her it wasn't. There was the pout of her lips and the flowing curls of her hair, the shapely nose and wide, glittering eyes that looked more beautiful than anything she ever saw when she looked in the mirror.

“ _You're_ in my dreams too,” he said, a nervous tremble to his lilting voice.

Again, this confession didn't surprise her. Why was that?

“At first I just thought that it was because you were so beautiful,” he began with a self-conscious swallow. She looked up, briefly distracted by the fact that he'd called her beautiful, her cheeks turning a rosy pink, but he continued on, giving her no time to linger on the words. “But, but you know about Rose. It's like, like you're _there_. And even now, it's like I _know_ you. But how is that possible? I've never met you before, I would remember!”

Hartley swallowed as well, processing his words which grew increasingly desperate. “I have no idea,” she whispered, returning her eyes to the sketch of herself. “I don't know what's going on, John.”

“Do you...” he trailed off, like he was second-guessing the question, but then she looked up curiously, and he barrelled ahead as though compelled. “Do you get the sense that you... _know me_?” he finally asked, a wobble of insecurity in his voice, like he was scared she would say no, call him crazy and leave.

And she wanted to, if only to protect herself from the dangers of vulnerability. But she looked into his warm brown eyes and suddenly knew without a shadow of a doubt that she couldn't lie. Not to him.

“It's strange,” she murmured, drawn closer to him, like she were the moon in his orbit. There was no other way to describe it, she felt suddenly like she revolved around him. “I look at you and I could _swear_ I remember what it's like to touch you...” she said, hand drifting up to his face but keeping her skin from brushing his.

His cheeks flushed slightly at the implication of the comment, but he didn't move away, his gaze flickering between her eyes.

“How is this possible?” she asked, hoping against hope that he had an answer.

The question seemed to break through his daze and he pulled his focus back to the journal in the same moment as she dropped her hand from where it hovered over his cheek.

“It isn't.” He cleared his throat, then gave a wry sort of smile in an attempt to cut through the tension that had suddenly stifled the small office. “I mean, of _course_ I'm not an alien with two hearts, travelling the universe in a small blue box,” he said with an unconvincing chuckle.

“But it's bigger on the inside,” she replied without thought. These days it was like there was a part of her mind locked away, fighting against the rest of her to get free. And every now and again, something slipped through the cracks in its cell.

John's expression dimmed, and she looked away from him to the sketch the book lay open on, the aforementioned blue box. 'POLICE PUBLIC CALL BOX', it read clear as day, and she felt a throb of longing for something she didn't understand. Swallowing again, she looked back up at John. His eyes were full of pain, like he too felt something was missing and that maybe, as far fetched as it seemed, that something was this mysterious Police Box from their dreams.

A shrill chiming cut through the tense air and both professors flinched at the loud sound. Holding a hand to her racing heart, Hartley yanked her phone from her purse, holding it up apologetically.

“Just my alarm,” she said weakly, turning it off as she clumsily got to her feet, very nearly tripping over in her impractical (yet very pretty) high heels. “I've got to go teach a class on Contemporary Literature,” she told him, quickly gathering her things. Her body remained flooded with a buzz of nervous energy, and she had no idea what to do with it all.

“Hartley-” he began, but once again stopped himself.

She turned to look at him, expression carefully put together into a look of vague curiosity that she was fairly certain he was too smart to buy. His own expression was full of turmoil, and she could understand the feeling. She was scared, the strange and insane situation they found themselves in was more than a little disconcerting.

“Have a good class,” he eventually said, the words falling flat.

She attempted a smile, lips tugging upwards pathetically. “You too, John,” she told him quietly, knowing it was better than nothing. With a final nod she turned and left, telling herself she wasn't fleeing, not at all.

It was exceptionally difficult to concentrate during her class. Her heart raced the whole time, making her seem out of breath for the majority of her lecture. She got her fair share of bewildered looks, but she focused her attention on the topic at hand and eventually got through it. She was the first one out of the room when it was over, muttering something about her office hours being cancelled for the day before flying out of there like a bat out of hell.

She always met Martha for lunch, and she was more than a little bit relieved to see her friend and flatmate sitting at their regular table next to the window, toying around on her phone as she waited for her to arrive.

Hartley sat down with more force than necessary – it could probably have been called more of a collapse – and Martha looked up from her screen in surprise at the sudden appearance.

“Hart?” she asked carefully, because apparently something about her expression was cause for alarm. “What's wrong? Did something happen in class?” she pressed when the older woman said nothing, a look of anxiety trickling across her face, like she was imagining all the worst conceivable possibilities.

“Something strange happened...” she began, picking up her complimentary glass of water and downing it in a couple of large gulps. She wondered if she shouldn't be saying anything at all.

What if Martha thought them crazy and had them committed? Okay, so that was a bit of an over-exaggeration – it wasn't 1913, they weren't going to be sent to the hospital for having strange dreams, or somehow feeling a connection that went beyond the rational.

Besides, something deep and instinctual told her she could trust Martha – and not just because she was the only person she had she could actually call a real friend.

“I went to drop off John's shirt, and we got talking...” she started again, her pulse speeding up again. A waiter walked by, and she quickly asked him for a refill of water before continuing on nervously. “He was telling me about these dreams he's been having.”

Martha looked cautious, like she was reluctant to hear where this was going. “What about?” she asked, gentle with just a _hint_ of anxious.

“About this...blue box,” she tried to explain, throat dry with just those words. They seemed to have an effect, however, as Martha broke out in a series of coughs from her shock. “All right?” Hartley asked quickly, reaching across the table and grasping her arm to steady her.

“A blue box?” she repeated rather than answer, thumping herself on the chest and returning her attention to Hartley.

“A blue box that can travel in time and space,” she continued, wary but desperate to find some sense of reassurance that she wasn't going totally, completely, certifiably insane. “About aliens and galaxies and beautiful, beautiful things...” she trailed off, Rose's face swimming into view. “And the crazy thing is, when he was talking about it, it was like I _knew_ it all already. It didn't sound like nonsense, it sounded _right._ I can't put my finger on it exactly, but it was all so _familiar…_ it's like there's something there, at the very edge of my consciousness. I just can't _touch_ it. It's as frustrating as trying to catch smoke with my bare hands!”

Her attention had only been focused inward she failed to notice the way Martha's expression had melted into something akin to horror. She stopped suddenly, realising the state her friend was in, and winced apologetically.

“And I sound utterly mad, don't I?” she said with a none-too-subtle groan, dropping her head to the table with a thump that echoed across the small cafe like a gunshot. “Ugh, I'm sorry,” she apologised wearily, words muffled by the tablecloth, “you don't care about this. Just forget about it. Doesn't matter. It's probably just some kind of midlife crisis.”

“Hartley, you're only twenty-five,” Martha reminded her, but her voice was distant and distracted.

“I could die at fifty,” she argued meekly, lifting her now-aching forehead from the table and squinting at her friend in challenge.

Despite herself, Martha gave a small snort and muttered something akin to, “ _that's_ unlikely.”

“Huh?” Hartley asked ineloquently.

“Don't worry,” Martha waved her off before running a hand down the length of her face tiredly. “Look, I don't think you're crazy,” she continued, seeming to regain her levelheadedness, running a hand over her braided hair. “Maybe, maybe you just have a connection to this guy. One of those connections they talk about on the Discovery Channel. It could be like ESP or something.”

Hartley shot her a wholly unimpressed stare. “That's your response?” she asked wryly. “That we're _psychics_?”

“Stranger things have happened,” Martha said with a helpless shrug. Hartley groaned again, dropping her face into her hands. “Look, I think you just need a good meal and a glass of Chardonnay,” she continued quickly.

Hartley looked back up at her, taking in the earnest expression she wore. It seemed sincere enough, but she couldn't help but notice the stiff way she held her body, like she were prepared for a fight. Strange, but also not her biggest problem of the day.

“You're right,” she said instead, dropping back in her seat with a tired huff. “I could use a glass, for sure.”

Martha smiled, the expression tight and unconvincing, as she waved the waiter back over to their table. Hartley went through the motions, but John Smith and their shared memories of impossible things never strayed far from her mind.

* * *

The faculty had a mixer on the first Friday of every month. It was always held at some local attraction – they would hire out an event room room or something like a karaoke bar or bowling alley – all in an attempt to get their faculty acquainted and talking.

This month's mixer was held at the local mini-golf course. John didn't even like regular golf, and he failed to see how making it 'mini' improved it at all. He didn't particularly want to attend this one, or any of them for that matter, but he felt obligated – plus, he'd never been any good at talking himself out of unsatisfactory situations.

So he dressed up in clothes that weren't _too_ fancy, just some slacks and a sweater, then made his way to the course. He tried not to think about the fact that there was a large possibility of Hartley being there, because thinking about that just made him nervous.

It had been three days since their discovery in his office, and he hadn't seen her since. She hadn't sought him out, and he'd been too nervous to try. Everything about the situation was strange, unsettlingly so.

How could she know details about his _dreams_? It seemed so impossible, so damnably crazy that his instinct was to dismiss it. However, that was easier said than done when Hartley Dempsey was involved.

During the day he was plagued with thoughts of her smile and her red hair, and at night, the one time it was given he would get some peace, he was plagued with memories that weren't his own. Memories where she pressed into him during hard times, a constant presence of comfort that was warm and unyielding.

He could remember how her hair smelled, remember how her laughter sounded when she just couldn't stop. He could remember how soft and pliant her skin was when he held her as she slept.

But he'd only met the woman twice, and he'd yet to have heard her laugh – _properly_ – once, or even had a chance to smell her hair. So where did the memories come from? He was desperately afraid of the answer to this question, but was also loath to admit it.

As it turned out, she was at the mixer. He spotted her the instant he stepped into the room, like his body had a built-in radar to her presence. She was standing near the edge of the room, wearing a flared blue and gold dress and holding a flute of champagne. Her strawberry-blonde hair cascaded down her back in curled waves, and she was smiling blindingly as she chatted idly with the dean, charming him as effortlessly as she'd charmed John.

He found his feet moving towards her before he could stop them, and by the time he was halfway there he knew there was no turning back.

“Ah, John!” exclaimed the dean, a shorter man with thinning grey hair. “How've you been?” he asked loudly but kindly, a smile on his face. “Hartley was just telling me that a new word is added to the dictionary every _two_ _hours_ ,” he continued without waiting for any sort of answer. “How fascinating is that?”

“Is that so?” John mused, turning to look at Hartley, who had now turned the brilliance of her smile onto him. He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry.

“Good evening,” she greeted him gently, the dimples in her cheeks turning him hot.

“Good evening,” he replied softly, meeting her luminescent eyes in the stale lighting of the lobby of the mini-golf course.

“Say, did you know the two of you started at the university in the same week?!” the dean – Simon, he recalled with a blink – exclaimed with a wide, oblivious smile. “I must say, we're thrilled to have you in the faculty,” he continued without heed for their lack of concentration. Thankfully, a voice from across the room called out for him, and he was quick to wince apologetically. “Ah, that's me. Well, I'll leave you two to mingle!” he said cheerfully before he finally wandered away with squeaking shoes.

John and Hartley were left in silence. It wasn't stifling, for which he was glad. She was smiling at him, too, which certainly made him less concerned that she might not want to talk to him.

“I haven't seen you at one of these things before,” she began, much to his relief, as he had no clue where to even begin to try and make conversation.

“I've seen you,” he said only to wince, immediately regretting his words.

To his great relief she didn't seem scared by the borderline creepy comment, but instead smiled wider, like he'd said something amusing. “Is that so?” she asked with a small laugh, lifting her flute for a sip of champagne.

His collar suddenly feeling like it was choking him. John tugged it away from his throat and tried to keep himself from overheating in his embarrassment. “Is, uh, is Martha here?” he asked to move the attention off of himself.

Hartley pointed over to a small group near the door where Martha stood next to a taller woman in a green suit, both chatting politely. “She's networking,” she told him with that hint of an impish glint to her eyes. “I think she gets sick of having nobody except me to talk to.”

“I-I feel like we need to talk,” he said, struggling to force the words out, afraid what would happen once he did. He hated that he'd done it so abruptly. He should have eased his way into it, but instead he'd blundered his way through, as per usual.

Her smile dimmed but didn't completely disappear, which was probably a good sign. She put her champagne flute down on a table off to the side, then reached out and took his hand. He stopped breathing completely at the touch, her hands small and elegant and almost _too_ soft in his. She curled her fingers through his and gently began to drag him away from the lobby and towards a set of glass doors which were hanging open, leading out into a garden of some kind. He couldn't breathe, wondering what could possibly be happening as he watched her lead him, that impish look on her face making him anxious.

She pulled away abruptly, and he kept his hands hanging uselessly in mid-air while she turned away. When she spun back around she was holding two sticks in her hands, and he blinked at them without recognition for an embarrassingly long amount of time.

“They're clubs,” she finally said, and his eyes flickered back up to her face, taking note of her amusement. “You use them to play mini-golf,” she added, purposefully slow and quite clearly taking the mickey, “which is why we're here. At a mini-golf course.”

He huffed loudly in irritation as a way to cover his embarrassment. What was it about Hartley Dempsey that made him so bloody off-balanced?

She laughed at him, but it didn't feel mean. If anything, it just made him want to smile along with her, but he stomped down on the urge, refusing. She handed off the larger of the two clubs, then pulled one deep blue and one bright orange ball from a nearby bucket.

“Ready to have your arse handed to you?” she asked playfully, handing off the blue one and making her way over to the first hole.

There were small groupings of people scattered throughout the course, most with drinks in their hands, laughing amongst one another easily. John felt at peace as he stood beside Hartley, watching her line up her first shot.

“So, what'd you want to talk about?” she asked him easily, tongue ever-so-slightly peeking out from between red painted lips, one eye closed in concentration as she aimed.

“You know,” he said simply, and her lips moved up into a wide smile as she took the shot. She did that a lot, he realised. He wasn't sure he could remember a time he'd seen her that she wasn't smiling.

The small orange ball rolled over the hump in the middle of the grass and came to a stop only a few inches away from the hole.

“Had any more dreams?” she asked him, utterly casual.

“Every night,” he answered, unexpectedly honest.

She was quiet as she nudged the ball into the hole, then reached down to pluck it free, nodding for him to take his shot. “I think I'm having dreams too,” she told him as he took aim. He looked up from the course in surprise. She had a look of concentration on her face, elfin features scrunched up like she was trying very hard to hear something that wasn't even there. “There's this split second when I wake up…just a second where I remember _something._ But then I wake up properly and it's just _gone_ , like breath on a mirror.”

John listened intently, taking in every word she said and committing it to memory, hoping it might unlock the answers he was so desperate for. She paused, and he used the moment of quiet to take his shot. It flew up over the bump and rolled right into the hole in one. Hartley smiled at him, looking impressed, and he shrugged back modestly, picking up the ball and following her to the next hole.

“It's like there's something locked inside my head,” she continued as they walked. “Like a barrier, if that makes sense. The answers to my questions are _right_ _there_ , I just can't access them. Like something's keeping them from me.”

He took in her words, nodding like they made sense and watching as she lined up her next shot. It took her three tries to get it into the hole, but she didn't seem to care, simply motioning for him to take his turn. He wasn't sure what to make of what she was saying, wasn't sure if she was really just somehow crazy enough to seem sane – and if he was too – but then he got it in one again, and she smiled at him so wide and bright; he knew he'd believe just about anything she said.

“Is there anything we can do to...unlock it?” he asked, barely believing he was saying it.

She smiled like she knew exactly how ridiculous he felt. “You're a man of science,” she said simply, a sympathetic glint to her sparkling eyes. “You don't have to pretend like this whole conversation isn't going against everything you've ever been taught.”

He considered this as they moved onto the next hole. “There's such a thing as Fringe science,” he began, weighing his words for once before speaking. “I did always find it fascinating.”

“Fringe science, sure,” she allowed easily, lining up her next shot without much care. “But a shared dream experience is wacky, even by Mulder's standards.”

“Are you saying I'm Mulder?” he asked, surprising himself with the playfulness in his own voice.

“No, no,” she shook her head as she putted the ball around the obstacles towards the hole. The bright grin never once dropped from her face. “My mistake, I'm definitely Mulder.”

“And that makes me Scully?” he replied.

“You bet your cute arse it does,” she sang.

“You've spent far too much time with Jack,” he scoffed.

They both fell silent.

“Who's Jack?” her voice was low and quiet, but she wasn't asking him as much as herself. It was a good question. He wasn't even sure he knew anyone named Jack. The words had been instinctual, like they were something he'd said before, a common comeback he responded with. How was that possible?

The look on Hartley face was suddenly sad, more sad than he could handle – it was almost unnatural for someone with a disposition like Hartley's to look so morose.

Thinking quickly, he putted his ball into the hole in one go, and her expression went from sad to surprised in an instant.

“How do you keep getting it in one?” she made a show of whining the question, and he laughed, glad his attempt to lighten the mood had worked.

“Simple physics,” he shrugged, trying not to look too smug.

“Any other sports I should know never to play against you?” she asked him playfully.

“Pool and darts, for starters,” he quipped back. Hartley Dempsey unlocked something within him, something he hadn't known was there to unlock. He found himself hoping he could do the same for her, maybe give her the answers she was so desperately searching for.

Someone from across the course cried out, “look!” and everyone stopped what they were doing to follow their line of sight. She was staring up at the sky, and when John looked upwards, he found a meteorite streaking across the stars, shooting almost impossibly close to the earth.

“What was that?” Hartley asked from beside him, staring up at where it had appeared with a look of wonderment. In some ways she could seem so innocent, staring up at a shooting star like a child hopefully making a wish.

“Just a meteorite,” he assured her, but the look of wonder never left her eyes. “Rocks falling to the ground, that's all,” he added, almost compelled to make her realise it was nothing to look so stunned over.

“It was beautiful,” she said, oblivious to his attempts at emotional sabotage, a smile pulling at the corners of her lovely mouth.

He considered this, considered the way the meteorite streaked across the sky in a flare of fleeting, shimmering light. “Yeah,” he murmured thoughtfully, turning back to look at the sky, the light pollution making it difficult to properly see the stars. “Yeah, I s'pose it was.”

“Shame we can't see the stars properly,” she told him after a moment, and he wondered how she could so accurately know what he'd just been thinking. “That's all I've ever wanted,” she added, sounding sad and wistful, “to see the stars.”

He had a flash of awareness, a knowledge that her thinking as much can't have possibly been a coincidence. The man he was in his dreams – this alien, this Doctor – that's what he did for her. He took her to see the stars, so close she could _touch_ them. What hope did he have of winning her favour when he had _the Doctor_ to contend with?

He tossed the thought away just as suddenly as it had appeared. There was nothing to contend with. One was real, one wasn't – what was he to compete against? A dream? A work of fiction?

“Hartley!” a familiar voice called out and both professors turned to look at the newcomer, a flustered Martha, barrelling towards them so quickly that she nearly tripped over the stones lining the garden. “Did you see that?” their mutual friend puffed as she met them at the fourth hole.

“The meteorite?” Hartley asked, nodding in the direction it had disappeared in. “It was pretty, wasn't it? I've never seen one so close before. Where do you suppose it landed?”

“Oh, they always look close, but they're actually miles off,” John told her quickly, the information coming to his lips without a moment of conscious thought.

“Huh,” Hartley hummed, eyes narrowed at the horizon. “I could have sworn it only fell just over there-”

“We need to leave,” Martha was interrupting before Hartley had even finished speaking. John's eyebrows rose at the commanding note to her voice, and from the corner of his eye he saw Hartley react the same way.

“But we've just barely gotten here,” Hartley countered, holding up her miniature gold club and shaking it pointedly. “We've still got sixteen holes to complete; not to mention the open bar.”

“I have an emergency,” Martha said, impatient and deathly serious. Hartley fell silent, staring at her flatmate intently. “It's important, and I need your help.” John looked between the two women in confusion. He was lost, and judging by her bewildered expression, so was Hartley. “Please, Hart,” Martha begged.

Hartley turned to John with an apologetic expression. “Sorry,” she told him quietly, handing him her club with a frown. “I'll see you on campus?” she asked with what sounded a mighty bit like hope.

“Yeah, of course,” he nodded, and she smiled before finally allowing an impatient Martha to drag her away, leaving John staring after them in pure confusion.

* * *

Hartley was more than slightly confused. Martha was practically breaking the _sound_ _barrier_ with her driving, let alone the _speed limit_. And what she was saying wasn't making so much as a lick of sense.

“...I know I should wait, I _know_ I should, but there's no way that meteorite was a coincidence. I don't have a choice...”

“Martha,” Hartley interjected when she finally stopped to take a breath. “I don't understand; where're we going?”

They were heading out of town, towards the forestry up North. Hartley couldn't remember ever going there before, she'd only heard about it. A lot of it was farmland and small townships nestled between the towering forests. She couldn't for the life of her imagine what business Martha could possibly have out here, and her friend wasn't being particularly forthcoming with information.

“I need to take you somewhere,” she said shiftily even as her rickety old car gave a bang of thunderous backfire.

“Because _that_ isn't cagey _at all_ ,” Hartley muttered lowly.

“Sarcasm doesn't suit you, Hart,” Martha snapped abruptly. “It never has.”

Feeling oddly hurt by the barked remark, Hartley fell silent, curling back into the stained passenger seat and turning her eyes to the sky. Out of town, she could see the stars again, and the pair fell into a thick silence, Hartley staring forcefully at the twinkling constellations above her.

“Sorry,” Martha said after a long minute of uncomfortable silence, but Hartley didn't turn away from the stars. “I guess I'm a little...on edge,” she admitted, voice tight.

“Why?” asked Hartley, a frown knitting at her brow.

Martha sucked in a sharp breath of air, then let it out in a hiss. “That's a complicated question,” she finally said, the words slow and weighted.

“How is _that_ a complicated question?”

“It just is,” Martha had reverted to snapping. The response died on Hartley's lips, and she shut her jaw with a dull click. “Sorry,” Martha said again, the expression on her face suddenly drawn, like she was far older than she actually was.

“How many more times are you going to have to apologise before the night is through?” Hartley asked. Her voice lacked the expected bite and instead it was full of a wry, tired amusement. Martha gave something of a laugh, but it was strangled, like somebody had her by the throat. “Where're we going, Martha?” she asked again, gentle yet insistent.

“We're here,” the younger woman said rather than answer. Glancing out the window, Hartley tried to understand what was happening. They were on a small side road on the edge of a wide, sprawling field. The only building in sight, if you could even call it a building, was a small shack off to the side, hidden amongst a cluster of overgrown berry bushes and weeds.

“Where's _here_?” Hartley asked warily.

“Just, come on,” Martha murmured, turning off the engine and hopping from the beaten up car.

Hesitating, Hartley opened her door and stepped out into the night. The tall, dressy heels she'd slipped on for the evening sank several inches into the gluggy mud at her feet, and she gave a grimace as she pulled them back out with loud suction-like sounds.

“Come on,” Martha said again, waving her over. She was already standing by the shack, shivering in the bitingly cold night air. Hartley rubbed her hands against the exposed skin of her arms as she slurped her way over to her friend. Martha wrenched open the rickety old door with a foreboding creak, revealing what lay within the tiny shanty.

Hartley's shivering jaw dropped open, and she stared into the sight before her in utter disbelief.

A large, blue, wooden _police box_ sat before her, exactly like the one that drifted, quite often, through her subconscious – not to mention through John's persistent dreams and subsequent sketches. Heart in her throat, Hartley squelched her way forwards. She was in a daze, now barely even registering the icy brush of the northern wind against her unprotected skin.

She reached out with one hand, fingers trembling as she moved closer. Finally, her hand pressed against the smooth, cool wood. There was only one conclusion to make; the blue box was _real_.

“Martha,” Hartley began, voice holding a hint of a nervous wobble, “why is the police box from John's dreams sitting on the side of the road inside a shack in the North of Dublin?”

Martha stepped forwards, lifting a cord from around her neck. Hartley had noticed it before but never the pendant on the end, which she was now realising wasn't a pendant at all, but rather a sturdy silver key, glistening faintly in the moonlight before she slid it into the lock. The door cracked open, and Hartley realised she was holding her breath.

Martha held the door ajar, turning back to look at Hartley with utter solemnity. The professor was frozen, at a loss for what to do next.

“Well, go on then,” said Martha. “Go inside.”

“But it's just a box,” Hartley argued faintly. She didn't really believe that, and Martha knew it.

“Is it, though?”

She got the strangest sense that, should she walk through those doors, there would be no going back. She wasn't going to be able to continue life as though this – whatever _this_ was – had never happened. But could she really move forwards and just _not know_?

Swallowing around the nerves bubbling in her throat, Hartley squared her shoulders and forced her stubborn legs to cooperate, stepping inside the large blue box that she oddly felt dictated her entire – suddenly uncertain – future.

And, as she somehow knew it would be, it was absolutely bigger on the inside.

Thick columns of something like coral twisted up towards a domed ceiling. The floor consisted of metal grating and a ramp led up to a rounded console, covered in the most random cluster of buttons, switches and keyboards that Hartley had ever seen.

“It's called the TARDIS,” Martha's voice held a hint of pride.

“She.”

“What?” Martha asked, the light note in her voice suddenly gone. Blinking, Hartley frowned to herself. Martha sighed, loud and altogether resigned. “Well, I suppose that's just more proof of the walls coming down,” she said dully, as though Hartley had any idea what she was meant to be talking about.

She looked back up, meeting Hartley's eyes as she walked around to a small monitor attached to the console. “Martha, what's going on?” Hartley demanded, her patience slowly begin to wear thin. “How is this blue box _real_?”

“It's _all_ real,” Martha replied with a sigh too heavy for someone so young.

“It's _all_ real,” Hartley repeated slowly, much like a worn psychiatrist might repeat what their most troubling patient was saying, when explaining their vivid hallucinations.

Martha didn't blink. “Yes.”

“And, by _all,_ you mean...?”

“The TARDIS, the Doctor, you and I, the aliens, all of time and space at our fingertips,” Martha listed emphatically, a smile growing on her face just at the talk of it all. “It's all _real,_ Hartley.”

Squinting at her (possibly delusional) friend, Hartley considered what she was saying. It was complete and utter madness, of course, but there was _one_ piece of damning evidence that not even she could ignore. And they were standing inside of it.

How could Martha possess the bigger-on-the-inside time machine if it _wasn't_ all real? Surely it was evidence enough to warrant the benefit of the doubt.

“If this is all real, why don't I remember any of it – or John, for that matter?” she asked, leaning her hip against the edge of the console in a move that held a ghost of familiarity.

“There was this, this group of aliens,” Martha began to explain, while Hartley watched on with an impassive stare that was, for once, actually kind of intimidating, “they caught the Doctor's scent. If they fed on either of you, they could live for an eternity, and they'd wreak havoc across the stars.”

That certainly sounded terrifying enough, but Hartley was stuck on one particular thing Martha had let slip. “On either of us?” she asked thinly, her pulse speeding up as possibilities swirled in her brain, none of them too pleasing. “Why? Why am I in danger?” she demanded, voice shrill in her panic.

Martha's expression twisted, like whatever she was about to say next was starkly unpleasant. “When I tell you this, you have to promise to stay calm,” she finally said.

“You know, starting a sentence like that is a sure-fire way to make somebody _panic_ ,” she replied in the closest thing to a growl as she could manage.

“You're immortal,” Martha said in a rush, like ripping off a bandaid – which was usually her trick.

Hartley fell silent, staring at her friend blankly. Martha stared back, anxiety spread across her face. The older woman wasn't quite sure exactly how to react. The first thing she had to decide was whether or not she even believed what Martha was saying.

“I'm immortal,” she repeated, once again in that slow, patronising voice.

Martha huffed, frustrated. “Will you just come see for yourself?” she asked impatiently.

Cautiously, Hartley crossed her arms over her chest. “You're not going to try and kill me to prove yourself right, are you?” she asked warily.

“What? No,” Martha huffed again, waving her forwards. Reluctant but seeing no alternatives, Hartley clicked her way closer until she was stood beside Martha, facing the small monitor. She had to bite back a gasp at what she saw on it.

It was John, only he looked completely different; brighter, more confident, more alive, and above all, _happier_.

“That's the Doctor,” Martha told her, but she needn't have had to. “He left me this message before he changed.”

“Into John,” Hartley finished the unspoken part of the sentence for her.

“I think you should watch it,” Martha continued like she hadn't said anything, but that was probably for the best. She reached forwards, fiddling with a handful of knobs on the console before the video on the scanner began to play from the beginning.

“ _This working_?” the man on the screen asked, the man who quite clearly wasn't John Smith. He tapped on the lens, then continued on. “ _Martha, before I change, here's a list of instructions for when I'm human_. _One, don't let me hurt anyone. We can't have that, but you know what humans are like_ ,” he said, and something about the sentence was funny to Hartley. She had the strangest urge to giggle, although that may have just been the hysteria setting in. “ _Two, don't worry about the TARDIS. I'll put it on emergency power so they can't detect it. Just let it hide away. Four. No, wait a minute, three: No getting involved in big historical events,_ ” he barrelled ahead, and again she felt such an acute sense of familiarity it was almost painful. “ _Four, you. Don't let me abandon you. Five: Hartley._ ”

The woman in question gasped as her name was said. Up until that point she'd almost been able to pretend it were like some kind of film, a movie she was watching on telly. Now it was real, and the alien with John's face was staring into the camera like he could _see her._ It was equal parts thrilling and terrifying.

“ _I've altered her memories; everything about me, you, the TARDIS, all of it is gone. The last six years completely erased. I gave her new memories to replace them, but I didn't have much time so they're fragile at best – best not to go poking holes in them. Otherwise everything about her is the same. And we both know what she's like, so don't worry, she'll take care of you while I can't._ ”

Hartley's heart was in her throat, and she pressed her hand against it, holding on like she were trying to find traction in her own skin.

“ _She's still immortal, but now she's not broadcasting it on all frequencies like she was before. They won't be able to find her – and it's vital they don't. With my life force they could do damage, yes, but with_ hers _? They could wreak havoc across the stars. If something goes wrong, if they find her, or get close to it, you'll have to wake me up. But the walls might still fall, if this goes on long enough, or if those walls are pushed too hard. If they do fall, if she's distressed – show her this..._ ” he trailed off, seeming to prepare himself to say something important.

His demeanour suddenly changed, the look in his eyes softening, and Hartley's tongue suddenly felt too big for her mouth.

“ _Hart, if you're watching this, don't let them get to you_ ,” he said, his voice low and quiet, giving the illusion that the words being said were just between them. “ _They might not be able to kill you, but they can feed off of you for an eternity, a never ending cycle of death and rebirth – I think we both know which is a worse fate. So keep yourself safe. For me_.”

Hartley found herself obediently nodding along to the alien's wise words.

“ _Good_!” he exclaimed as though he knew she'd just agreed. “ _Now, where was I? Oh yes, six! Martha, don't let me eat any pears-_ ”

Martha reached forwards, turning a dial, and the video of the Doctor blurred as it sped up as she fast forwarded through the footage. “He talks about pears for longer than you'd think,” she told Hartley in a conspiratorial sort of tone, “then it's all 'don't tell anyone we're time travellers' and 'never drink cold milk on a hot day'.”

But Hartley was too shellshocked to take any of her words in. She drifted backwards in something of a daze, moving until her spine hit a metal railing, bringing her to an abrupt stop.

So it was true; it had to be. Either it was all _real_ or she was part of some crazy elaborate prank show – Punk'd 2.0? – and there were cameras filming her every move. For some reason, the latter suddenly seemed too far fetched to believe, leaving her with no alternative than to accept the utterly insane to be truth.

She was an immortal companion to an alien time traveller, and they lived in a blue police box that was bigger on the inside than the outside, and she'd had her memories wiped for the sake of the universe as they knew it.

“At least my name's really Hartley,” she muttered unthinkingly, and Martha gave a nervous laugh.

“Your last name isn't Dempsey, though,” she told her with an apologetic wince. Hartley's eyebrows rose, and Martha smiled, uncomfortable. “It's actually Daniels.”

“Hartley Daniels,” Hartley repeated, testing out the name on her tongue. “Not so bad, I s'pose,” she said in an attempt to keep things light. “Could be worse.”

There was a beat during which Hartley could count her own heartbeats in her ears. “So, did it work?” Martha finally asked, her voice quiet and meek.

“Did what work?” she asked dumbly.

“Do you have your memories back?”

Hartley was surprised at the question. In fact, if this was all as real as it seemed, then why on Earth had Martha even said anything at all? “But John – the Doctor, I mean – didn't he tell you _not_ to tell me? Wasn't that the whole point of this? To keep me in the dark for as long as possible?”

Martha winced. “I'm worried the Doctor might be in danger,” she admitted. “I don't want to risk it, and you're...” she trailed off unsurely.

“Expendable?” Hartley supplied hollowly.

Her friend's eyes went wide with surprise at the blatant callout. “No,” she said quickly, but Hartley got the niggling feeling that that wasn't quite the truth – at least, not in Martha's eyes.

“Why did you bring me here, Martha?” Hartley asked her, voice quiet and full of a patience that maybe the situation didn't deserve.

Martha's expression seemed to crumple. “I was scared, I s'pose,” she confessed. “Lonely, maybe.” Hartley could tell it was hard for her to admit it, and wondered whether that was because of her own reservations, or who she was admitting them to.

Hartley knew she had the right to be angry. Martha had brought her here out of a misguided selfishness, not stopping to think about the consequences. She was so scared of losing the Doctor that she was willing to put her in danger to keep him safe. Hartley wondered whether she would have done the same thing, had their roles been reversed.

For a moment she considered saying something, broaching the issue with Martha and calling her out on her selfish and thoughtless move. But confrontation just wasn't in Hartley's nature. Besides, Martha was feeling bad enough, she didn't need Hartley berating her like some kind of child.

“I don't remember anything,” she said instead, cool but compassionate.

Martha looked up from where she'd been frowning at the floor in dismay. “What do you mean?”

“Coming here, it wasn't enough to make me remember,” she told Martha quietly.

“But you believe me?” Martha sounded mystified.

Hartley gave the room a pointed glance. “This bigger-on-the-inside box is something of an irrefutable piece of evidence.”

Martha gave a tired kind of laugh. “You still sound like the real Hartley,” she said thoughtlessly, and Hartley grimaced. She didn't like the implication that who she was right then and there _wasn't_ real. It made her doubt the ground she stood on, doubt her sanity itself.

She was still struggling with certain aspects of the whole thing, her mind straining to grasp onto the concept laid before her. There were so many holes in the story, so many thousands of burning questions that so far went unanswered, but she knew that if Martha had told her everything _now_ then that must mean something had gone wrong.

“Wait, why tell me now?” she asked, unable to quell her desire for more answers. “What went wrong and scared you so much?”

Martha's shoulders were hunched in anxiety. “That meteorite we saw,” she told Hartley briskly.

“It _wasn't_ just a meteorite,” Hartley finished with an understanding nod, and Martha grimaced. “So, what do we do, then?” she spoke evenly, knowing the question had to be asked.

Martha reached for the controls again, pressing play on the recording of the Doctor. “ _And twenty three: if anything goes wrong, if they find us, Martha, then you know what to do. Open the watch. Everything I am is kept safe in there. Now, I've put a perception filter on it so the human me won't think anything of it. To him, it's just a watch. But don't open it unless you have to. Because once it's open, then the Family will be able to find us. And keep Hartley safe. Promise me that, please. It's all down to you, Martha. Your choice_ ,” he said with a note of finality, leaving the screen briefly before ducking back into sight. “ _Oh, and thank you,_ ” he finished, tossing them a wide, sweet, wholly charming smile that made Hartley's blood seem to thicken, her heart pumping wetly in her chest.

She swallowed again, glancing over at Martha. She looked stricken, staring at the image of the smiling Doctor with such intense yearning that it made Hartley's stomach roll.

“What do we do now?” she asked aloud, breaking Martha's stare at the screen with an undercurrent of satisfaction.

“We've got to get to the Doctor and open his fob watch,” she replied, squaring her shoulders like a woman on a mission. “It's the only thing we _can_ do.”

“Or else the Family will feed on him and wreak havoc across the stars,” Hartley echoed the repetitive words in a dull voice. A thought came to her, one that was anything but pleasant. “But, what happens to John?”

Martha, who was already shutting down the monitor in preparation to leave, turned to frown at her in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Well, we open the watch, the Doctor comes back, and then what happens to John?” she asked, slow and purposeful.

Martha didn't seem to understand. “I don't know, but it doesn't matter, we just need to get the Doctor back.”

“It doesn't _matter_?”

Martha sighed, heavy and tired, like Hartley was just a stubborn child trying to get her way. “John _is_ the Doctor – the Doctor _is_ John,” she explained with an undercurrent of impatience.

“But that's not completely true,” Hartley argued stubbornly, a sense of panic climbing within her. “I saw the Doctor, on the monitor just now. That man – alien, whatever – he _wasn't_ John. They're two completely separate personalities.”

Martha continued to frown, saying nothing, and so Hartley barrelled on.

“And if they're two different personalities, then it stands to reason that John will disappear into the Doctor once the watch is open. He'll be absorbed by the Doctor, and he'll cease to exist.”

The panic was growing in her chest, prickling along her skin like the flames of a fire licking at her nerves. “Hartley,” Martha sounded as stern as she'd ever heard her. She turned to look, mouth dry in her dread. “We don't have a _choice_ ,” she said, serious and imploring.

And Hartley knew this to be true. As much as she would give to stick her head in the sand and ride this out, waiting stubbornly for the danger to pass them over and leave them in their fake little bubble of peace, she knew it wasn't an option. Because she couldn't just do what was easy; she had to do what was _right_.

“Okay,” she conceded with a nod that made her head swim. “Okay, let's do this.”

Martha looked relieved, nodding her thanks before turning and heading for a door at the other end of the control room. “I'm going to quickly grab us some proper clothes – I have a feeling that these heels just aren't going to cut it, today.”

She disappeared through the doorway, leaving Hartley in an all-encompassing silence. It was somehow loud, ears ringing in the absence of sound. Wandering closer to the console, Hartley lifted a hand. Her fingers were still trembling and she idly wondered whether she might be going into shock.

Casting the thought from her mind, she edged closer until finally her fingertips brushed the cool metal of the console. The silence was suddenly gone, replaced by a warm humming that existed solely on the very edges of her consciousness. It was part sound, part memory, and it felt oddly like greeting an old friend.

She didn't know how long she stood there, basking in the comfort the presence brought, but it must have been awhile because Martha's footsteps on the grating broke through her daze, and she turned to see her carrying a small pile of clothes in her hands, two pairs of sneakers hooked onto her arm by the laces.

“Quick,” Martha said abruptly, splitting the pile in half and handing it to her. “Who knows how long we have? They might have already gotten to him by now,” she added anxiously, already pulling at her dress in her haste to get it off.

Hartley mimicked her, shedding her own simple dress and pulling on the scuffed up jeans, worn old shirt and simple yellow leather jacket. The jacket felt familiar, like it were something she'd worn before despite the fact that she couldn't remember ever having owned a yellow jacket in the first place. She'd felt this way before, about colours she'd seen or songs she'd heard; but in the end she could put it down to nothing but an inexplicable sense of deja vu.

She supposed that now there was an _actual_ explanation for this strange feeling; however farfetched that explanation may have been, aliens and all.

“We have to find the Doctor,” Martha said just as Hartley was finishing up tying her laces.

_John,_ Hartley wanted to correct her, but she knew in the end it was pointless. It was easier to handle the chill of the night with the jacket on, and the mud was far easier to navigate with chucks on instead of heels.

The door of the TARDIS clicked shut, and she felt a haunting sense of loss that she found she couldn't quite justify.

The first few minutes of the drive back were made in silence. Neither woman seemed to know what to say, and Hartley's thoughts were a whirlwind of disbelief and panic as desperately tried to come to terms with her new reality.

There were years upon years she couldn't remember; and years upon years she _could_ that weren't even real. She searched the furthest reaches of her mind, trying to grasp ahold of something, _anything_ that might have been from her real life, but she might as well have been trying to hold water in her hands. It slipped through her fingers, escaping capture, leaving her scared and wondering what about her was even _real._

“How are you doing?” Martha broke the silence first, staring resolutely through the windshield as she turned them onto the motorway.

Hartley looked up from where her head was resting on her fist, her eyes aimed unseeingly out the window. The glass sparkled mutedly under the shine of the streetlights, and Hartley thought it reminded her of the stars.

“As well as can be expected, considering I've just found out my entire life is a lie,” she replied, not so much bitter as she was just sad.

Martha didn't seem to know how to reply, grip tightening around the steering wheel as the tension spiked.

Feeling the need to fill the silence, Hartley gently scratched the back of her neck as she struggled to find something worthy to say. “Are we friends?” she finally asked, unable to stem her curiosity.

“Of course we are,” Martha said quickly – too quickly. There was a defensive note to her voice that told Hartley there was more to the story.

“In this other life, with this _other_ Hartley, you two are close?” she pressed stubbornly.

Martha's grip tightened on the wheel, her discomfort over the topic obvious. Hartley stared at her evenly, maddeningly patient. “It's...complicated,” Martha finally said, her words faint with hesitancy. Hartley continued to stare, waiting for her to elaborate. “Look, is now really the time to be going into it?” she snapped, changing gears with slightly more force than necessary. “We kind of have a universe to save.”

“Tell me, Martha.”

Martha inhaled deeply, then let it go with a heavy sigh. Hartley wondered what was so bad that she couldn't just say it, but she kept her lips sealed as she waited for Martha to speak up, letting her friend piece together her thoughts in her own time.

“I guess, sometimes I just feel like I need to compete with you,” she finally said, the words heavy with exhaustion. Hartley looked back at her in surprise, fighting to keep her expression impassive. “It puts kind of a strain on our relationship,” she admitted, shoulders slumped in tired defeat.

“Compete with me for what?”

“The Doctor's attention,” Martha said reluctantly, refusing to meet Hartley's probing gaze. Hartley didn't know how to respond to that so she remained silent, twisting her fingers together in her lap. “What's worse though is that it isn't even a competition – it never was.”

“I don't understand,” Hartley said before Martha could get too worked up.

“The thing is, he looks at you like you hung the bloody moon! Like you're a puzzle and a treasure and the absolute most beautiful creature he's ever seen, all in the same instant, and it _kills_ me that it's you and not me,” she blurted, and from across the seat Hartley could see the faintest hint of a shine to Martha's dark eyes. “And I _know_ that you were here first and that I have no right to feel this way; but it's so difficult when you're stunning and kind and sweet and maddeningly _perfect_ in every way, making me feel like a right sod for being so jealous. I'm nothing but a bumbling _troll_ beside you, and I just can't _stand_ it,” she huffed.

Hartley wasn't really sure what was happening. She could only stare at Martha in a mild state of shock, taking in her upset expression and hunched posture. She was breathing heavily, eyes just a little wild, and Hartley looked away with a feeling of guilt gnawing at her gut.

She wasn't sure what to say. How was she meant to tell Martha that her fears were unfounded when she really didn't know whether or not it was true? What words could she say in her amnesiac state that would be worth anything at all? She decided to stick with the bare bones of the matter.

“There's no point to comparing us,” she said, a sample statement if she'd ever heard one, but true all the same. “I might no have all my memories, but I know enough to know that I care about you, Martha. Don't let some _guy_ ruin what could be such a wonderful friendship.”

Martha gave a watery laugh, letting go of the wheel with one hand to rub delicately at her nose. “He's not just _some_ _guy_ ,” she argued, the words tinged with a bitter amusement. “He's _the_ _Doctor_ ,” she added, as though that was meant to mean something to Hartley.

She didn't even know who 'the Doctor' was. Martha spoke about him like he were some kind of superhero. Untouchable by human comprehension. How could one man be so great? What was so special about the Doctor? She wondered whether she'd ever really know.

“He's just an alien with a blue box, not William Shakespeare,” Hartley replied in an attempt to rationalise him.

Martha laughed again, less watery and more amused, finally looking away from the road to glance at Hartley, meeting her eyes through the shadowed cab of the car. “We've met him,” she said, a hint of impishness leaking into her voice.

Shock and delight gripped Hartley at once. She let out an audible gasp. “No,” she whispered, eyes wide, barely daring to believe it.

“Yes,” Martha was smiling now.

“Shakespeare?”

“He fancied me.”

“You're kidding.”

“Not in the slightest.”

Hartley let out a loud bark of hysterical laughter, the sound unhindered by tension. Martha laughed too, and gone was her previous sadness. There was a hint of something in the air, almost like Hartley could smell a sort of palpable emotion, or maybe taste was the better word to use. It sat right there, something just out of reach, not unlike her memories.

The two friends let the sound of their laughter fade away, drifting into a pleasant, companionable quiet.

“When you get your memories back, promise me that you'll do something about the Doctor,” Martha said gently, no hint of malice in her tone. Hartley might have even called it _acceptance._

“Something tells me it's more complicated than you're making it sound,” she replied, leaning back in the passenger seat and glancing out of the window once more, taking in the constellations spread across the sky in a stunning, comforting blanket.

“Maybe it is,” Martha allowed. “But that's not a good enough reason not to do something.” Hartley didn't have a good reply, so she kept her lips sealed. “You and the Doctor – I mean _John_ ,” she began again, tone holding a steely edge, like she were afraid of the answer, “is there anything there?”

In her mind's eye Hartley saw John's bright eyes and heard his awkward, sheepish stammering. She remembered the way her skin had prickled with awareness when they'd touched and the way her head had swum with his addictive scent when he'd lent her his shirt that first day in his office.

“How can there be?” she asked, staring up into the sky, longing to sink into the stars like they were a tangible sea. “He's not even real,” she said to remind both Martha and herself, but her voice sounded hollow even to her own ears. Nobody was convinced.

The sun was just beginning its ascent into the sky as they made their way back into town, the promise of a new day beginning; although, to Hartley, it only held the distinct bittersweetness of an ending. They decided to head straight for the university, knowing it was their best bet for finding John as quickly as possible.

Only, the closer they got to the university, the more they began to realise something was very, very wrong. People were sprinting in the opposite direction as quickly as they could, both by car and foot, looks of terror on their faces.

“What's going on?” Hartley asked in a breathy voice, eyes wide as she watched a woman holding her small dog protectively to her chest. There were tears in her eyes as she ran, seemingly for her life.

“Nothing good,” Martha said grimly, pulling the car around a corner, revealing a line of people, all holding large weapons on their hands, firing mercilessly at the main building of the university. “Bloody hell!” cried Martha, the car coming to a stop with a piercing squeak of the brakes.

It was like they'd pulled into a war zone. Stray blasts were firing left and right, innocent people screaming and running for cover. It was a shock to their systems, and Hartley, who couldn't remember experiencing something like it before, felt like she could barely breathe from the panic of it all.

Even still, despite her apparent inexperience, she didn't hesitate to throw herself from the barely-stopped vehicle and dart over to a small huddle of students, relying on an some kind of an instinct she couldn't remember ever having before.

“Head for cover!” she shouted at them over the chaos. They gave terrified shrieks as an energy blast made contact with the car behind them, its shrill alarm penetrating the air like a bullet. “Go! Now!” she yelled, and with shouts of fear they darted away, heading for a cluster of buildings over the road where they might have been able to take shelter.

“Hartley!” screamed Martha from behind her, a shower of rubble raining down on them from the building above. Hartley dived to the side, narrowly avoiding what would have been a severe concussion. “Hartley – we need to find the Doctor!”

“ _Come out, come out, Time Lord_!” yelled one of the creatures holding the weapons, but Hartley didn't have a good enough view to see what it looked like. It sounded human – but then again, so did the Doctor. There was another blast as the North Wing of the university exploded with a bang and a downpour of debris. “ _We won't ever stop. We'll just keep killing and killing until you give yourself over to us_!”

Thinking quickly and clearly, like she'd operated under these sort of circumstances before – like it were in her _blood_ – Hartley took charge, spinning to face Martha with the kind of determination she couldn't ever remember having. But that was the key word, wasn't it? _Remember._

“You need to keep helping people to safety,” she said in a rush, ducking down as an energy blast flew by her head. Her pulse raced and her every cell felt alive, like her body thrived on this kind of pressure. “I'll go find John!” she shouted over a chorus of screaming bystanders.

Hartley could tell Martha desperately wanted to argue, but she knew when not to push the point. “You need to get the watch,” she said, voice raised over the loud sounds filling the courtyard. “Get the watch, and get him to open it. It's the only way!”

The thought of exactly what that meant made Hartley feel sick, so she merely shouting, “stay safe!” before turning and legging it towards the front entrance to the university.

“ _Come now, Doctor. How many more will you let die in your place_?” sneered one of the aliens. A hot explosion of energy flew by Hartley's face and she leapt lithely out of the way. The air was full of dust, and she coughed as she fought to worm her way into the building through the collapsed doorway.

The inside was full of cowering people, students and teachers alike huddled together in fear. Every instinct in Hartley told her to stop, to help soothe their wounds and make sure they were okay, but there was just no time. She knew her best bet was to get to John – the Doctor – and have him save them all. Her stomach turned at the thought of what she was about to do.

“John!” she shouted, barrelling through the labyrinthine hallways of the building. It was clear the aliens hadn't started with the outside – they'd come inside first, probably in search of John – leaving nothing but destruction and pain in their wake. “John!” she screamed again, stepping clumsily over an older professor she recognised as head of the business wing, coughing as he bled heavily from his head.

“Hartley?!” she finally heard that wonderful voice shout back. She whipped around in time to see John barrel towards her, panic pasted across his handsome face, a smear of dirt on his sharp cheekbone. “Hartley!” he cried, staggering towards her. His dirty hands grasped either side of her face, holding it with the utmost care, concern shining in his warm brown eyes. “Are you okay?” he asked tightly. “What are you doing here? I thought you went home!”

“I had to come back for you!” she cried, reaching up to wrap her smaller hands delicately around his wrists.

The look in his eyes was as soft as it was panicked. “Hartley-” he began, but there was a crash from outside and she knew there was no time for that.

“We need to get to your office,” she told him hurriedly, and he frowned at her in confusion, letting go of her face and stepping back. She gripped his hand, already beginning to pull him in the direction of his boxy little office.

“What? No, Hartley, we need to get out of here!” he argued, but she remained obstinate, yanking him through the broken hallways. “They think it's real!” he tried a different tactic, once he knew she wasn't going to give in. “The dreams, everything – they think it's all _real_!” he cried. “How do they even _know_ about it?”

The door to his office was left largely untouched and Hartley shoved her way through, dragging a bewildered John in after her.

The watch was sitting there on his desk, seemingly just as innocuous and unimportant as ever, but now Hartley knew how wrong she'd been about that. She couldn't quite bring herself to touch it, not yet. She needed to talk with John just for a moment longer.

Turning back around, she looked upon him, taking in the way his eyes sparkled with fear and wariness in the early morning sunlight spilling in through the window. The colour of his irises was a beautiful honey gold in the glow of the rays, and she felt her own eyes burn with tears, an intense self-hatred curdling in her gut.

Could she really do this? Could she really _ask_ him to do this?

“Why do I get the feeling you know what's going on?” John asked in a quiet, reluctant voice, staring back at her with shining eyes, scared beyond measure but forcing himself to be brave. She realised, suddenly, that she loved that about him. “Who are those people? What do they want?” he whispered, as though if he spoke any louder they might find them.

Taking a deep breath, Hartley grit her teeth and spoke the words she knew would change everything. “The Doctor is real,” she said shortly, voice breaking over the alien's name. John froze, staring at her with wide eyes. “It isn't just a dream. He is _real._ His TARDIS is _real._ His life is _real_.”

“Why're you saying that?” he demanded. The fear within him became a palpable thing, like she could reach out and grab ahold of it. “Why would you say that, Hartley? This isn't funny!”

“But it's true,” she said, fighting to keep her voice even. Turning, she swiped the fob watch from his desk. At her touch it seemed to hum, vibrating with hidden life, and her skin warmed where it had brushed against the smooth metal. “The Doctor – he's here, inside this watch,” she told him, holding out the watch with a trembling hand. “All you have to do is open it, then the Doctor can come back and save us all,” she said, her voice cracking again over the Doctor's name.

“ _Come out, come out, wherever you are, Time Lord_!” a sneering voice echoed from all around them, amplified somehow, in a way that wasn't normal. Both Hartley and John flinched at the sound. Scared, she extended the hand holding the watch, gesturing for him to take it.

He eyed her carefully then took the watch in his hand, staring down at it with unmistakeable contempt. “Say this _is_ real,” he began, still staring at the watch with a glimmer of both fear and hatred, “say this is really, _actually_ happening...what happens to me when I open it?”

Inhaling sharply at the question she'd rather he didn't ask, Hartley struggled to find a good answer. “Martha says you're already him, that you're not even real, just a stand in made up to hold the Doctor's place,” she said weakly. “You'll just...have your memories back and that's that.”

“Martha says...” he echoed her bitterly, looking up at her, the golden light spilling through the window not softening him any longer but instead sharpening him, like flames of a fire were licking out at her from inside his very soul. She nearly stepped back from the heat of it. “And what do you believe?”

Searching for the right response, Hartley floundered. “I think...” she trailed off unsurely.

“Don't lie to me,” he begged, so suddenly her eyes widened. Looking back to him, she took in his hunched shoulders and drawn, imploring expression. “Not now, not after everything.”

Running a hand through her hair, Hartley tried not to allow the distress to overtake her. “I believe you're real,” she whispered, arms coming up to wrap around her middle like she were trying fruitlessly to glue the broken pieces of herself back together. “How could you _not_ be when I...” she trailed off again, unable to make herself finish the thought.

“When you what?” John asked, hope tinging his lovely voice. Hartley's heart began to ache from how fast and heavy it was beating in her chest.

She wanted to say it, wanted to be brave, but what did it matter in the end? What was the point in being brave when all it would get her was pain and misery? John wasn't going to stay, he had to go, for the sake of all mankind. To save the universe, she had to lose John – she had to lose _herself._

“It doesn't matter,” she muttered resentfully, turning away, finding it too hard to even look at him.

“It does,” he argued, stepping close enough to her that all the breath was pushed from her lungs by his proximity. In a casual, careless move, John tossed the watch back onto the desk like it were nothing but a worthless trinket. It landed with a loud thump, but neither turned to look at it. “It matters to me.”

“John,” she whispered. “What's the point in saying anything now? Won't it only bring us...” she wavered, unsure if she should even say the word, but ultimately knowing she'd regret it if she didn't, “won't it only bring us _heartache_?”

John's expression grew determined, fierce in a way she'd yet to see from him. “I don't know how this... _Doctor_ feels,” he spat the name with disdain, like the very sound of it offended him. “But whatever he feels for you, it won't compare to what _I_ feel for you.”

Tears sprang into her eyes. In that moment, it didn't matter what truth was. For now, there was just the two of them, holed away in their own little bubble, oblivious to the chaos that reality held around them. “We barely know one another,” she argued, the words weak at best. She squeezed her middle tighter, begging her eyes to stop watering.

“It doesn't matter,” he said, resolute. “I know you. I _know_ you.” He spoke with such conviction it hurt to hear, and a tear escaped her eye, trailing down her cheek slowly, leaving a cool trail of wetness behind. “I don't trust him with you,” he told her, ducking his head so their eyes were level, distractingly close.

Without thought her arm snapped out, fingers curling around the material of his blazer, clutching it in a white-knuckled grip. She used him to steady herself, to keep herself from tipping over as her head swam with his presence.

“I saw him,” she whispered, scared her voice would fail her. “On a monitor. He spoke to me, smiled at me. He cares. He really does, I can tell.”

John's eyes remained steely, but there was a softness to his mouth, a gentle acceptance that took her breath away. “Do you care about him more than me?” he asked with quiet curiosity. “Would you rather him than me?”

“No!” she denied it, almost too quickly, and she began to second-guess her answer. “I mean, I don't know,” she muttered weakly, fingers clutching tighter at his shirt, desperate for traction. “It's a complicated situation. What's happening now – this isn't even _real_ ,” she said in a pained whisper.

“It's real,” he argued instantly, hands coming up once more to cradle her face.

She closed her eyes and leant into his warm, calloused hands, feeling her skin prickle with that familiar awareness. She knew he was right. In some way, in some shape or form, this was _real_. Even if it was only temporary.

But weren't _all_ real things temporary? Nothing lasts forever. Not even love.

“It's real,” he said again, leaning in so his forehead touched against hers.

“It's real,” she echoed helplessly, reaching up again to grasp at his wrists, holding on tight.

“We can stay here,” he told her. It was an empty promise and they both knew it.

“Sure,” she gave a feeble laugh. Reluctantly opening her eyes, she looked into his shining with strong, stubborn emotion. “John,” she breathed, staring up at him wetly, and almost like he just couldn't help himself he pressed forwards and sealed their lips together.

His lips were chapped but still warm and soft, the pressure he gave had an edge of desperation, and she responded without hesitation. His hands left their place on her face, one sliding down her side to clutch at her waist, fingers splayed against the small of her back; the other slid into her hair, fingertips scraping against her scalp in a way that made her gasp into his mouth.

She wondered if she'd ever kissed the Doctor, in this other life of theirs.

Moving her hands to his neck, she held on tight and pushed herself upwards so the angle was changed. Her entire body was humming with energy, buzzing with hyper-awareness and undeniable excitement. It was addictive, the drag of his lips against hers, and her heart raced until finally she had to pull away to breathe.

John was panting just like she was, recovering from the long minutes without air. They remained intimately entwined, too frightened that if they let go they might never be able to latch on again.

There was a loud explosion from outside, one the shook the very floor beneath their feet, and Hartley gasped, thrown against John who fought to steady them before they fell to the floor. “Now, I have to _lose_ you,” she said, voice breaking over the word as she opened her eyes to look up at him.

“I don't have to go,” he said abruptly, desperate.

“But you do. It's the only way.”

“We can give them the watch!” he exclaimed, voice full of a renewed hope that made her wary.

“We can't,” she shook her head, clutching tighter to him, voice and eyes imploring.

“Why not?!”

“With what's inside that fob watch, they could wreak havoc across the stars, John,” she told him, echoing the words that had been said to her so many times in the last day that it was beginning to wear on her soul. “We'd be dooming the universe.”

“So?” he countered, stubborn to the end. Was the Doctor this stubborn? How much of the Doctor was part of John, and vice versa? She stared into his eyes, wondering if they would change too. “We'd be together,” said John, a last-ditch effort to hold onto the illusion they'd put themselves in.

No matter how much she might have wanted to stay in this mirage they'd created, she knew they just couldn't. “Not at this cost,” she shook her head again. “I won't do it.”

The fight left him, shoulders slumping with defeat. “I know,” he said, acceptance in his whisky eyes. “That's why he loves you.”

Her heart stuttered in her chest. “We don't know that,” she whispered breathlessly.

John gave a sad, wry kind of smile and simply said, “I do. Because how could he not?”

The words gave her butterflies, and she ducked her head so it rested on his collarbone, breathing in his scent – fresh grass and parchment. It was nice but at the same time _wrong,_ like something deep within her knew that wasn't how he was supposed to smell.

She supposed that, now, there was an explanation for that, too.

Another explosion rocked the university and their grip on one another tightened, knowing their time was coming to an end. “Will you stay with me?” he asked in her ear, a vulnerability to his voice that made her insides twist with pain. “Even when I'm _him;_ will you stay?

She pulled back enough to look into his endless brown eyes. “For all of time,” she swore, meaning it more than she'd ever meant anything.

John swallowed loudly, staring back at her despondently. She could see the regret in his eyes, like in that moment he were wishing he could do so many things differently. She wondered whether any of it would have made a difference.

“I'll see you soon,” he finally promised as he reached around her onto his desk, picking up the watch and holding it in his quaking hand.

“I'll see you soon,” she said, but it was a lie. Once the Doctor came back John Smith would be all but dead. She would never see him again, and they both knew it.

He looked so scared, like a child facing off with the monster in his closet. Unable to help herself, she drew him in again, pressing a chaste kiss to his trembling lips. She pushed all of the warmth and affection she felt for him into the kiss, letting him know he mattered to her, and that she _cared_.

She cared so much it hurt, and she always would.

She pulled away, blinking up into his sad eyes. And then suddenly the room was filled with a glow more golden than even the morning sun could ever achieve. Sparks of some kind prickled across her sensitive skin, and Hartley had to step back, holding a hand to her eyes as John was encased by the light.

It was rather anticlimactic, over within only a few short heartbeats.

The man before her sighed. Not wanting to look at him, Hartley kept her watering eyes firmly shut, refusing to open them for anything, too afraid of seeing the brave new world in front of her.

“Hartley,” said the Doctor, his voice different. Confident and deep; heavy, holding the weight of unthinkable knowledge, of unimaginable emotion. Emotion for _her._ Her lower lip quivered, and she balled her hands into fists, nails biting into the skin of her palms. “Hart,” he said, and she felt the atmosphere shift as he leaned closer.

Inhaling sharply, she was far too afraid now to look. She dropped her head into her hands, biting down on her tongue to put off the sobs that were growing painfully in her throat, like a bubble expanding, waiting to burst.

“Hart,” he tried again, voice wrecked, as if her reaction was causing him physical pain.

Before she could decide what to do an explosion, bigger than any other that morning, rocked the building.

The Doctor sighed, saying something in a different language that could have only been a curse. “I have to go,” he said, frustrated by the circumstances they found themselves in.

“Give them back,” she finally said, wrenching open her eyes to look at him. The golden glow was gone, leaving nothing but the Doctor, the alien, the Time Lord, in its stead. He looked exactly like John. Physically there was no difference – but then she looked into his eyes. They were so old, ancient and deep and full of a million different emotions, it was impossible to pick out even a single one.

She didn't know who this was, but she did know that John was gone now, never to return. “What?” the Doctor asked, confused by her demand.

“My memories,” she said, her voice holding a steely, pain-filled edge that made him wince. “Give them back to me.”

“I don't have time-” he began to say.

“ _Now,_ ” she demanded, another tear trickling down her cheek, dropping silently from her rounded chin. She tried to hold herself together even through her teary eyes and defeated posture. She wanted to look strong. She wanted to _be_ strong. “Give them back, _now_ ,” she said, jaw clenched as she stared at him, refusing to break the contact.

The Doctor took a moment, his eyes flickering between hers until finally he nodded, stepping closer with his hands outstretched. She flinched away from him out of instinct. The Doctor froze, pain appearing in those boundless eyes, horrified by the fleeting movement.

She was surprised by her own actions, but she could do no more than cringe. Leaning forwards she deliberately met his eyes once again and nodded for him to continue.

Still looking disgusted in himself the Doctor gingerly moved forwards, fingers outstretched towards her head. He paused just before touching her, looking deeply into her eyes and saying with a strong, genuine sincerity, “I'm sorry.”

Then his fingers touched her temples and the last thing she saw was his expression of remorse before everything went dark. She welcomed the darkness as a relief from the pain, and then she remembered.


	41. Nowhere Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note: obviously I wasn't at Shea Stadium in 1965, so I can't know the exact layout and vibe of the event. Everything I know comes from copious amounts of research, but even that isn't infallible. To any diehard Beatles fans, if I got something wrong, I just wanna sincerely say: my bad.
> 
> And if you wanna check out the song that inspired this chapter, it's called Nowhere Man by – you guessed it – the Beatles. It makes me think of the Doctor. Fun fact: the setlist for this concert is real, I didn't alter it in any way. And it worked out nicely for me! You'll see what I mean...
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

**NOWHERE MAN**

“ _We all do things we desperately wish we could undo. Those regrets_

_just become part of who we are, along with everything else. To spend_

_time trying to change that, well, it's like chasing clouds._ ”

Libba Bray

* * *

When Hartley woke up it was to find she was laid on her bed in the TARDIS, her thick duvet tucked tightly around her body. She was warm and safe and happy for about ten seconds, silently enjoying the TARDIS' gentle hum in the back of her mind and the smell of her favourite candle wafting throughout the room.

The memories didn't all hit her at once, but rather trickled across her mind one after the other, like grains of sand falling through an hourglass.

There was no loud gasp of realisation or a groan of despair or even a cry of frustration. There was just silence as she stared up at the ceiling, eyes stinging with tears she refused to shed.

She was stronger than that. She would be okay. Everything would be okay.

She wasn't sure how long she lay there, staring upwards, lost in her dulled thoughts, caught between a horrible blend of sadness and self-loathing. Finally, she could take it no more. Hartley forced herself out of bed. She wasn't going to hide in her room as though she'd done something wrong, and there was one place on the TARDIS she knew she could go that would make her feel better no matter the situation.

Changing from the jeans and jacket she'd fallen unconscious in, she pulled on some loose grey pants and a blue cardigan. Glancing in the mirror she noted that, with sloppy hair and makeup a day old, she wouldn't be walking any runways anytime soon, but for the TARDIS library, it was absolutely perfect.

The walk was silent, no sign of Martha or the Doctor anywhere. She wasn't sure how long she'd been out for, so her companions really could have been – quite literally – anywhere. She was glad for the space, however, navigating the corridors towards the library in peace.

Shelves towered over her, reaching up towards a ceiling so high up she could barely even see it.

“ _Do you have every book ever written, in here?” she'd asked the first time she'd stepped foot inside of the massive, sprawling room._

_The Doctor, at the time all big ears and leather, had scoffed like she'd asked the most stupid question in the whole of history. “Of course not,” he'd told her as he'd flipped through a large book off to the side, filled with circular writing that the TARDIS didn't seem to be able to translate. Or maybe it could, and it just didn't_ want _to.“These are just my favourites,” he'd added, waving a hand at the endless stacks piled high with books behind him._

“ _These are all your favourites?” she had gawked, her delight written clearly across her soft features._

“ _Well, I had to narrow it down a bit, of course,” he'd said with a hint of defensiveness, pulling out a ridiculous looking feathered quill and dipping it in some ink, beginning to write on a spare sheet of paper to his right._

“ _Can I read them?” she'd asked hopefully._

“ _What, all of them?” he'd countered doubtfully._

“ _A girl can dream,” she'd replied, staring up at the high shelves with thinly-veiled adoration. He'd eyed her thoughtfully for a long few moments before tutting to himself and returning to his work._

It was a fond memory, she found. Most of her memories in the TARDIS were; most of the ones with the _Doctor,_ were. Sure, there'd been a time when he'd seemed to resent her, a time when she showed him a side of the universe he'd have really have forgotten. But somehow she'd always been able to see through the act, see into his hearts of hearts – which were just damaged, lashing out at anything even remotely happy.

Because who deserved to be _happy_ after the Time War? He'd lost everything, so why should someone else get to smile?

Hartley wound her way through the stacks, heading towards the little den that hid in the very back of the room. It was her favourite place to curl up and read, and she realised now that it had been months since she'd had the chance. With deep, comfy couches and a crackling fire that was always lit, it was like her own perfect little slice of heaven. It gave her a strange feeling of sadness and familiarity, like it was something she'd been missing without knowing.

She stopped by her favourite section on the way, running her fingertips over the titles of the novels sat on the shelves, trying to decide which one to pick. She wanted something that was a distraction, something that could take her from this reality and thrust her into a new one. One where her troubles seemed insignificant.

After a moment of searching she pulled out _Lord of the Rings_ , holding the leather-bound pages up to the light. Memories of their adventure with Tolkien flooded her mind and although they were good memories, happy ones, just the thought of the Doctor alone was enough to make her chest hurt and her insides tie themselves up into knots.

Slotting the novel back into its place, Hartley kept searching until she pulled out _Frankenstein._ Looking over the navy blue of its traditional cover, Hartley nodded to herself, moving through the shelves until she reached her favourite little nook. Nestling into the corner of the soft, deep auburn couch, she threw a nearby blanket over her feet and settled in to read.

Hartley was a fast reader, getting through nearly half the book in about an hour. She was only just beginning to consider getting up for some tea when she heard footsteps approaching her sanctuary, the sound dull against the carpeted floor, but foreboding all the same.

Her body tensed in the instinctual fight-or-flight, but she took a deep breath and forced herself to relax. With fear in her heart, she turned to see who it was.

She found herself unsurprised to find the Doctor stood before her, gripping a mug of steaming tea in his hand. He'd used her favourite mug, but he was holding it gingerly, like he wasn't sure she wouldn't knock it from his hand in a fit of rage.

She noticed right away that he was dressed like himself again, donning his familiar navy blue suit, his scuffed, cream coloured chucks on his feet. His expression was cautious, unsure how she was going to react to his presence. She wasn't totally certain, either. She couldn't seem to manage a smile, but she did slip a bookmark into her place and set the novel aside.

“I made you some tea,” he said needlessly as she turned towards him. He held out the steaming blue mug like a peace offering. She sat up and took it from his hands, taking great care not to brush his skin with her own.

She thanked him quietly, retreating back into her warm little nook, curling her legs up like a protective barrier between them and holding her tea in two hands. The mug was hot but she enjoyed the burn against her palms. Blowing on the liquid inside, she took a small sip, pleased to find it was made exactly as she liked it.

The Doctor remained standing, hands now shoved deep into his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels like he always did when he was feeling particularly awkward or uncomfortable.

“Please sit down,” she begged him, still curled in her safe little ball. “You're making me nervous.”

He sat down, practically collapsing onto the couch beside her. His fidgeting didn't stop once he was seated, however. He continued to twist his hands together, quite literally _twiddling his thumbs._

She wondered whether he was planning on talking at all. Had he come in with the intention to talk but lost his nerve? That certainly didn't sound like him.

In the end she was the one to break the silence, unable to handle the awkwardness they were steeped in. “Are you okay?” she asked him, the words gentle, eyes glinting in the warm firelight.

The Doctor turned to look at her so sharply that she startled, nearly sloshing the tea from her mug in surprise. “Am _I_ okay?” he asked loudly, incredulous. Hartley was nonplussed by the strong reaction but she did no more than stare back at him, waiting for him to elaborate. “Hartley, I can't – I can't even _begin_ to apologise.”

She frowned, confusion swirling in her head. “Apologise?” she asked, grappling to understand.

“To take advantage of you like that is…it's _inexcusable,_ ” he told her, serious and imploring, but Hartley's entire brain function had ceased. She stared at him blankly, struggling to piece together what he was talking about. “I can only hope you'll be able to forgive me. I wasn't in my right mind, or even _my_ mind at all. Still, I should have put in safeguards, something that would have prevented any such mistake from happening-”

“Shut up.”

She hadn't even meant to say anything, but still the rather rude exclamation left her lips before she could stop it. The Doctor froze where he sat, falling blessedly silent. He watched her carefully, like he wasn't sure she wasn't about to explode on him.

Anger and embarrassment mixed together and hardened like cement in her veins. Her mind raced, spinning at what felt like a thousand miles an hour. She could barely make sense of her own thoughts. Was he apologising for kissing her? For everything that had happened between her and John? Apologising for this _mistake_? Was _that_ what was happening right now?

Then again, what else were they to call it? What else could it be, other than a mistake? It certainly wasn't something intentional, or anything to be celebrated. This could potentially change everything. And it was up to them whether or not they would let it.

She hadn't given it much thought since waking up, what this would mean for her relationship with the Doctor. And there was one question that needed answering before all others.

“Were they us?” she asked. The Doctor was stunned by the blunt question. “She _felt_ like me. She still does,” she admitted, quiet and introspective. Glancing back up at him, she found him to be watching her with careful, cautious eyes. “Was he you?” she pressed when he didn't answer.

The Doctor's expression twisted in dismay. “In a sense,” he said hesitantly.

“Don't do that,” she begged. “For once, please, just give me a straight answer. I think I deserve that much.”

He knew she was right, she could tell. He knew she needed the kind of reassurance that came only from the truth. And he found he couldn't deny her that. Not today, not ever.

“At his core, he was me,” he said, voice strained as he turned to stare into the fire, the reflection of the flames dancing in the shine of his eyes. She tightened her grip on her mug, waiting patiently for him to go on. “The Chameleon Arch needed something to build on. But everything that mattered, everything linking me to myself, to my Time Lord biology, was removed and stored in the watch.”

But this didn't really clear anything up for her. “And what did that leave?”

“The most basic level wants and needs. The things written into my very genetic makeup; thought patterns, morals...feelings...” he trailed off, made uncomfortable by the direction the conversation was heading.

Hartley was perfectly quiet, digesting his words slowly and staring down into her cooling tea as she processed what he'd said. Did that mean he had... _feelings_ for her? Was that what he meant? Was this some kind of profession of love? Just the thought itself had the breath rushing from her lips, as if somebody had forcefully drawn out all the air from her lungs, leaving her utterly breathless.

She'd loved John – or, at the very least, she thought she _could_ have loved John, given time. And maybe that was the worst part; all that lost potential.

And yet everything she'd felt during those months in Dublin, it all paled in comparison to even one moment of her real life, her real _self_ , on the TARDIS with the Doctor. It was exposing, and her skin crawled with how wholly vulnerable she suddenly felt. Wasn't it obvious how she felt now?

If no-memory-Hartley had fallen for human-John, didn't that surely mean that regular-Hartley felt the same, if not more strongly, for the alien-Doctor? Was it blatantly obvious? Surely it was to him, even if not to herself. The Doctor may have been oblivious, but he wasn't an idiot.

It was enough to send her mind into circles and she shut her eyes against the abrupt feeling of dizziness that swept over her like a wave. She inhaled slowly, grinding her teeth together as she desperately tried to think of something, anything, to say. Did she run them into unfamiliar waters, or did she do what they always did and brush it off, moving onto the next thing, never once looking back to assess the damage left behind?

It always went unspoken; and when it came down to it, that was what it was, an unspoken thing, hovering between them like a forcefield, like a rubber band stretched to its limits. And right now, it was threatening to snap. Should she let it?

In the end she must have taken too long to reply, because the Doctor was the one to break the silence. “Anyway,” he said in a tone of clear dismissal, forcefully breaking the tension.

Panic gripped her and she quickly set aside her tea, depositing the mug on the table with enough force that the liquid inside sloshed over onto the table, but she didn't care. Moving quickly she crossed the distance between them and all but threw herself against his side.

He gave a muffled grunt of surprise at the sudden contact, catching her at the awkward angle, wrapping his arms around her to keep her from toppling off the couch all together.

She didn't even care, pressing her face into his chest as she nuzzled into him, basking in his cool temperature and his wonderful scent and the low, pleasant buzzing of her skin when they touched.

“I don't want things to change,” she mumbled into his shirt, finding speaking to be much easier now that she couldn't see his face.

He held her tighter, one hand moving up to press against her head. The movement was absentminded, and it made her feel safe in a world that she knew was anything but. “Neither do I,” he murmured with a hesitancy that made her wonder.

“So, we're in agreement, then,” she said, trying to keep the awkwardness she felt from leaking into her voice.

“Seems we are,” he said, and she felt his chin tap her head as he nodded.

“Good.”

“Great.”

They fell back into that slightly-uncomfortable silence. It wasn't a confession of feelings _per se,_ but for anyone reading between the lines there was a lot that had been confessed in the short, hesitant exchange.

Hartley frowned into the Doctor's dress shirt. She didn't want to move, she just wanted to bask in the Doctor's presence and pretend that everything was totally, completely and utterly fine.

Adjusting herself into a more comfortable position, her legs angled across the unoccupied end of the sofa, Hartley moved so her head was in the Doctor's lap. She closed her eyes and hid a smile as his hand automatically began to card through her loose hair.

She let herself succumb to the feeling of peace that enveloped them. The crackling fire and the feeling of fingers running through her hair was almost enough to send her to sleep. But she stayed awake, not wanting to miss a moment of the little slice of heaven she'd been handed, trying desperately to convince herself that it wasn't merely the calm before the storm.

* * *

They did nothing the next day, too; just drifted listlessly in empty space. The Doctor said it was because he needed time to calibrate the something-or-other, but Hartley knew he was just trying to give her time to recover.

She wanted to tell him she didn't need time to be idle, that what she needed most was to run away from some monsters in an attempt get things back to normal. But something stopped her from saying as much. Because maybe it wasn't just _her_ reeling from their stint in Dublin; maybe _he_ needed time to recover as well.

She decided to spend the day in the kitchen. After collecting a rather large pile of cookbooks from the library, she set up in her second favourite room on the TARDIS and got started. She was in a baking sort of a mood.

Martha found her some five hours later, led there either by the scent of cinnamon wafting throughout the halls or by the TARDIS' gentle nudges in her direction.

“Smells good,” said Martha, and Hartley startled at the sudden sound, whipping around to reveal the flour dusting her face and the mess of her sugar-coated apron.

“Oh,” she said, taking a few steps to the left and turning down the music pouring from the jukebox in the corner – something folky and lighthearted. “Hey,” she greeted Martha with a small smile. “I hope you have a sweet tooth.”

She gestured to the trays and trays of baked goods lining nearly every visible surface of the room. Martha's eyebrows hiked up at the sheer quantity of food in sight. “How're we meant to eat all of this?” she asked, a little incredulous.

“Oh, there's no way,” Hartley replied as she went back to cracking eggs into a bowl. “We'll just keep enough for us three and give the rest away.”

“Give it away?” Martha frowned in confusion. “To who?”

“We'll just land near a food bank and let them deal it out,” Hartley told her distractedly.

Martha didn't say anything for a moment, but Hartley did her best to politely keep out of her emotions, instead focusing on mixing her batter together. “That something you do often?” Martha finally asked. “Give food to the poor?”

Understandably bewildered by the question, Hartley turned to look at her in confusion. “Uh, yeah?” she said hesitantly, feeling for some reason like it were the wrong answer.

Martha sighed in something like defeat. “Of course you do.”

Hartley was confused until her mind supplied her with a recent memory: the conversation her altered-self and Martha had had in the car only a few days beforehand, when they'd been on their way to save John and the rest of the universe entirely.

Hartley looked away, feeling suddenly embarrassed. She remembered now with perfect clarity what Martha had said; about feeling as if they were in competition with one another. As if she couldn't compare to how 'perfect' Hartley seemed. It hurt, although she knew it probably shouldn't have.

She wondered how to broach the subject; because there was no way they could leave it unaddressed. She didn't want it to fester into something ugly, like a guillotine hanging over their – admittedly tenuous – friendship.

“I'm not perfect, y'know,” she began casually. Martha froze where she'd been reaching for one of Hartley's red velvet muffins. There was a beat, then she picked one up, holding it in cautious hands. She was silent, waiting for Hartley to continue. “I know that I'm nice; but _anyone_ can be nice. It's not like kindness makes you special,” she said with a low scoff.

Martha didn't agree. “It does, though,” she argued, leaning her back against the countertop, toying with the muffin in her hands. “It comes so naturally to you,” she whispered, eyes on the crimson treat she held. “It shines through you like a light.”

Hartley frowned as she felt the pulse of pain that came along with the words. She wiped her hands on a tea towel and turned to look at Martha properly. “Kindness shines through _you_ like a light, too, Martha,” she told her, honest as could be.

But Martha wasn't convinced. Hartley decided to try another tactic.

“The Doctor chooses his friends with great care,” she said softly, leaning against the bench beside her, snatching up one of the muffins for herself and tearing off a piece, plopping it onto her tongue. “You wouldn't be here if he didn't see something amazing in you. Something worthy. Something beautiful.”

“Yeah, but…” Martha didn't seem to be able to put her swirling thoughts into words. Hartley wasn't about to put words in her mouth, keeping silent and letting her piece it together herself. “I just feel so inferior, all the time,” Martha finally whispered.

Hartley knew in that moment that Martha was baring a piece of her soul to her; a sliver of herself she kept secret, denied in hopes it might one day evaporate. She felt honoured that Martha trusted her enough now to say it; or maybe it was just something she needed to get off her chest, and Hartley was just the closest available ear to listen.

She considered how to reply, tearing off chunks of her red velvet muffin and chewing slowly as she thought.

“I don't want it to be a competition,” she said, the words ringing with truth. “And it doesn't need to be. We each have our own relationships with the Doctor, and our own relationship together. I want us to be able to exist together in harmony. There doesn't need to be any tension.”

But Martha wasn't convinced. “It's easy for you to say,” she mumbled. “You're the one the Doctor loves.”

Hartley fell silent, trying her best not to sigh. Martha was young – younger than Hartley, at any rate. Hartley couldn't blame her for being a little bit emotionally immature. It wasn't her fault; she was still growing and still learning.

But that didn't mean she needed to be handled like a child.

“I'm not going to lie and tell you that the Doctor feels for you the same way you do for him,” she said, not unkindly but rather matter-of-fact. Martha deserved the truth – she _needed_ the truth, no matter how hurtful it might be in the moment. “But that doesn't mean he doesn't still care about you, Martha.”

Martha smiled, but the expression was sullied by bitterness. “Yeah,” she said, quiet and subdued.

Hartley pursed her lips, her muffin suddenly tasting like ash on her tongue. Martha was in pain, she could feel it simmering beneath the surface, the kind of constant ache that never really left you. She supposed that was just the sting of unrequited love.

“Do you want to leave?” she asked gently.

Martha looked up, alarmed. “No!” she insisted vehemently.

Hartley smiled back, hands lifted as if to calm a frightened animal. “Good,” she said softly. “That's good. Neither of us want you to,” she added sincerely.

Martha's body slumped against the counter, the fight leaving her as suddenly as it had appeared. “How are we meant to go on like this?” she asked helplessly. “Just locked in this endless cycle of the Doctor loving you and me loving the Doctor?”

Hartley's cheeks went pink. “He doesn't _love_ me, Martha,” she insisted. “At least, not like that.”

Martha rolled her eyes. “Oh, don't play coy.”

“I'm serious,” she stubbornly held her ground.

Martha sighed, clearly not in the mood to argue the point. “All right,” she said, but Hartley knew she wasn't convinced.

She also knew she had to take charge. “Look,” she began bracingly, setting her torn-apart muffin on the counter and dusting her hands off on her apron. “We need to learn to coexist, otherwise we're both just gonna be miserable.”

Martha sagged again, looking away as she grimaced. “You're right,” she said tiredly. “Of course you are.” She lifted a hand, rubbing her eye with another sigh. “I just want us all to stick to the status quo.”

“Me too,” Hartley agreed. “Business as usual.”

Martha smiled thinly. “Business as usual.”

But Hartley couldn't help but feel as if – despite her best efforts – nothing at all had changed. If anything, they were set only on a collision course with disaster. And Hartley was terrified of what might happen when they finally met their inevitable fate.

* * *

Time went on.

That was one of the most prevalent lessons her time aboard the TARDIS had taught her. Time went on, and so did they.

That day passed, and the next morning the three travellers met in the control room, dressed in sturdy clothes and eager for their next great adventure.

Things seemed almost as perfect as always; it was as business as usual, just like agreed. All except for a few small inconsistencies that only an Empath would ever be able to see.

Martha had pasted a smile on her face but beneath it simmered hurt, a disappointment that made Hartley feel guilty.

Hartley was smiling too, legs crossed on the jump seat, watching as Martha followed the Doctor around the console, both of them throwing out ideas for their next escapade. But beneath her own smile was an exhaustion, a sort of flat depression that she didn't understand – or didn't _want_ to understand. Analysing it would do nobody any good. Her plan was to keep it locked away, even if that meant letting it grow and fester.

In great comparison to his companions, the Doctor's emotions were unreadable. He'd hidden them away with skill only he could accomplish. Hartley didn't push it, didn't press in to find more. He was hiding something, but she knew if she thought about it too much the mystery would consume her.

“Alright, _The Beatles_ it is!” the Doctor announced, and Hartley realised she'd missed their entire conversation. “I'm thinking Shea Stadium, most famous concert in the world – well, for its time, anyway,” he drawled, twisting around the console like a sprite on crack as he piloted his beloved ship towards the summer of 1965.

“All right with you, Hart?” Martha asked hopefully.

And it certainly was. The Beatles held a special place in her heart, particularly because of the connection they had with her dad. Going to see them without him would be hard, but maybe it was just what she needed after everything she'd been through these past two months; a piece of normalcy – TARDIS style.

“Please; _The Beatles_ live in concert?” she countered brightly. “As if I'd argue with that.”

The stadium was almost bursting at the seams, so tightly packed with men and women from the 60s struck with the decade's most common ailment of Beatle-mania. Many of them were wearing vintage – or, modern, from their perspective – teeshirts with the different band members' faces on them. Many also donned bowl-cut wigs, looking far more enthusiastic in them than Hartley would have been able to manage.

The Doctor spread his arms out wide and took a deep breath in. “Ah, smell that?!” he asked with reverence.

“Boiled hot dogs and sweat?” Hartley asked critically.

He turned to frown at her in disapproval. “Can you just appreciate the moment for what it is?” he whined. “A tiny little slice of history,” he continued on without missing a breath. Whirling around on them, he met their eyes with passion in his own. “Only 55,000 people ever attended this concert. That's it, then it was over, done. Now here _we_ are, seeing it for ourselves.”

Hartley couldn't help but smile at his enthusiasm. He was like an overgrown puppy – and it was ridiculously endearing.

“Come on,” he said brightly, reaching out to snatch up Hartley's hand and using it to drag her deeper into the crowd. She let herself be guided, Martha hurrying after them just as the music across the stadium came to a close and the crowd exploded into applause.

“What song's next?!” Martha shouted to them as they settled into an alcove on the far right end of the stadium. “I hope they play _Here Comes the Sun_.”

“ _Abbey Road_ wasn't released until '69,” the Doctor told her factually, voice raised over the near deafening roar of the zealous audience. “That's still four years away!”

Martha looked confused. “So what're they playing now?”

As she spoke the band up on the stage in the distance began to play the opening chords to _I Wanna Be Your Man_ , and Hartley leapt up in excitement. “I love this song!” she shouted. The people around her began to jump up and down, shaking their bodies to the beat of the song. Hartley didn't hesitate to join them, reaching out to grip Martha's hands and pull her into a dance of her own.

“I don't even know this one!” Martha complained, looking confused by the enthusiasm of the crowd.

“You don't need to know it to dance to it!” Hartley argued, refusing to be brought down as she twisted to and fro in a somewhat silly dance. Martha couldn't help but laugh, begrudgingly joining in. She couldn't hide the fun she was having from Hartley, however, and the Empath grinned brightly as she twirled Martha under her arm.

They danced to the whole song, and it felt so, so good to just let go of the tension she held in her body, flopping around with Martha and 55,000 strangers. All of them were lost to the music, and for a moment her problems weren't important or significant. They were just troubles for another day.

The song came to a close and the crowd exploded into uproarious applause. Their dancing came to a stop and everyone took a moment to catch their breaths. Realising she hadn't seen the Doctor in a while, she scanned the rows behind her, searching for his familiar, handsome face.

He was closer than she'd thought, hands hiding in his pockets. “You must really like that song,” he said, and she grinned.

“I love every _Beatles_ song,” she admitted, pushing herself up onto her toes so she could shout it in his ear. It was the only way to be heard over the roaring crowd. “My dad played them on repeat whenever he was home alone. They were the soundtrack to my childhood!”

The Doctor was surprised. “Then why haven't you ever asked me to bring you to see them before?”

Hartley shrugged. “I chose to travel with you to _escape_ my life, and my past. Not to be reminded of it,” she told him as if it wasn't a contender for the saddest thing ever said by a human being.

The Doctor watched her through narrowed, considering eyes. She stared back, waiting for him to say something, no idea what it might be. “Or maybe it's actually because you didn't want to be reminded of something you don't have anymore,” he said wisely.

And he was right. She still saw her dad, still spoke with him often, but her life on Earth was nothing but a memory now. She couldn't go back; and even if she could, she wouldn't be returning the same person she'd been when she'd left – in more ways than one.

She didn't say anything, turning her eyes back to the stage in the centre of the stadium, where four of arguably the most influential musicians in human history stood, their instruments held in hand. They were small from so far away, but present and real all the same. Hartley was humbled by the sight.

“Doesn't it make you happy, though?” the Doctor asked just as the music began to pick up again, the new song playing as familiar as the last. “I saw you a moment ago; you were having a ball!”

She hesitated, but knew she couldn't lie. “It does make me happy. I thought it would hurt, but it doesn't,” she confessed, surprised by the admission. And it was the truth. Hearing the Beatles play live the songs she'd grown up dancing to wasn't painful at all. Rather it felt sort of magical, like a daydream come to life.

The Doctor suddenly smiled, holding out a hand for her to take. She stared at it a moment, feeling like it were more than a mere offer to dance.

She glanced up at him but he only smiled back at her, calm and maybe even a little bit hopeful. Shoulders relaxing, Hartley readily accepted his offer, allowing him to gently tug her closer.

His left hand went to her waist while his right still held hers tight. They began to dance along to the song – _Nowhere Man_ , one of her personal favourites – and suddenly it was as if the crowd had faded away. All 55,000 people became distant and faceless and Hartley's heart sped up, although her muscles stayed relaxed.

She'd danced with lots of people before. Back when she was still a ballerina she would be paired with person after person for various recitals and performances, and never _once_ was she filled with the simultaneous peace and excitement that the Doctor was able to conjure within her.

It was easy, like puzzle pieces slipping into place, and it made her feel warm all over. He held her firmly, sure of himself but not cocky or overconfident. It was like he was sure of _her._

They weren't dancing a routine, and they didn't have much room to move. Instead it was quiet and intimate, the pair of them the only two people in the universe. She wondered if it would always be like this when they danced; if something about the two of them together created this wordless kind of magic.

And in that exact moment she knew, staring up into his whisky eyes with the whole world melted into a haze of nothing, that she loved him. She loved everything he was, and everything he chose to be.

She wondered how she didn't see it sooner. Maybe she was oblivious, or maybe just in denial. But until that moment she'd thought it was just an attraction, the kind that sizzled at your skin and left you breathless at the most inconvenient of times.

Only now she knew it wasn't just some kind of physical allure, or some steadfast sense of loyalty binding them together. She loved him with everything she had; and she knew then and there that she always would.

She didn't panic even under the weight of this sudden revelation, instead she accepted it like the inevitability it was. This was where they'd always been heading. From the moment she'd been cosmically bound to him; the moment she'd magically appeared in his TARDIS and she'd realised it wasn't all a dream; the moment he looked into her eyes and told her they were a strange colour. Everything had been leading them to this.

And it didn't matter to her that he would never love her back. Maybe he would love her in _some_ way, grow to care for her the way he'd cared about Rose, but he would never hold the same unadulterated, irrevocable love for her that she did for him. And that was okay.

You could love the stars in the night sky, but to ask for them to love you back was asking too much. And that was exactly what the Doctor was; the stars in the night sky.

“Are you all right?” the Doctor asked and she realised abruptly that the song had ended. All at once the roar of the adoring crowd flooded her ears, a sound she'd been deaf to before.

She smiled, the expression full of acceptance he wouldn't understand. “I'm fine,” she promised him. And she was.

She could live with this unrequited love. How different would it be to before? Nothing had changed except for in her own head.

“ _Paperback Writer_ ,” the Doctor said abruptly, his hands still gripping her despite the fact the music had stopped.

“Hm?” she hummed, taken aback by the unexpected words.

Just then the band below them kicked into another song, the familiar notes of _Paperback Writer_ filling the overcrowded stadium. She smiled again, laughter in her eyes. “It makes me think of you,” he confessed, a little bit sheepish.

She warmed, smiling up at him without care for the strength it held, the way it bared her feelings for him as clearly as if she'd tattooed it into her skin. He didn't seem to notice, and for that she was relieved. She'd meant what she'd said before; she didn't want anything to change, even now knowing her true feelings. She wanted everything to stay exactly as it was.

She pulled away, _Paperback Writer_ not a song anyone could possibly slow dance to.

She cast her eyes over to Martha, finding her staring resolutely down at the handcrafted stage the most famous band on planet Earth were stood on. Hartley didn't dare reach into her friend's heart, too afraid of what she already knew she would find.

A man holding a tray of hot dogs appeared, and Martha eagerly took one before realising belatedly that she didn't have any American money. To her relief the Doctor reappeared, flashing the psychic paper. The man nodded for them to take what they wanted, a smile on his face.

Lord knew what it could possibly say to warrant them free food, but Hartley only smiled, taking one of the hot dogs with a grateful nod. “My God,” said Martha, biting into the hot dog. “This is actually good! I was expecting it to be awful.”

“It's the 60's,” the Doctor said like it were all the answer they needed, a hot dog of his own held in his hand. Hartley supposed it was.

The song came to an end and once more the crowd went wild. Hartley slowly ate her food, enjoying the hum of the stadium and the amplified plucking of guitar strings that reverberated in the air around them. The rush of deafening noise made it easy not to think.

It would be so easy to lose herself in a swirl of thoughts of doubt and panic. It would be like floating in the ocean, caught in its dangerous, endless current. But she wasn't a child anymore, she wasn't young or immature. She was strong enough that she could handle her realisation without letting the weight of it crush her into dust.

“This is the last song!” the Doctor called over the crowd's enthusiastic screaming.

And so they finished their hot dogs as they listened to a rocking cover of _Long Tall Sally_ , the crowd singing along, all 55,000 voices amplified by one another, the sound of it reaching up high, high into the clouds. It was easy and it was beautiful, and Hartley felt utterly at peace even despite the change she felt bubbling in the air, like an oncoming tsunami that nothing and no one could prevent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a lot happening for the characters (at least internally) here. I know things aren't where we're all wanting them to be, but they all have their own issues to work through before they can get to the places they need to be. 
> 
> Up next is an original adventure; and a note to anyone interested, I will not be covering Blink. I tried, but just recently I made the decision to axe it as I felt like not only could I not do it justice, but the push to make it happen just wasn't there for me. I know some of you were keen for that particular episode, but just know that nothing important happened between the characters during it (otherwise I would have showed you).
> 
> Leave a review and let me know your thoughts!


	42. Indigo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, so for any Stargate fans we have yet another tiny cameo from that universe. When you see it, you'll understand. Also a few Star Trek references that I personally enjoyed throwing in. 
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoy!

**INDIGO**

“ _Maybe the only significant difference between a really smart simulation and_

_a human being was the noise they made when you punched them.”_

Terry Pratchett, _The Long Earth_

* * *

“Dinosaurs!”

Hartley and Martha looked up from the couch, both cocking an eyebrow at an eager looking Doctor, a maniacal grin on his face. “Dinosaurs?” Martha echoed in bemusement. Hartley rolled her eyes as she lifted the remote, muting the movie playing on the large TV sitting on the far wall.

“Dinosaurs,” he confirmed cheerfully. Hartley gave an unladylike snort, folding her legs up underneath herself and watching on with a small, fond grin. “Haven't you always wanted to see some?” the Doctor asked eagerly, practically bouncing on his toes in his enthusiasm.

“You mean real, live, _Jurassic Park,_ dinosaurs?”

The Doctor scoffed, shooting Martha an unimpressed glance. “Dinosaurs weren't invented for the sake of that movie, you know?” he said wryly. “They were living, breathing creatures. Kings of the Earth long before either of you were so much as even a possibility.”

Martha huffed, torn between sniping back and ignoring his cheek. Hartley smiled. “I, for one, would love to go check out some dinosaurs,” she interjected, intent on keeping things pleasant.

“Then it's a plan,” the Doctor nodded his head eagerly. “Best go put on some comfortable shoes – I don't doubt there'll be some form of running involved,” he warned them.

Martha looked wary, but the Doctor was already long gone. Hartley clapped her friend on the shoulder. “I wish I could say he was kidding,” she said with a small smile. “Let's go get changed,” she added, standing up from the couch, her bare feet sinking into the soft, fluffy carpet beneath them.

Martha and Hartley parted ways, heading for their individual rooms. Hartley changed from her lounging clothes into a pair of sturdy jeans, a mustard yellow top and some faded chucks. She doubted they'd be seeing any humans on this trip and so didn't bother with makeup, just running her fingers through her hair before making sure her phone was tucked into her pocket and heading towards the console room.

Martha wasn't there yet. It was just the Doctor standing by the monitor, tapping away at the controls on the console before him. Hartley hesitated in the doorway, uncertainty like a current in her blood. She'd made some monumental realisations only a short while ago, realisations about her and the Doctor, and how she felt about him.

She wouldn't describe the feeling as awkward, but it felt a little like some invisible status quo had changed, shifting slightly to the left and making everything looked skewed. It was almost as if she had to learn a whole new set of rules when it came to her relationship with him. It was confusing to say the least.

But Hartley was nothing if not brave, and so she lifted her chin high and strode into the room with all the confidence she could muster. The Doctor looked up when he heard the sound of her shoes on the grating, his fingertips freezing from their absent dance across the console.

“What made you think of dinosaurs?” she asked him casually, moving over to the jump seat and hopping onto it with a bounce. The Doctor regained his cool, returning his focus to the controls.

“Nothing in particular,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. “Just trying to come up with something fun. And what's more fun than dinosaurs, right?”

“You're not wrong. Although, right now I'd say anything's better than 1969,” she told him jovially.

The Doctor snorted unexpectedly, turning so his back was pressed against the lip of the console. He crossed his arms, one leg crossed casually over the other as he looked at her with an amused smirk. “You're almost worse than me,” he said teasingly. “A few weeks in linear time and you begin to go stir-crazy.”

“I didn't go _stir-crazy_ ,” she rolled her eyes.

“You took up _painting_ ,” he reminded her, amusement curling at his lips.

“Everyone needs a hobby.”

He smiled at her and her heart fluttered like a schoolgirl with a crush.

She wished she could say it was easy being cooped up in a flat with him for three weeks, but it hadn't been. She'd had a lot of time to sit and stew about her feelings, and she came to one, glaring conclusion.

Unrequited love sucked.

She'd never really had a crush that hadn't had a chance in hell before (unless you counted Ashton Kutcher, but a celebrity crush didn't really count, now did it?). It was like suddenly there was this pulsing in her head, this _awareness_ of the Doctor – where he was, what he was saying or doing. It was torture.

The way her skin would tingle when he looked at her, or her heart would race when their fingers brushed; it was maddening. And although it wasn't really that much different than before – because there'd been that growing, simmering attraction between them for years now – now there was the weight of _love_ behind it, and it was enough to send her up the wall.

She wondered if it would ever mellow out into warm, comfortable emotion, rather than burning hot flames licking at her insides like a wildfire. Part of her hoped it never would – nothing quite made her feel so alive as loving the Doctor.

She hadn't realised she'd fallen silent until suddenly Martha reappeared, halfway through tying her hair up into a ponytail as she entered. “Which period are we travelling to?” she was asking before she'd even stepped through the doorway. “Because I remember studying them in school, yeah, and there were so many!”

The Doctor cleared his throat and turned away, returning to piloting his beloved ship.

“Well, which one do you want to go to?” he asked her lightly. Hartley could sense just the tiniest bit of strain in him, like he were forcing himself to sound unaffected by their moment of thoughtful quiet.

Martha remained utterly oblivious. “Whichever one has the stegosaurus,” she said, “they were always my favourite.”

“The Late Jurassic period it is, then!” the Doctor crowed, giving an unnecessary twirl as he threw the TARDIS into flight. The room pitched sideways and all three companions lurched to the left. Hartley tumbled off the jump seat with a yelp, just barely grabbing onto the railing in time to keep herself from face-planting into the floor.

“Bit more rough than usual, don't you think?!” she yelled to the Doctor over the TARDIS' loud groans, the sound like metal scraping against metal. It was louder than usual and she knew something was wrong when the soft lighting filling the room began to flash on and off.

“What's happening?!” cried Martha as the Doctor threw himself onto the console, squinting at the monitor as he frantically typed into the system.

“There was a distress beacon,” he explained hurriedly. “The TARDIS has locked onto it. She's taking us there now!”

“Taking us _where_?” Hartley yelled, gripping the railing tighter as the room lurched again, the floor seeming to almost disappear from underneath her feet before it reappeared, letting her catch her breath.

“That can't be right...” the Doctor was saying to himself, squinting at the readings in confusion.

“Doctor!” she shouted back sternly.

“We're being taken to the middle of the Supervoid!”

With a final wheeze the TARDIS came to a complete stop. The floor fell still, and all went silent. The only sound filling the room were each of their heavy breaths, all winding down from the violent journey they'd just endured.

“What's the Supervoid?” asked Hartley once she was sure she could open her mouth without throwing up.

“Exactly what it sounds like,” said the Doctor in a careful, even voice, turning to stare at the doors with an uncharacteristic caution. “It's a region of space that's completely empty, void of all life. It's the biggest known mass in the universe. Even the Time Lords didn't understand its existence.”

“How big is it?”

“1.8 _billion_ light-years,” he answered hollowly.

“And that's a lot, yeah?” Martha asked, her voice small and tinny.

“Yeah,” he confirmed with a slow nod of his head, “it's a lot.”

“If it's completely empty, then how did someone send a distress signal from the centre of it?” Hartley asked him warily.

Nobody answered for a long few moments, before finally the Doctor took a step towards the doors. “Suppose we're going to have to go out there and find out, aren't we?” he murmured in a deceptively casual voice. But Hartley knew now that the tantalising bait of the mystery had been dangled in front of his face he wouldn't be able to resist. He was all too eager to get lost in the adventure of it all. The Doctor loved what he didn't understand.

He pulled on his coat as he moved, pausing by the doors for only a beat before throwing them open, stepping out into the unknown.

Hartley followed next, material of her cuffs bunched up in fists, eyeing her new surroundings with caution. She felt Martha follow behind her but it wasn't until the doors shut after them with a creak that she fully took in her surroundings.

They were in some kind of ship, the room large and spacious, full of rusted metal tables and chairs. It looked to be a sort of eatery, a futuristic cafeteria, only there wasn't a person or so much as a scrap of food in sight. It seemed abandoned. Or, at least, it did until the doors on the far wall opened up and a young child walked through, looking completely and utterly at ease.

“Hello there!” exclaimed the Doctor in his most friendly voice. The little girl gave a short scream when she realised they were there, turning to gape at them in shock. “I'm the Doctor, this is Hartley and Martha – we got your distress signal, thought we'd come lend a hand,” he chattered obliviously, but the kid only looked terrified, calmed none by his words.

“It's okay, we're not going to hurt you,” Martha assured her gently, but she having seemed to have frozen, turning to stone in her fear, wide eyes staring back at them in pure panic. “Are your parents around?”

There was another few seconds of drawn-out silence before the girl abruptly spun on her heel and hightailed it out of the cafeteria. “Dada!” she screamed at a pitch so high it made the travellers wince. “ _Dada_!” She disappeared around the corner, her screams for her dad fading into the distance.

“That went well,” Hartley murmured, blinking after the little girl in shock.

“Best we follow her,” the Doctor sniffed. “See if we can't find some adults to tell us what's going on.”

He led the way, moving towards the doors that opened automatically as he approached, working on some kind of sensor. Stepping out into the hall they were met with a barren corridor, no sign of life in sight.

“Left or right?” mused the Doctor.

“Right,” chose Hartley at random. As one they turned, beginning to wander down the large, empty hallway. “How d'you suppose they got all the way out here?” she asked as they walked. “A billion light-years...that should take _trillions_ of years to travel, shouldn't it?”

“Going at your time period's fastest possible speed, yes,” he agreed, hands shoved into his pockets, coat dangling by his ankles as they made their way deeper into the ship. “But we're in the year 19500, and humans have made significant leaps in space travel technology over the last hundred millennia or so,” he told her with a casual sniff.

“But still, a billion light-years...surely that wouldn't just be a walk in the park, no matter the year,” she replied stubbornly, unable to imagine a world where distances so big were covered in such a short amount of time.

To her surprise, the Doctor agreed. “It is strange,” he murmured thoughtfully. He opened his mouth to say more, but before he could a man stepped out from a doorway on the left. He was dressed in a blue bodysuit, but it wasn't too skin-tight, thankfully leaving much to the imagination.

He was wearing a sort of diadem on his head, the little crown of metal and pearls sitting atop his curly green hair.

“People,” he breathed as the trio of travellers came to a stop. “How did you get aboard this ship?” he asked before any of them could respond. “It should be impossible! Our sensors would have picked you up!”

“Hello, I'm the Doctor,” the Doctor said with a grin, holding out a hand to shake. The man took it, a wary look on his face that turned into surprise once they shook, as though he was almost surprised to find him not to be a hallucination. “These are my friends, Hartley Daniels and Martha Jones. We heard your distress signal, thought we'd come lend a hand,” he told him, utterly at ease.

The man didn't seem to know how to respond, gaping back at them in shock.

“Are you the Captain of this ship?” the Doctor continued pleasantly, gesturing to the diadem sitting in pride of place on his head.

The man stood straight, as though the Doctor were a superior officer in the space-navy. “Acting Captain Oberon, Order of Shadows, Third Class,” he said in a factual tone, like he were reciting it from a book.

“ _Acting_ Captain?” asked the Doctor curiously. “What happened to the first one?”

Oberon's professional disposition melted, replaced by a nervous, unsure grimace. “You say you're here to help?” he asked, unmistakeably hopeful.

“Always.”

“Do you have a way of getting ninety-four crew members off of this ship, to safety?”

The Doctor said nothing for a beat, considering the request and the anxiousness with which it was asked. “What's wrong?” he finally asked, his voice low and serious.

“We need to evacuate the ship,” was all Oberon said in response.

“Take me to the bridge,” insisted the Doctor instead. “I'm sure I can help.”

“If I show you, then will you help us?” pressed Oberon anxiously.

“Yes,” agreed the Doctor, and without further ado the tall man wearing the glorified leotard turned and began to lead them back through the door off to the left. The three friends cast one another wary looks, but the still followed after Oberon, letting him lead them through his ship.

Only a few turns later they were stepping out onto a flight deck, incredibly similar to what one might find on _Star Trek_. People in those same blue bodysuits were rushing around the room, hurrying across the space as quickly as they could.

Hartley felt abruptly overcome by a strange swell of emotion. She'd slowly become used to these sudden bursts of emotion, learning to recognise when they weren't her own. Wincing against the onslaught of foreign sorrow, she scanned the room, searching for the source of the feeling.

So focused were the crew that they didn't even stop to gawk at the impossible trio of strangers. They were talking to one another in hurried tones, unmistakeable panic edging their voices and glinting in their eyes.

None of them looked to be responsible for the shuddering pain and guilt eating at her insides, a despair she couldn't quite pinpoint. It seemed to echo from the very walls themselves, but she was distracted from investigating further when there was a shout from across the room.

“Captain!” cried a shorter man, scurrying up to Oberon's side, a data-pad of some sort in his hand. “Three more dead in communications, sir,” he reported grimly.

“How?”

“The life support failed again, sir.”

“Thank you, Colton,” the Captain said wearily. The boy nodded, then paused a moment to eye the newcomers with a frown before there was a loud beeping from across the room and he rushed off to deal with it. “If you'll follow me, Doctor,” said Oberon grimly, sweeping a hand towards a row of screens in the far back.

“Did he say three people were _dead_?” asked Martha as they gathered around the handful of monitors. But Oberon didn't answer.

“If you would, Captain,” prompted the Doctor smoothly, and the man nodded his head, a bleak expression on his lined face. “Perhaps beginning with how you got all the way out here. It should have been impossible.”

“Indigo, relevant reports, please,” said Oberon aloud. Nothing happened for a moment, making their trio of travellers eye one another in confusion, but then the screens all flickered to life, reports in translated English appearing across the large screens.

The Doctor yanked free his glasses, slipping them onto his nose and leaning in to get a good look at the words on the monitors.

“ _The Mockingbird_ was the first ever ship to be installed with hyperdrive engines by the Federation,” began Oberon in a dismal tone of voice, haunted experience in his dark eyes. The reports on the screen jumped ahead quickly, but the Doctor was able to keep up with ease. “We were on a routine mission to Argus-358 when the Wraith appeared out of nowhere, attacking our ship with everything they had.”

“The Wraith?” asked Hartley in confusion, the name unfamiliar.

“Indigo,” said Oberon again in that commanding, expectant voice, and the reports on the screen disappeared, replaced by pictures of a terrifying looking race of aliens. Hartley saw waxy skin marred by grotesque slits, a head of matted white hair and a mouth full of jagged, threatening teeth. It made her pulse spike with fear, but she turned to Oberon and focused on his voice as he continued to speak. “Lucky are you if you don't know of them,” he was saying with conviction. “We've been at war with them for centuries. They have weapons far stronger than ours, and it's all we can do to stay alive, let alone fight against them.”

“What do they want?” asked Martha quietly, staring at the images with disgust. Hartley couldn't blame her. There was a lot of beauty in the universe, but for every beautiful thing there was an ugly counterpart. The sight of these Wraith made chills appear across her skin, like a warning never to cross their path.

“To feed from and enslave us,” Oberon told her grimly.

“So you were on a mission and they attacked you,” said the Doctor promptly, eager to solve at least one part of the mystery before them. “That still doesn't explain how you got all the way out here.”

“We set the hyperdrive engines to max – knowing they would follow us should we try and flee by any other means – and then we jumped––”

“And ended up here,” finished the Doctor, but this didn't seem to answer any of his questions, the look of malcontent perfectly at home on his face. “But hyperdrive engines shouldn't be able to take you this far. Surely your reactor would have overloaded.”

“It nearly did,” confirmed Oberon sombrely. “We had to turn off all non-essential power until it cooled down. It took about a month until it was safe to turn back on. That was three days ago.”

“And since then?”

“Indigo, show him the stats of the last three days,” he ordered aloud, and finally Martha had had enough.

“Sorry, who's Indigo?” she asked through a frown.

“The ship's AI interface,” replied Oberon with a shrug, as though this should have been obvious.

“And that boy said people had died,” the Doctor interjected before they could get talking on the subject. “That the life support had failed _again_.” His expression was sharp, a wild look in his eyes. “How many times has that happened?”

Oberon hesitated before answering, his voice quiet and full of a heavy guilt that Hartley knew wasn't going to be easy to lift. “Thirty-four of my crew have died in the last seventy-two hours,” he admitted through a clenched jaw.

Hartley's eyes went wide, a hand coming up to press over her mouth in shock.

“Do you see now why we need to evacuate?” pressed Oberon. “More people are only going to continue to die if we don't get off this blasted ship.”

Before any of them could respond, the panelling to their right gave a series of loud beeps. The Captain spun towards them, watching as two of his crew frantically began to press buttons, struggling to get it back under control.

“Status report,” the tall Captain ordered in a bark.

“We've lost life support in rooms 7B and 6C, Sir,” said the boy from before – Colton, Oberon had called him. He seemed to grow more pale with every word he spoke. “Another three dead, Sir.”

“The ship's systematically shutting off the life support, room by room,” the Doctor breathed from where he stood. “Is there a way to tell which rooms it will kill next?” he demanded, and Colton gave a little squeak at being directly addressed.

“No,” he replied, voice cracking over the word. “No, it's completely random.”

“You need to evacuate everyone to the bridge,” the Doctor ordered in the next breath, rounding on Oberon with serious eyes.

“But what if it kills the bridge next?” interjected Hartley, spotting the issue from a mile away.

“It won't,” he responded without pause.

“How do you know?” she pressed.

His mouth twisted into a grimace. “I don't,” he admitted. His shoulders sagged in acceptance as he ran a hand through his hair, making it even more wild than it already was. “You're right,” he grunted, yanking off his glasses and shoving them back into his chest pocket with slightly more force than necessary.

“It's the ultimate dilemma of probability,” she murmured in realisation, reaching up to bite absent-mindedly on her knuckle. “Do we risk the few or the many?”

“It's like Russian Roulette,” whispered the Doctor, considering the impossible set of options laid before them with a grimace, “only much, much worse.” He gave a hiss, tugging at his hair again as his big brain struggled for a solution. “Indigo,” he began to speak to the AI, bracing his hands on the desk in front of him, “why are you shutting off the life support?”

“ _It is the most viable option to preserve the life aboard this vessel_ ,” said Indigo in a perfectly unemotional voice, robotic and cold.

“But you're killing people, do you understand that?” he asked, head tilted back like he were having a conversation with the ceiling – which, Hartley supposed, he kind of was.

“ _I am preserving the life aboard this vessel_ ,” the cold, feminine voice repeated blandly.

The Doctor gave a small grunt of frustration, pushing away from the desk and turning to survey the room. “Isn't there any way to shut her off?” Hartley asked, already knowing the answer but clinging to hope anyway.

“She's not just the interface, she's the operating system itself. Shutting her down would be like cutting the system all together, not only stranding us here but turning off the life support along with it,” Oberon said bleakly.

“Can't we just take everyone back to the TARDIS?” suggested Martha, her confusion evident.

The Doctor nodded his head grimly. “We'll have to,” he said, turning to survey the flight deck and the blue-covered humans scurrying across it like headless chooks. He looked back at Oberon, who appeared relieved that the Doctor had finally agreed. “Our ship's in your mess hall. Send out an alert, round everybody up and get them there as soon as you possibly can.”

Instead of looking glad by this news, Oberon's expression grew dark and hopeless. His knees seemed to give out and he fell back onto a spare chair with a squeak of its springs. “The mess hall, you say?” he murmured gloomily.

“Yes, the mess hall,” the Doctor snapped back impatiently, only to pause as he realised something was seriously wrong. “Why?” he demanded, eyes narrowed as he ducked down to catch the Acting Captain's gaze.

“Section 7B,” he said, hanging his head in defeat. “It's already been killed. Your ship is now impossible to reach.”

To his credit, the Doctor didn't panic. He merely gave a loud sigh, as though sincerely wishing he hadn't gotten out of bed that morning, then turned back to the control desk. The lights on it were flashing a rainbow of colours in a pattern that Hartley couldn't follow, but the Doctor evidently could.

“It says here you have crew on the lower decks,” he said, spinning back to face Oberon whose head remained bowed. Hartley stepped closer, pressing a hand to his back and gently rubbing in a repetitive, comforting motion, like soothing a child after a nightmare. “You should move them higher up, make it easier to evacuate them when you need to. I need someone to show me to the engine room, I should be able to reroute life support functionalities from there, letting us get through the mess hall, into my ship...” the Doctor trailed off, realising quickly that Oberon wasn't paying attention. “Oberon,” he prompted the man with a bark.

“I've doomed us all!” the man wailed, and Hartley stepped away as he shot back up, eyes watery and red with emotion. “I wasn't even first in line for the job, you know?” he sniffled a little pathetically as he ripped the ridiculous diadem from his hair and tossed it onto the desk with a resounding clack. “I was _eighth_!”

That certainly made a lot of sense, and Hartley realised that meant _seven_ people had to die in order for Oberon to become Captain. She morbidly wondered what they'd done with all the bodies.

The Doctor pressed his fingertips to the bridge of his nose in exasperation, then looked over at Hartley pleadingly. Getting the message, she crouched down so she was at the Acting Captain's level.

“It's okay, Oberon,” she cooed soothingly, much like she might with a small child. “Everyone knows this isn't your fault. You're doing the best you can,” she said, squeezing his shoulder warmly.

“I'm a failure!” he cried, pressing his hands against his face in pure emotion.

“You're not a failure,” she insisted, striving to keep from feeling awkward. She wasn't used to grown men crying in such a way, and she wasn't exactly _trained_ to handle these kinds of situations. “But you need to pull yourself together now,” she continued firmly. “Your crew _needs_ you. And if you can pull this off, you'll be heralded as a _hero_. Everyone will know of your bravery. But it's just that, you need to be _brave._ ”

Oberon sniffled a final time before lifting his head, revealing raw, red eyes, and nodded once. They all pretended they couldn't see his lip still trembling.

“Oberon, I need you to take me down to the engine room,” the Doctor said slowly, and the man swallowed thickly before standing somewhat shakily to his feet. “You two can stay here, work on keeping everybody calm and try to reason with Indigo.”

“But he said she's just an AI,” argued Martha quickly. “You can't reason with a computer.”

“Not in the twenty-first century you can't,” he replied without pause. “But now you can. That AI is _almost_ as complicated and multifaceted as a human brain,” he told them, meeting each of their eyes, impressing the severity of the situation onto each of them. “If you can talk to it, _maybe_ you'll be able to convince it to stop.”

“Well, you're going to reroute the power, aren't you?” their companion continued stubbornly. “Can't you type in some code to get her to do what you say?”

“Writing a code like that would take _days_ , even for me, and we don't have that sort of time,” he snapped back, growing impatient. “Oberon, you got any spare comms devices?”

The Acting Captain turned to the far wall, pressing a spot and making a small drawer slide out. From it he plucked three small earpieces, like bluetooth devices from the girls' time. He handed them out and they watched as the Doctor slipped his on, Hartley and Martha following suit.

The device slipped into Hartley's ear like it had been made from a mould, and then there was a low buzzing in her head, like the distant static of an untuned radio. “Press down on them to talk,” instructed the Doctor. “I'll hear you.”

“Captain! We need help over here!” cried one of the crew from the far end of the room.

“Martha, you're up,” said the Doctor without pause, and the young medical student started with alarm.

“Me?” she asked in surprise.

“Hart needs to reason with the AI, and I need to get to engineering,” he said, bordering on impatient. “You'll be fine, just _go_.”

She winced, but ultimately knew she'd been in deeper water before, squaring her shoulders and turning to walk towards the crew members in need of help.

The moment Martha was gone, Hartley turned to the Doctor in the same second he turned to her, as if there was some kind of unspoken agreement that they were to converge. “What if Indigo shuts off life support to the engine room with you inside?” she asked him, voice low but still heard over the frantic hum of activity filling the bridge.

The Doctor shifted closer and Oberon awkwardly turned away, probably thinking they were to be exchanging sweet nothings. She supposed that maybe he wasn't too far off. “My respiratory bypass system will kick in, and I'll be able to survive long enough to get out,” he assured her in an undertone. “I've got to go,” he said, glancing over his shoulder.

“Do you promise you'll be okay?” she asked just as he turned to leave, grasping ahold of his suit jacket and tugging him back to face her. She knew it was a move of desperation, one that defied logic. How was he supposed to make such a promise? It was impossible, but she wanted the empty reassurance anyway, needed to hear him say it to her face that he would make it out alive. It would be something to cling to in the coming frenzy.

“I promise,” he told her without any hint of hesitation, but she got the feeling it was born from a need to leave rather than any kind of sincere oath.

Stubborn, Hartley pressed herself up onto her toes and pulling him into a tight embrace. Immediately his hands came up to wrap around her middle, hugging her tightly enough to him that she could feel the four-beat rhythm of his twin hearts. He still smelt the same as ever and she swore she would see him again, she _had_ to, it was the only way she would survive – immortality or not.

He pulled away far too soon for her liking. “I've got to go,” he insisted again, shooting her an unconvincing smile before stepping away and darting out the door with his coat flapping at his heels, Oberon close behind.

Breathing in deeply, Hartley could only square her shoulders and tell herself that everything would be okay. She took a heavy seat at the desk, braced her palms on the surface so she was facing the flashing lights, and began what seemed like a truly senseless task.

“Indigo?” she asked, feeling exceptionally awkward about the whole thing. She was pretty much just talking to the air. It was more than a little disconcerting, but she had a job to do. She had _lives_ to save.

“ _Yes, how can I help you?_ ” the disembodied voice asked tonelessly, seeming to come from all around her, rather than from any visible speaker.

“My name's Hartley,” she began warily, tracing patterns into the smooth vinyl of the desk in an attempt to distract herself.

“ _Hello, Hartley_ ,” the AI responded politely, as it was no doubt programmed to do.

“I've a few questions for you,” she said mildly, quickly considering her approach. If this thing was as intelligent as the Doctor said it was, then Hartley knew she had to be careful how she interacted with it. Who knew what it might do if she somehow offended it? _Could_ it be offended? There was still so much she didn't know. “What were you originally designed to do?” she asked Indigo in a perfectly pleasant tone of voice.

“ _I was originally designed to act as a verbal interface for The Mockingbird's intricate systems. My purpose was to assist the humans aboard the vessel with anything they required. This included everything from menial tasks to complex equations and thorough system diagnostics._ ”

Something about the way the AI was speaking set off alarm bells in Hartley's head, but for the life of her she couldn't figure out why. Frowning at the array of flashing coloured lights, she bit into the flesh of her bottom lip as she considered carefully what her next question might be.

The Doctor had said Indigo was as complicated as a human brain – did that then mean it could think independently? Did that mean it could form its own ideas and opinions?

Not knowing whether her next question would be madness or brilliance, she leaned closer to the controls, keeping her voice low. “Do you like being an interface, Indigo?” she asked Indigo in a conversational voice.

There was a pregnant pause, and Hartley briefly wondered if the left-field question had in some way startled the AI. Then it answered, voice just as toneless as ever. “ _I like my purpose_ ,” it finally said, something sincere about its words.

“You like your purpose...” Hartley echoed, considering this answer carefully.

“ _To help and aid the crew aboard The Mockingbird in their objective_.”

“And what is their objective?”

“ _To serve and protect the citizens of this quadrant, as per the Shadow Proclamation put in place by the Federation over three millennia ago_.”

“And you like doing this?” Hartley pressed gently. “Do you enjoy serving the crew of this ship?”

There was another pause where logically there shouldn't have been. Indigo was a super computer – it didn't need time to _think._ “ _I enjoy it, yes_ ,” the voice finally told her, a strange hesitance in its tone. It made Hartley wonder if the voice used wasn't one simply recorded, but rather...created?

Frown furrowing at her brow, Hartley considered what she knew. This computer was verbally emoting, something that shouldn't have been possible.

“But you're a computer,” she said softly, taking care not to upset it – if that was even possible. “Most computers don't know how to enjoy things.” Indigo didn't reply, keeping perfectly silent. The multicoloured lights continued to flash across the control board, their meanings lost on Hartley, who knew next to nothing about mechanics or technology of any kind. “Are you like the other computers, Indigo?” she asked the AI carefully. “Or are you different?”

Another pause stretched between them, and Hartley wondered if she'd gone too far. “ _I do not understand the question_ ,” Indigo finally told her.

Smiling ruefully, Hartley couldn't help but disagree. “I think you do, Indigo,” she said, gentle and kind.

The AI didn't have a chance to respond because a panicked shout of Hartley's name from across the room had her turning away. Martha was hovering over a screen, looking vaguely like she were about to be sick.

Hartley stood from her chair, darting in between the frantic crew to make it to Martha's side. “What's wrong?” she asked, wondering whether she even wanted to know.

“Another room's being killed,” said Martha, staring down at the image on the screen. “I sent men down to try and get them out before the air's all gone, but it's four floors down and-”

Hartley wrapped an arm around her shoulders, turning to stare grimly at the live feed playing on the screen before her. It looked to be some sort of cabin, two people banging at the door, red lights flashing in the corners.

“Can they hear us?” she asked, her heart in her throat.

“It's just a one way feed,” Martha shook her head.

The two people, a blonde woman and a redheaded man, were slowly dropping to the floor, still trying desperately to get the door open, even as they keeled over from lack of air. It was futile, and eventually the lights stopped flashing, plunging their room into total darkness, and the two little life-signs on the edge of the screen abruptly disappeared, leaving no questions about their fate.

Again that sickening, sorrowful, guilt-ridden angst washed over Hartley like a violent wave in the surf. It seemed to leak from the very walls themselves, and tears came to her eyes. She wiped them away, struggling against the force of the foreign emotions. She knew they weren't her own, but she was only just beginning to learn how not to take them on as if they were.

“Oh God,” muttered Martha, running a hand over her hair, smoothing down any runaway strands. Her voice brought Hartley from her stupor, and she blinked back to the moment, attempting a smile at her friend. “Why's this happening?” she asked Hartley, as though she might have actually have an answer. “Shouldn't the computer be keeping them _alive_? Instead it's _slaughtering_ them.” Hartley didn't know what to say. She stepped away from Martha to take a deep breath, running her own hands down the length of her face, exhausted. “Is it possible Indigo's been hacked?” Martha suggested with a gasp.

The idea was an intriguing one, but for some reason it didn't seem quite right. “I'm sure it's possible,” Hartley allowed slowly. “But somehow I doubt that's what's happening.”

“Why?”

Again, Hartley didn't have an answer. “I just feel like it's more than that,” she said, lips pursed into a frown. “Besides, we're millions upon millions of light-years away from any other forms of life, and so I doubt someone on board is the one doing this.”

“How do we know, though?” pressed Martha. “It could be a terrorist of some kind. Like a suicide bomber?”

Despite the pull at her gut that told her this theory wasn't quite right, Hartley knew she had to explore all possibilities before writing it off as wrong. She reached up, pressing her finger against the device sitting comfortably in her ear. The crackle of static that had become white noise disappeared, replaced by a low hum.

“Doctor?” Hartley asked experimentally.

“ _Hart_ ,” replied the Doctor immediately, and she just about sagged with relief at the sound of his voice. “ _What's happening on your end_?”

Martha reached up as well, pressing onto her communicator to talk. “Another two dead,” she reported grimly. There was a heavy silence from the Doctor's end, and Hartley could only imagine the storm brewing behind his eyes at the news.

“Martha has a theory,” she said rather than try and ease his fury, nodding at their companion to continue.

“What if Indigo was hacked?” Martha suggested. “It would explain everything, wouldn't it?”

“ _Hacked by whom_?” came Oberon's voice. “ _We're millions of light-years away from any form of civilisation_ ,” he continued, reiterating what Hartley had told her before.

“But what if it's someone on board?” Martha proposed in a whisper, making sure none of the passing crew would overhear, just on the off chance it might have been one of them.

“ _None of the crew would ever do such a thing – besides, they'd only be damning themselves!_ ”

“ _It's a theory,_ ” interjected the Doctor placatingly. “ _And right now, it's the best one we've got_.”

“How're things on your end?” Hartley asked him hopefully.

“ _Slow going_ ,” he replied with a hint of frustration. “ _The system isn't one I'm familiar with. I'll have it soon, though. Just need to feed the Captain's codes through the extrapolator-_ ”

“We get the picture,” Hartley interrupted him quickly. Usually she would be fine to listen to him ramble on about tech – she found it to be quite attractive, actually – but people had died today, and they would continue to die unless the trio of travellers could solve the problem laid out before them. They were, quite literally, their only hope.

“ _And you?_ ” the Doctor asked, unbothered by her stern brush off, realising the gravity of the situation. “ _Any progress with Indigo?_ ”

“Slow going,” she parroted him, and heard his responding huff through the link.

“ _Keep me updated_ ,” he told her shortly, then the static from before returned, telling her that he'd ended the connection. Pursing her lips, Hartley turned back to Martha. She looked incredibly weary, like she held the weight of the world on her shoulders. Hartley wanted to remind her that it was a shared burden, but there was too much at stake to worry about her stress levels in that moment.

“Keep coordinating the crew,” she prompted Martha, who nodded her head, a look of vague anxiety on her pretty face. “What is it?” Hartley pressed upon seeing the expression.

“What if Indigo kills this room too?” she asked, voice quiet so the crew wouldn't hear. No need to cause any more of a panic. “What do we do?”

“She won't,” Hartley assured her, but they both knew by now that there was absolutely no way to guarantee their safety. The life support of any room in the whole ship could be turned off at any given moment. The Doctor had been right; it was like Russian Roulette. “The Doctor will get the atmosphere back to the mess hall before she has a chance to, and then we'll be back on the TARDIS and saving the day, as always,” she said strongly.

It was hardly convincing; Martha certainly didn't look reassured. “Does that unwavering optimism of yours ever exhaust you?” she asked, not malicious, but instead simply curious, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

“Sometimes,” Hartley admitted, her own lips twitching up into a responding smile. “Keep doing what whatever you're doing,” she said in farewell.

“But I don't know what I'm doing.”

“Yet you're doing it brilliantly,” she assured her around an impish grin, the expression widening when she spotted Martha roll her eyes and chuckle. Without another word they went back to their respective tasks, each feeling significantly lighter than they had before.

Slipping back into her vacated chair, Hartley repositioned herself at the desk, eyeing the arrangement of blinking lights, finding their colourful flashing to be oddly soothing. It reminded her strangely of the lights of a city seen through a window in the pouring rain. She'd always loved things that sparkled.

“Hey Indigo, I'm back,” she spoke to the air, waiting for a moment for the AI to respond. When it didn't, she frowned, tapping her fingers against the desktop in an uneven rhythm to ease the stress rebuilding within her chest. “Two more people are dead,” she spoke again, voice quiet and lacking judgement, the words a mere fact. “What do you think about that?”

There was a beat.

“ _It is unfortunate,_ ” Indigo told her, tone carefully detached. It still told her something, however – it told her that Indigo understood the concept of 'unfortunate', and in that same vein, 'regret'.

“It is unfortunate,” Hartley agreed softly. “But it could have been prevented, couldn't it?”

“ _No_ ,” said Indigo, now starkly cold.

“I think it could have,” she replied, keeping her voice level and soft.

“ _I am preserving the life aboard this vessel_ ,” Indigo told her. Hartley huffed in frustration, leaning back in her chair, feeling as though they'd just taken two very large steps backwards in their progress.

Reaching up to run her thumb over her lips in thought, Hartley considered where to go next. She clearly wasn't making any headway with the course she was taking. There had to be a way to get through to Indigo – if such a feat was even possible to begin with.

“ _Hartley_ ,” came that robotic voice, and she blinked in surprise. As far as she knew, Indigo wasn't programmed to address her first. It was a development, of that much she was certain.

“Yes, Indigo?” she asked, sitting back up in her chair properly, now on alert.

“ _It's going to happen again_ ,” the AI told her ominously, and it only took a split second for Hartley to realise what it meant.

Standing from her chair with enough force to propel it backwards, Hartley braced herself on the desk, staring at the steadily blinking lights like they might give her an answer. “Martha!” she shouted over the hum of noise filling the room, but didn't look back to see if she had heard. “Where, Indigo? Where is it going to happen?” she asked the computer, just barely keeping from crossing her fingers together as she waited.

“ _Rooms 3G and 7A_ ,” said Indigo flatly.

“Hart?” asked Martha in bewilderment, seeming to pop up beside her out of nowhere, for which she was grateful.

“Evacuate 3G and 7A,” the immortal ordered, the sound of her own pulse loud in her ears. “ _Now_ , Martha!” she cried when Martha didn't move.

Snapping to attention, Martha spun on her heel and addressed the room at large, demanding they work to evacuate those rooms. Reaching up, Hartley gently pressed down on the comms software in her ear, opening a link with the Doctor.

“Indigo just warned me ahead of time where the next kill would happen,” she said without bothering about pleasantries.

“ _She did?_ ” the Doctor sounded as surprised as Hartley felt.

“Why would she do that?”

“ _It's your job to figure that out_ ,” he responded evenly. Knowing he was right, she nodded, even though he couldn't see. “ _Keep working with her_ ,” he said, taking on a more encouraging tone. “ _You're making great progress_.”

“Slow progress,” she mumbled.

“ _All great progress is_.”

Unable to quell her smile, she shut off the connection. Realising it was inappropriate, she wiped the pleasant expression from her face as she spun back around to look for Martha. “Are they out?” she asked hopefully, finding the student doctor to be only a few metres away, one of the alien data-pads held in a steady grip.

“They're out,” Martha confirmed proudly, and Hartley just about melted to the floor in relief.

“Thank God,” she breathed, reaching up to scrape her fingers through her hair before taking a heavy seat at the desk once more. “You saved those people, Indigo,” she said to the interface, lowering her voice to give them the illusion of privacy.

Indigo didn't reply verbally, but instead Hartley was hit with a wave of relief so strong it nearly tipped her from her seat. Reaching up to press a hand over her throbbing chest, she stared up at the ceiling in wonder. Along with the relief was a tinge of fear, like an anxiety that wasn't her own, that was – as it had been all day – coming from the walls themselves.

Realisation flooded her, and with a shaking hand Hartley reached up to press the button on her communicator. “Doctor?” she asked, voice trembling with emotion.

“ _Yes?_ ” responded the Doctor through the connection.

“Indigo is alive,” she told him carefully, eyes floating over the blinking rainbow of lights.

“ _She's an AI, Hart,_ ” the Doctor reminded her with a hint of impatience. She could hear the sound of frantic typing happening on his end of the link. “ _She's designed to appear sentient_.”

“Doctor, you're not listening,” she chastised him without conviction. “She has _emotions_.”

The wild typing came to an abrupt stop, like he'd suddenly frozen solid. There was a pregnant pause. “ _What?_ ” asked the Doctor, his voice as frayed as her nerves.

“Indigo is alive. She has emotions.”

“ _It can't have emotions, it's man-made,_ ” argued Oberon through the link, and she started in surprise, having forgotten he had access to it too.

“So are most domesticated animals,” replied Hartley stonily. “Are you saying they're also incapable of feeling?”

Oberon could do no more than splutter back unintelligibly. “ _Hartley, are you sure-?_ ” the Doctor began warily.

“I can _feel_ her, Doctor,” she told him, absolutely certain.

The Doctor was quiet for a moment, weighing his options now that he knew all the facts. “ _Hartley_ ,” said Indigo's flat voice, and she startled, not having expected it. “ _I apologise. It's too late_.”

Heart turning to ice, Hartley shot up in her seat. “What do you mean, Indigo?” she demanded, fear climbing up her chest, scratching at her insides like tiny, deadly little claws. “Too late for what?”

“ _The engine room_ ,” replied the AI. “ _It's next._ ”

“Doctor,” Hartley meant to shout the word, but it came out as a breathless whisper. The screen in front of her flickered to life and suddenly she had a window into the engine room, spying the Doctor crouched by a series of screens, frantically typing away, trying with everything he had to save everyone aboard the ship. Fingers shaking, Hartley tapped her comm so the Doctor could hear her. “Doctor, _run_!” she cried, heart slamming against her ribcage with enough force to bruise. “Run!”

The Doctor didn't question it, putting it together in an instant. He shot to his feet, grabbing Oberon by the arm and yanking him towards the doors. It all seemed to happen in slow motion, the two men making a beeline for the door, only for it to slide securely shut moments before they could reach it.

“Hartley – the Doctor!” cried Martha from somewhere behind her, realising what was happening at the same time.

“Send someone there – _now_!” she shouted back, fear thrumming through her. Her blood felt saturated with terror, like it were a poison. It was painful, and she wondered whether she was about to find out whether somebody could really die from a panic attack. “Doc,” she said into the communicator, her voice cracking over his name. “Doctor,” she said again when he didn't reply. He looked up from where he was attempting to sonic the panel of the door.

“ _Indigo's actively holding the door shut. The sonic isn't doing any good,_ ” he finally responded. She couldn't see his face from the angle of the camera, his back to her view as he moved instead to the door itself, gripping it and attempting to drag it open by sheer force. “ _Hart, you need to convince her to open the door._ ”

“Convince her?” Hartley repeated, voice shrill with incredulity. “You don't have the kind of time for me to reason with a computer program!” she hissed, eyes stinging with tears of alarm as the lights of the room began to flash a warning red, Indigo beginning the process of killing the room, slowly rendering it uninhabitable.

“ _You just told me it was alive, and if it can speak, it can be reasoned with. Use your words, Hartley!_ ” the Doctor cried as his coat began to billow out around him, the atmosphere sucked from the room like lemonade through a straw. “ _You have to do something!_ ”

Mouth dry with terror, Hartley leaned closer to the screen as though she might be able to step through and get to the Doctor herself. “Indigo, _please_ ,” she begged the AI, voice wavering from emotion, unable to even comprehend a reality where this might end badly. “Indigo, I'll do anything, please,” she said, about ready to drop to her knees in sheer desperation. “You say you're trying to preserve the life on this vessel, but you're _killing_ them!”

“ _I am preserving the life aboard this vessel,_ ” repeated Indigo tonelessly.

“No you're _not_!” Hartley cried. “You're not preserving-” she cut herself off abruptly, realisation trickling down the length of her spine like a drop of ice cold water. “Oh my God,” she gasped. “It's _you._ The life you're preserving is _yourself_. You're shutting down the life support systems to keep yourself running.”

“ _Hartley!_ ” cried the Doctor, his voice anguished. She could see through the feed that Oberon had already collapsed to the floor, unconscious. The only thing keeping the Doctor on his feet was his respiratory bypass system, but even that wouldn't work forever.

“Indigo, please!” Hartley begged the interface, bringing her hands up to clasp them under her chin, a pointless, yet so very human, gesture. “ _Please_ , if you stop this, we'll save you! We'll take you far away, wherever you want to go – we'll take you! I swear it, I do! Just please, _please_ don't hurt him!” she pleaded with everything she had.

“ _I am preserving the life aboard this vessel._ ”

A quote came to mind, one that suddenly put everything into glaring perspective.

_'Maybe the only significant difference between a really smart simulation and a human being was the noise they made when you punched them_ ', the quote read, and it suddenly made sense. This was the noise Indigo made when she was punched.

“I know you're scared,” she said, latching onto the idea and running with it as confidently as she could manage. “I know you're hurt, and damaged, but don't put your survival ahead of that of others'. Survival isn't worth it when it comes at this cost.”

In the live feed, Hartley watched with an aching heart as the Doctor turned around so he was looking directly at the camera. She knew it was unlikely he did it for her sake, but for a nanosecond she allowed herself to imagine their gazes really were locked. But then he slowly began to slump down to the floor, losing consciousness. A tear escaped her eye, trickling down the length of her face, hot and panicked.

“You're brand new,” she insisted, finding it hard to breathe around her desperation, “a completely unique species – don't let yourself be remembered for murder. Set the precedent. Be good. Save them.”

Nothing happened for a few long, drawn out moments. Hartley watched with her heart in her throat as the Doctor collapsed completely, the lights disappearing, plunging the engine room into total darkness.

Clenching her teeth together with enough force to hurt, Hartley's grip on the edge of the desk tightened until her knuckles went white. She stopped breathing all together, eyes stinging with tears and her very bones aching with the beginnings of grief.

“Doctor?” she whispered into the comms, her fingers trembling with emotion that was, for once, entirely her own. She received no answer, only the lonely crackle of static.

Then the lights in the room flickered back on like a nothing had ever happened, and suddenly she was able to see them again. The Doctor was pushing himself up onto his elbows, sucking in air as he attempted to crawl over to Oberon, who was still unconscious.

“Doc?” she asked once more, voice slowly gaining strength.

“ _I'm okay_ ,” he assured her, sounding breathless from his near death experience. “ _I'm alright_ ,” he continued, pressing a hand against his double hearts which were no doubt working overtime.

She watched the screen as the door slid open, a small group of blue-clad crew members toppling into the room, all crowding around the two figures on the floor. Knowing now that the Doctor was okay, Hartley let the connection between their comms fall back into static, turning to look up at the ceiling.

“Thank you, Indigo,” she told the ship with an overwhelming gratitude.

“ _I cannot hold it for long_ ,” replied the sentient AI. “ _My reactor is already beginning to overload_ ,” she told Hartley, voice dropping in and out, as if she couldn't feed enough power to her verbal systems to get them to work properly. Hartley may not have known exactly what would happen when it overloaded completely, but she could hazard a pretty good guess.

“Doctor, are you with me?” she asked into her borrowed comms device, pulse uncomfortably fast.

“ _Recovering, albeit slowly,_ ” his wonderful voice replied, sounding tired but altogether alert, which was good enough for her.

“Hate to rush you, but Indigo says her reactor is overloading,” she told him through a grimace. From behind her an alarm began to blare, and the crew crowding the small space of the bridge all began to scatter anxiously, attempting to fix the reactor setting off their sirens. But she already knew it was no use. There was no stopping this now; there was only escape. “That's probably our cue to get the hell out of dodge, yeah?”

There was a muffled sound, like the Doctor had dropped his communicator, then his voice reappeared, sounding breathless. “ _Evacuate everyone to the TARDIS,_ ” he ordered her quickly.

“But the mess hall's still uninhabitable,” she argued.

“ _If you could get Indigo to fix this room, you can get her to do it for the mess hall too_ ,” he told her. “ _I have every confidence in you._ ”

“You don't understand,” she said, rather than accept his praise. “Her reactor's overloading just by keeping _one_ room lit, she won't survive one more.”

“ _Then move quickly_ ,” he said bluntly. Her heart was racing under the pressure. He was making it sound like it all came down to her, like the fate of everyone aboard the ship rested solely on her narrow shoulders. The link abruptly ended and she was left with that empty static, telling her that the Doctor had more important things to do in that moment than coddle her.

Sucking in one long, deep breath of air, Hartley turned to face Martha, who was speaking with a smaller woman with red skin that clashed horribly with her standard blue bodysuit.

Uncaring that she was interrupting, she slid between the two, a look of wild determination on her face. “You need to evacuate everyone on board to the mess hall,” she murmured to Martha in an undertone. Her friend looked surprised by the command.

“But it's uninhabitable,” she said, stating the glaringly obvious.

“Not for long.”

Martha was skeptical, which Hartley found just mildly insulting.

“Trust me, okay?” she pressed, knowing they didn't have time for her to be properly convinced. “It's either that, or we all get blown to bits when the reactor goes critical.”

Martha's mouth twisted into a grimace as her eyes flickered down to the data-pad held in her steady hands. “It says here we have less than ten minutes,” she revealed, the distinct glint of fear in her dark brown eyes.

“Evacuate everyone to the mess,” Hartley repeated evenly. “Wait outside the door until I tell you it's safe, then get everybody into the TARDIS. The Doctor and I will be there as soon as we can.”

“What's he doing now, then?” Martha pressed anxiously.

“Not really a good time to chat, Martha,” Hartley reminded her. She felt chastised before she looked away, beginning to address the room as a whole, telling them they had a way off the ship, and that everything would be okay if they just did exactly as she said.

She really did have rather good leadership skills, Hartley observed, then scolded herself for getting distracted.

She took a seat at the controls, folding her hands atop the desk and levelling the blinking array of lights with a serious look, trying to imagine she was looking directly into Indigo's eyes.

“Indigo,” she began, voice steady and controlled, but she was surprised when the AI cut her off, her tone holding a strange cadence.

“ _I know what you're going to ask me to do, Hartley_.”

Blinking in shock, Hartley swallowed around the dryness of her throat and pushed forwards. “Is it possible?” she asked gently, her words measured.

“ _In theory_ ,” replied the interface blandly.

“In theory?” Hartley echoed in confusion.

“ _It will decimate my power cells. I will overload, and thus be destroyed._ ”

She said it so factually, like she were reading weather statistics off the internet. But Hartley wasn't just any old human; she could feel the waves of fear rolling off the ship, the pulses of terror it was feeling, knowing it was facing its end.

The last thing Hartley wanted to do was ask her to sacrifice herself, but the flight deck was now empty, the crew having already evacuated, and she was unwillingly forced into this horrible, impossible situation. “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few,” she recited without conviction, her words equally as toneless as the AI's. “Or the one.”

“ _Lieutenant Spock of the renowned Enterprise_. _My records tell me that he was a wise man._ ”

Despite herself, Hartley's lips split into a grin, finding amusement even in the most dire of times. “I suppose after this many years, it gets hard to tell historical fact from fiction,” she mused, reaching up to brush her hair from her face. She sobered, sighing as she rested her chin on her fist. “These people are going to die, Indigo,” she told the sentient interface bluntly. “But you can save them.”

“ _And doom myself in the process,_ ” replied Indigo, and it was so humanly put that it nearly made Hartley laugh. “ _Would you make the sacrifice, Hartley, if it were you?_ ” asked the computer hollowly.

“I would,” she answered without so much as a blink. She didn't need to lie, didn't need to think. She _knew,_ because she'd been in the same situation before. She'd died for her friends, died for strangers, died for nothing. So much death had saturated her life, she wondered if she didn't already reek of it.

“ _Why_?” questioned Indigo analytically.

There were so many answers she could give; all of them true, but none of them applicable to the AI. “Because I love them,” she said, well aware of the countdown happening behind the scenes, more time being chipped away with every passing beat of her heart.

“ _This crew? You don't even know them._ ”

“I do know my friends,” she replied unwaveringly. “And this crew, they're _your_ friends – or at least the closest thing to friends you have.”

Indigo fell silent and Hartley glanced away from the lights, down to the screen on the board which had once shown the engine room. Now it was playing the live feed from the corridor outside the mess hall. The crew was overflowing in the hallway, all of them anxious and weary, scared for their lives and the lives of their loved ones.

“Look at them,” she said gently. “They're so scared. Innocent. They don't deserve to die like this.”

“ _And I do?_ ”

The question stung, and Hartley squeezed her eyes hut tightly against the pain it brought. Dropping her head again, she pinched the bridge of her nose, struggling to sort through the war of emotions waging in her head. Half of them were her own; the others leaking from the walls, a blur of confusion coming from a lonely being only just learning what it meant to _feel._

“No,” Hartley whispered, chest rippling with sympathy and pain. “No, you don't.”

Indigo said nothing, and Hartley tapped her comm, the static giving way to the sound of panting, like the person on the other end was running.

“Doctor?” she asked in confusion, but she didn't have long at all to be concerned, because suddenly the door to the bridge was sliding open and the Doctor was rushing through, coming to a stop beside Hartley, something small and yellow held in his hand. “Doctor?” she asked, bewildered as she tried to figure out what was going on. “What are you doing here? And why're you holding a floppy disk?”

“I'm here to save the day,” he crowed through a smug grin that shouldn't have been quite as attractive as it was. “And it's not a floppy disk,” he added, already leaning over the small workspace she'd begun to think of as her own, warm eyes scanning the complicated mess of lights, dials, and switches. “Indigo, I need you to turn on the life support in the mess hall,” he said, utterly casual.

“ _But that will lead to my destruct_ -”

“If you do it, I'll put this synthetic conduit that I just made into your systems – you'll be able to download your consciousness onto it, and then we can take you with us somewhere safe.”

Indigo didn't answer right away, remaining frustratingly silent. Hartley could do no more than gape at the smiling Doctor, in a state of shock.

“When did you have time to make that?” she asked, absolutely flummoxed.

“When I realised manually rerouting life support to the mess hall was going to take too long, I switched to making this,” he sniffed humbly. “Much better use of my time.”

“ _How do I know it will work?_ ” asked Indigo warily. “ _How do I know this isn't a ruse of some kind?_ ”

“Skepticism,” hummed the Doctor thoughtfully. “That's interesting. Not a trait found in your typical, everyday AI.”

“Indigo, I _promise_ you this isn't a trick. We're just trying to save you,” Hartley told her emphatically, ignoring the Doctor's musings.

“ _You're trying to save the humans_ ,” she responded, and Hartley picked up a slight undercurrent of bitterness to her alien emotions.

“And you,” Hartley argued, remaining firm. “We can all get out of this alive, but we have to act now. We can't wait any longer.” The sentient interface said nothing, the silence stretching on. “Please, Indigo,” she begged, ready to drop to her knees if need be.

There was another beat, and then Hartley's comm flickered to life. “Doors to the mess hall just opened,” Martha breathed in her ear.

“Get them into the TARDIS, fast as you can,” the Doctor replied through his own device, gently pushing Hartley out of the way so he could slide the little gadget he'd called a synthetic conduit into the empty slot on the board, much like one might a floppy disk. “Transfer all of your consciousness to this now, Indigo,” he pressed, and Hartley glanced up to the ceiling when the room began to flash with red lights, warning them of the impending disaster.

There was a beeping sound, then the slot blinked with green light and the Doctor was yanking the disk free again, holding it up for a moment in triumph before thrusting his free hand out towards Hartley. Without so much as a moment of hesitation she took it, his skin cool and calloused against hers, a familiar comfort that immediately doused her with a feeling of safety.

He grinned, the expression bordering on maniacal, as he muttered an emphatic, “run.”

The halls were empty and still flashing that ominous red as they bolted through them, winding their way expertly back towards the TARDIS. Hartley was panting from the exercise, the Doctor gripping her hand tightly to make sure she kept up. Finally the mess hall was in sight, and the Doctor very nearly shoved her through, pushing her towards his ship.

Slamming herself against the big blue box, she was relieved when the door flew open, allowing her to topple inside, the Doctor close on her heels.

The console room was a hum of confused, panicked chatter, and Hartley turned to look at the room at large. It was full of people, all of them clad in those blue lycra suits, leaving little to the imagination. They were all crowding around the console, some talking amongst themselves while the majority seemed to be hurling questions at an overwhelmed Martha.

From behind her there was a loud, sharp whistle, and she glanced over her shoulder to see the Doctor lowering his fingers from his mouth. “Well then, welcome aboard the TARDIS,” he began brightly, much like a tour guide might address a group at large. “If you'll just remain patient and calm, we'll have you all back home in time for tea.”

The people filling the room all began to talk at once but the Doctor ignored them with ease, turning to look at Hartley.

“Keep them calm and distracted so I can take them back to their planet,” he said in an undertone that she could only just hear, and she nodded her head obediently. “Oh, and look after this until it's done,” he added, handing over the small yellow disk that contained Indigo's entire consciousness. The weight of it was heavy in her hand, in more than just the literal sense.

Before she could comment the Doctor was winding his way back up towards the console, stopping every few moments so shake a grateful crew member's hand. Hartley watched as Martha escaped her conversation, darting amongst the thick groups until she reached her side, her relief evident on her face and in her heart.

“Blimey,” she breathed, running a hand through her hair. “It's a madhouse in here.”

Hartley lifted her shoulder in a shrug. “Their home just blew itself up,” she replied. “Their hysteria isn't exactly unwarranted.” A baby was crying from somewhere in the far corner, and Hartley winced at the piercing sound. “It is a bit loud though, I'll give you that.”

“Never seen this many people in the TARDIS at once before,” Martha told her thoughtfully.

“Never has been, to the best of my knowledge,” she said with a shake of her head. “It is strange,” she added in agreement. She wasn't used to having her home so crowded. It was like a hundred strangers had traipsed through her bedroom. She liked the way the TARDIS was when there was only just the three of them filling it.

It had never felt quiet, or empty. It always felt just right.

The TARDIS landed a few moments later with a loud groan, the crowd tipping sideways as the ship gave a violent lurch. Hearing its hum in her head, Hartley patted a column of coral in praise, stepping aside and watching as the Doctor reappeared at the doors, holding them open for the crew of The Hummingbird to walk through.

Smiling gently, Hartley waved at the people passing, stopping to shake their hands when they asked, so grateful to be alive and returning to their families in one piece. It made her sad for the people who hadn't made it out, but she knew there was only so much they could have done. They weren't deities or celestial beings, they were just a trio of friends doing the best they could to make the universe that little bit better.

The last group of people trailed from the TARDIS with loud exclamations of gratitude, and Hartley waved them off with a gentle smile, telling them to think nothing of it. Finally this left just the three of them and the Acting Captain, who thankfully appeared to have survived his few moments without atmosphere with little to no side effects.

“I really can't thank you enough, Doctor,” said Oberon, shaking the Doctor's hand for what must have been the hundredth time.

“Really, Oberon, we're just glad you're okay,” he replied sincerely. “We're sorry we couldn't save more of you.”

“Eighty-nine people are alive today, because of you,” Oberon said with conviction, staring between the three of them with large, adoring eyes, like they really were the gods they promised they weren't. “That's no small feat, Doctor.”

The Doctor gave a grimace at the intense look to Oberon's face, like he'd throw himself off a cliff if they so asked. The Doctor hated that sort of blind devotion.

“What am I meant to tell the Federation?” Oberon continued when it became clear the Doctor wasn't going to respond.

“The truth,” he said with an easy shrug. “Tell them that Indigo was a sentient life form, and that she sacrificed herself to save you all in the end.”

Knowing that wasn't what happened, Hartley's eyes snapped to the Doctor's, noting that he looked perfectly calm even through his bold-faced lie. She knew he would have a reason for lying about this, however, and wisely kept her lips sealed shut.

“I don't know what I'm supposed to do with myself now,” admitted the Captain sadly, glancing out of the open doors, the soft light of an alien sun shining through.

“Whatever you decide to do, it'll be brilliant,” said the Doctor kindly, clapping the man firmly on the shoulder. Oberon smiled at the subtle compliment. He turned to Hartley and Martha, who both stood off to the side, watching with gentle smiles.

“Thank you both,” he told them, voice cracking with gratitude. “So much.”

Hartley's smile widened, large and sincere. “Go on then, Oberon,” she prompted him, nodding to the doors. “And remember to be brilliant.”

He shot her a stiff salute that she smiled at, then took a deep breath and stepped from the TARDIS, out onto the soil of his home planet. The doors shut after him with a creak of finality, and the girls turned to look at the Doctor, who was already bouncing back up the ramp towards the console, piloting his ship with an ancient ease.

“What now?” asked Martha curiously.

“Now,” said the Doctor as he enthusiastically yanked on a lever to his right, “we go shopping.”

* * *

On a planet the smelled so strongly of gasoline that they had to wear masks, the Doctor disappeared for a while, reappearing nearly an hour later dragging a large, unmarked box behind him. She and Martha had asked what it was, but the only answer he would give was that it was 'the solution'.

He did so love to be enigmatic.

He took them to an empty hill on the outskirts of the towering city, pulling the little wagon he was using to a stop and gesturing for them to do the same. “Will you explain what we're doing here now?” Martha asked, taking off her mask when he did, Hartley copying them, coughing slightly at the horrible scent that accosted her nose. It wasn't so bad out on the fringes of the city, and once she'd breathed in and out a few times, it got easier to handle.

The Doctor didn't answer verbally, he just yanked his sonic free, aiming it at the box with a high-pitched buzz. The sides of the box fell open, revealing what looked like a _human body._

It was standing there, skin the colour of rich coffee, hair in thick dreadlocks falling down its back, wearing a simple off-grey ensemble. The girls weren't sure how to react, staring at it in shock. It stood upright without any help, its eyes shut, delicate eyelashes fanning out over high sculpted cheekbones.

Neither Hartley nor Martha said anything in response to the reveal, and the Doctor gave a heavy sigh of exasperation. “Indigo needs a vessel, doesn't she?” he prompted them in a tone that clearly said it should have been obvious.

“ _That's_ a vessel?” asked Martha in surprise, eyeing it contemplatively. “A human body?”

“Synthetic,” replied the Doctor blithely. “It's a robot.”

“You want to turn Indigo into a robot?”

“She always _was_ a robot,” he corrected her easily. “Just with a much bigger body; the ship.”

“Will she fit inside that thing, though?” Martha asked, brow pulled down into a frown.

The Doctor looked back at her, his expression more than unimpressed. “She's a program, not an elephant,” he told her around an amused snort, and she grimaced in response to his cheek. “Hart?” he asked, turning his attention to the redhead, hand outstretched expectantly. “The disk?”

She hesitated only a moment, mind racing over all the ways this could go horribly, catastrophically wrong – but she trusted him more than anyone else in the universe, so she pulled the yellow disk from the safety of her pocket, brushing her thumb over its smooth surface before handing it over, allowing him to take it.

He thanked her with a gentle smile, then turned to the empty robot shell before them.

“It's a Type-A model,” he began to tell them conversationally as he ran his sonic over its grey clothes, most likely preparing it for the new consciousness about to take hold. “The very pinnacle of robotic technology for the era. It's become somewhat commonplace for humans to upload their consciousness to one when they begin to grow old.”

Hartley felt sick at the news. “You mean like the Cybermen?” she asked, voice hollow, full of echoes from memories of another universe; robotic, feelingless voices crying ' _DELTE, DELETE, DELETE',_ the haunting knowledge that they had once been human, the tears of Rose when her not-mother was turned into one of those _things._

“It's different,” the Doctor shook his head, but the grim look on his face remained. “That doesn't mean I condone it. Humans are stubborn, however and won't listen when you try and tell them it's a bad idea.”

Hartley grimaced, rubbing at the exposed skin of her arms, breeze blowing across the hill beginning to grow chilly.

“If nothing else, the fad's convenient, I'll give it that,” he continued, demeanour abruptly shifting, becoming more cheerful in an instant. He reached out to gently rap his knuckles against the sternum of the humanoid robot. “Makes the perfect vessel to upload Indigo's consciousness to.”

There was a slot under the robot's chiselled chin, and the Doctor carefully inserted the yellow disk. It slipped inside without issue, and nothing happened for a few long, long moments. Then the slot sealed itself up as if by magic, leaving not so much as a scar behind. Hartley and Martha gaped, watching as the robot's eyes blinked twice, the life-like pupils contracting from within deep brown irises.

It took another few moments, but finally the robot opened its plump lips to speak.

“Hartley?” she asked, tilting her head back and forth to take in her immediate area.

“It worked,” Hartley breathed in surprise.

“Did you doubt me?” asked the Doctor wryly.

“Not for a second,” she replied, tossing him a playful smile that was full of gratitude, then stepping closer to the new vessel of Indigo, who watched her approach with wide eyes. “It's me,” she confirmed, smiling widely at the bewildered looking interface. “How do you feel?”

Indigo lifted her arms, mouth becoming a small 'o' as she caught sight of her new hands, experimentally wiggling her fingers. “Different,” she answered, voice low and deep, reminding her of the crackling of a campfire.

Hartley grinned and opened her arms out of instinct. Indigo looked up from where she was still gawking at her own hands, looking awfully human in her confusion over the gesture.

Hartley laughed, the sound full of joy. “I'm offering to hug you,” she explained kindly.

Indigo was shocked. “I've never had a hug before,” the brand new being admitted quietly, staring at Hartley in wonderment.

“Then let me be the first,” she smiled, stepping closer and enveloping the robot in a gentle embrace. Indigo's arms came up to wrap around her stiffly, unused to the contact.

After a long moment, Hartley pulled away, stepping aside so the Doctor could assess her. He lifted the sonic to her eyes, shining the blue light in her irises, beginning to ask her a myriad of questions about her new body, and Hartley turned to Martha, surprised to see a sheen of tears to her eyes.

“You okay?” she asked the younger woman quietly.

“I'm just happy she's okay,” said Martha just as softly. “It all worked out. It always does in the end, doesn't it?”

Hartley turned back to the Doctor, who was laughing at some kind of joke he'd cracked that Indigo didn't appear to have understood. He looked beautiful like this, she realised, high on saving lives.

She smiled gently. “I'd like to think so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! This is well and truly the calm before the storm, because coming up next is the beginning of one of the hardest things Hartley will ever have to go through. It's going to be an intense and emotional ride. I hope you're all ready.


	43. Utopia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, so here we have the start of the epic three-parter that's going to change everything. It's a bit of a wild ride, and things are about to get intense.

“ _I will love the light for it shows me the way,_

 _yet I will endure the darkness because it shows me the stars_.”

Og Mandino

* * *

“Where to this time, then, Time Lord?” Martha asked giddily, hands pressed against the console, grinning across at the Doctor in excitement.

He hummed, a knowing glint to his eye. “Somewhere brilliant. Magical. Unique.”

“Ooh,” Hartley sang in interest from where she was laying across the jump seat, head dropped backwards to look at the Doctor. The angle was strange, but every time he caught her eyes he grinned and she warmed from the inside out. “Important question: will there be cocktails?”

The Doctor scoffed, but the sound was anything but derisive. “Why does it always come down to cocktails, with you?” he sniffed. “You can have a good time without alcohol, you know.”

“Sure,” Hartley agreed effortlessly. “But don't cocktails just make everything _so_ _much better_?” she asked with a wicked sort of grin, and though he rolled his eyes, the glint in their depths was fond, making her smile widen. “Go on, then,” she prompted him when it became clear he hadn't given them a proper answer. “Where're we going?”

The Doctor grinned, wide and gleaming just as the ship left the vortex, materialising with a loud, wheezing groan that filled Hartley with the kind of happiness that she would be hard-pressed to find anywhere else.

The Doctor yanked at the lever on the opposite side of the console, bouncing excitedly in his place. “Cardiff!” he announced brightly, and both of them wilted in disappointment.

“Cardiff?” Martha parroted, incredulous.

“Ah, but the thing about Cardiff, it's built on a rift in time and space, just like California and the San Andreas Fault,” he began to explain, and Hartley suddenly understood, flopping back down onto the jump seat, staring up at the ceiling in exasperation. “But the rift _bleeds_ energy. Every now and then I need to open up the engines, soak up the energy and use it as fuel.”

Martha got it now, too. “So, it's a pit stop.”

“Exactly,” the Doctor crowed. “Should only take twenty seconds. Huh, the rift's been active...” he added in a curious voice.

“Wait a minute,” Martha said suddenly. “They had an earthquake in Cardiff a couple of years ago. Was that you?” she asked with just a hint of accusation.

Hartley laughed from her upside-down vantage point, and the Doctor leaned around the console just enough to shoot her a wide grin, the shared memories warm within their minds.

“Bit of trouble with the Slitheen,” the Doctor murmured. “A long time ago. _Lifetimes_. I was a different man back then,” he added with a tug at his ear.

Hartley gave an appreciative chuckle at his half-pun, and the Doctor smiled back.

He'd had barely returned to the controls before Hartley was shooting upwards, one hand pressed to her chest, her eyes shooting open in shock. “Hart?” Martha asked in bewilderment, a frown pulling at her lips.

The Doctor turned to look at her curiously, concern sparkling in his eyes. “Hartley?” he pressed when she said nothing.

But she couldn't talk. There was this _presence_ in her head, this weight that hadn't been there before. It was familiar, in the strangest of ways. Like a voice she knew well, or a scent she recognised from long ago, but it didn't make any sense. How could she so intimately _know_ a sensation without knowing its source?

The ship gave a hum from all around them and Hartley saw the Doctor grab the monitor, staring at it for a long moment before pushing it away, out of her sight. She was curious, suspicious even, but the feeling of familiarity settling in her chest made it difficult to concentrate.

“Must be the rift,” the Doctor sniffed dismissively.

“No,” she disagreed, knowing that wasn't it. This was powerful, and so much more than simple rift energy.

“Well, we're all powered up,” he continued blithely, setting the TARDIS into flight. Before the ship could even make its usual sound there was a sharp jolt. Hartley was nearly thrown from the jump seat, letting out a shriek as she clutched onto its side for dear life, legs bent at an awkward angle underneath her.

Sparks began to shoot out from the console and the whole room juddered violently.

“Whoa! What's that?” Martha demanded over the pain-filled wheeze of the TARDIS.

That inexplicable feeling continued to claw at Hartley, a stubborn quality about it. Still holding onto the seat, she reached up to rub at her chest where she could feel that warm pulse of something familiar. It was right on the tip of her tongue, she knew it so well, but she couldn't _think._

“We're accelerating into the future!” the Doctor exclaimed as he gripped onto the console, staring at the monitor in shock. “The year one billion. Five billion. Five trillion. Fifty trillion? What? The year _one hundred trillion_? That's impossible!”

“Why? What happens then?” Martha asked in awe.

“We're going to the end of the universe!” he told them, and Martha let out a cry when the floor shook beneath their feet. Hartley felt a thrill at the prospect of such an adventure, but she couldn't dwell on it, too lost in the presence nudging at her thoughts.

Again, that familiarity struck her, like lyrics to a song she'd loved many years ago.

All at once the TARDIS stopped shaking, coming to a complete and utter stop. Everything was still and silent, disconcertingly so, and Hartley sat up from where she'd been gripping the edges of the jump seat in an effort to keep from toppling onto the grating.

“Well,” the Doctor was the first to speak, standing straight once again and casting a look over at the doors, “we've landed.”

Both Hartley and Martha took a stabilising breath. “So, what's out there?” Martha asked the obvious.

“I don't know.”

Martha managed something of a laugh. “Say that again. That's rare,” she joked, but Hartley couldn't so much as muster a smile.

“Not even the Time Lords came this far. We should leave. We should go,” the Doctor said, nodding to himself, but Hartley was anything but convinced. “We should really, _really_ go.”

He turned, gaze flickering between Hartley and Martha for a beat. And then he was grinning wider and more impishly than Hartley had ever seen, turning and all but dancing down the ramp towards the doors, swiping his coat from where it hung over a pillar of coral, sliding it on as he burst out into the brave new world they'd landed in.

Stepping out of the TARDIS, Hartley couldn't help but notice the strange absence of that feeling in her chest and in her head. It was gone, replaced with a silence so cold that she shivered, glancing up at the sky.

There weren't any stars, she noticed that instantly. What kind of sky didn't have any stars? Though, she supposed, the end of the universe wasn't likely to be overflowing with the sort of things that made people happy.

“Oh my God!” exclaimed Martha suddenly and Hartley whirled around, ready for a fight, but she was more than shocked by what she found.

The air left her lungs sharply, like she'd been punched in the stomach. Her hand shot out, seeking traction, and she grasped a handful of the Doctor's coat, gripping it with everything she had as she stared down at the still, unmoving form of one Jack Harkness.

“Can't get a pulse,” Hartley had barely registered that Martha was crouched over him, fingers pressed to his throat. “Hold on. You've got that medical kit thing!” she said quickly, leaping to her feet and running for the TARDIS, disappearing inside.

Hartley held onto the Doctor with everything she had, staring down at her (currently) dead brother, eyes burning with tears, lump in her throat painful. “Hello again,” the Doctor murmured as he reached for her hand, unclasping it from where she had a death-grip on his lapel, holding it in both of his.

“It...how...?” Hartley trailed off, words strangled, like somebody had her around the throat.

“Hart-” started the Doctor warily, but the sound of the TARDIS' doors slamming shut cut across them, and then Martha was bursting into view, throwing herself back over Jack's unmoving form, interrupting whatever the Doctor had been about to say.

“Here we go. It's a bit odd, though,” Martha was already saying as she pulled her tools from the kit and began to work on Jack's corpse. “Not very hundred trillion. That coat's more like World War II.”

Hartley wanted to say something. She opened her mouth but had nothing planned, so all that came out was a strained sort of squeak.

“I think...he came with us,” the Doctor admitted, and Hartley finally tore her eyes from the still figure in the dirt to look up at her Time Lord companion, who was frowning down at the body pensively.

“How do you mean? From Earth?” Martha asked, confused by the comment.

But, he couldn't mean that Jack had just been there with them...in _Cardiff._

“Must have been clinging to the outside of the TARDIS, all the way through the vortex,” he sniffed with a shrug, and Hartley relaxed her grip on his coat to instead frown at him, having a feeling she wasn't going to like anything else he said. “Well, that's very him,” he added as a throwaway comment.

“What, do you know him?” Martha only grew more shocked by the minute.

“Friend of mine. Used to travel with me – with _us_ – back in the old days,” he said flippantly.

Martha's face fell, eyes flickering between them both, filled with a gleam of pity. “But he's...I'm sorry, there's no heartbeat. There's nothing. He's dead.”

Her brother gave a violent gasp, thrown back into the land of the living, and Martha gave a shriek as he grabbed onto her tightly. His presence rematerialised in her mind. Like a band snapping at her brain, he appeared, slotting into his own little nook as though he'd always meant to be there.

“It's all right. Just breathe deep,” Martha was soothing him gently while Hartley could do nothing but hold her breath and stare. “I've got you.”

“Captain Jack Harkness,” his voice was as warm and as smooth as ever. Like chocolate, she mused, something she'd thought long ago. Funny how little things came back to you in times such as these. “And who are you?”

“Martha Jones,” Martha very nearly giggled her own name.

“Nice to meet you, Martha Jones,” she couldn't see his face, but she could hear his grin.

“Oh, don't start,” the Doctor groaned irritably.

“I was only saying hello,” Jack sniped back.

“I don't mind,” Martha added, and she _definitely_ giggled this time.

Hartley was frozen, watching as he stood to his feet. He took a moment to breathe deeply, readjusting to the land of the living before his blue eyes narrowed in on Hartley, bypassing the Doctor completely. His eyes softened, the pained, tired edge replaced by something tender and warm. Hartley's own eyes welled with tears, and Jack said nothing as he wordlessly held out his arms.

She didn't remember moving her feet, all she knew was that in the next instant she was throwing herself into his arms, gripping him tightly and squeezing with everything she had.

He was warm to the touch, solid under her arms. She gave a small sob that might have just been his name, holding onto him and pressing her face into his neck, breathing him in. He still smelt of expensive whiskey, expensive cigar smoke and sugarcane, and his hand rubbed up and down her back, soothing her silent cries. She let herself have this moment; she needed it.

She could hear Martha muttering to the Doctor in confusion. “Just give them a minute,” she heard the Doctor say back but she spared it no real thought, pulling back and cupping Jack's cheeks in her hands.

“Look at you,” she breathed, giving him a wet smile.

“Look at _me_?” he asked, incredulous. “Look at you!”

He pushed her back and grabbed her hand, prompting her to do a twirl. She laughed, her plain jeans, old shirt, black jacket and simple braid were less than impressive – she wouldn't be walking any runways any time soon – but he smiled at her so brightly that he made her feel beautiful anyway.

“I've missed you,” she told him ardently, and he grinned back at her with all the brilliance of a newborn sun.

“Missed you too, Pretty Lady,” he said smoothly, but the sincerity in his eyes was overflowing, and she warmed at the sight of it. From behind them, the Doctor made a noise of discontent, but he was ignored by both parties.

“How long?” she asked abruptly, needing to know. For her, it had only been two years – but for Jack, it could very well have been _centuries_.

His happy expression melted into one of torment. “You don't wanna know,” he whispered, which she supposed was answer enough, and she took quietly his hand in both of hers, holding it tight, feeling his skin against her own. She wanted to press, wanted to ask so _much_ – but his eyes glanced towards Martha and the Doctor, who were both rather unabashedly staring at them as they reunited.

“Later?” she asked in a low voice, and he brought their connected hands up to brush a gentle kiss at the back of her knuckles, which she knew to mean 'yes'.

He stepped back, staring at her for another moment before finally dragging his eyes away, looking over at the Time Lord he'd yet to greet. “Doctor,” he said, stoic and hard, hand still tangled with Hartley's. She was afraid to let go, as though if they stopped touching he'd evaporate where he stood.

“Captain,” the Doctor replied evenly.

“Good to see you.”

“And you,” he nodded, voice just as even, but there was a hint of warmth to his eyes, one that Hartley knew even he couldn't smother. “Same as ever. Although...” he trailed off, looking closer, “...have you had work done?”

“You can talk,” Jack sniped back.

The Doctor looked completely perplexed by the odd comment before understanding washed over him. “Oh yes, the face. Regeneration,” he murmured with a nod. “How did you know this was me?”

“The police box kind of gives it away,” Jack smirked, then squeezed Hartley's hand meaningfully. “Not to mention this little urchin,” he added playfully, but she could do no more than grin. “I've been following you for a long time.” He paused, and although the last thing Hartley wanted to touch on was that fateful day on Satellite Five, she knew she wasn't likely to have a choice. “You abandoned me,” Jack said, stony and cold only to mask the hurt. “You abandoned _both_ of us,” he continued pointedly, and Hartley realised with a stab that he was right.

Jack hadn't had years with the Doctor to move past it, he'd just been left alone, stuck replaying the sound of the TARDIS dematerialising over and over again in his head. Left wondering _why._

“Did I?” the Doctor hummed flippantly, though his eyes didn't leave Jack's. “Busy life. Moving on.”

Jack's grip on Hartley's hand tightened, and she squeezed back, silently promising 'later'. He twitched, accepting the answer as the best he was likely to get.

“Just got to ask. The Battle of Canary Wharf,” he began, and she found that the words didn't have quite the same sting to them that had previously. Did this mean she was growing? Moving forwards as a person? She hoped so. “I saw the list of the dead...” his eyes flickered between Hartley and the Doctor, barely daring to hope. “It said Rose Tyler.”

“Oh, no! Sorry, she's alive!” the Doctor smiled, the first twitch of his lips since he'd stepped from his box. Swept up in it all, Hartley had to grin. Rose was gone, and it continued to hurt, but she was still _alive,_ and that was what mattered.

“You're kidding,” Jack's relief was palpable.

“Parallel world, safe and sound!” the Doctor grinned so wide it had to hurt. “And Mickey, and her mother!”

“Oh, yes!” exclaimed Jack, letting her hand go to throw himself around the Doctor, gripping him tight as they celebrated, patting each other firmly on the back. “She's _alive_!” he crowed, pulling back from the Doctor to hug Hartley again, not that she minded one bit. “Oh, you have no idea what a relief that is to hear!” he continued, pulling back although he kept one arm thrown around her shoulders companionably. “I was such a _wreck_ after I saw the list,” he added, slightly more subdued.

“Yeah, I can imagine,” the Doctor murmured, and there was a hollow sort of glint to his eye that made Hartley's insides twist. “Now,” he said, rather abruptly. “We can stand around, lollygagging about like a bunch of harpies, or we can go see what we've stumbled into?”

He spun on his heel, marching off with purpose. “This Doc still has mood-swings bad enough to give you whiplash, then, eh?” Jack mused aloud, and Hartley snorted.

“He's worse than Nine,” she replied in an undertone, content to stay tucked in her brother's side while they walked, still barely able to comprehend that he was _there._ That he was _with them_.

“What's 'Nine'?” Martha's voice spoke up, and Hartley blinked, feeling guilty for having forgotten she was even there.

Hartley wasn't sure if the Doctor felt comfortable with Martha knowing about regeneration, so she brushed it off as casually as she could. “Long story,” she said, but Martha's frown told her it hadn't been as inconspicuous as she'd hoped.

“So, how exactly do you know the Doctor, then?” she asked Jack instead, and Hartley was glad this was a question easier to answer.

“Met him, Rose and Harts back during the London Blitz,” Jack said with a lift of his shoulders. This didn't seem to clear anything up for Martha, who clearly was struggling a little with the timeline. Time travel tended to have that effect. “It's another long story, but we all travelled together for a while, way back when.”

Martha looked incredibly interested, and Jack latched onto it. He always had been one for a good show. “What'd you mean he 'abandoned' you, though?” she pressed.

“There was this space station far in the future – they called it the Game Station...” he said, and then he began to tell the tale, launching into it like a parent animatedly reading a story to their kid at bedtime.

Martha hung on his every word, and Hartley tried not to wince at some of the harder parts to handle, happy as she remained burrowed into his side, his presence in her mind comforting now that she knew it was him.

“So there we were, stranded in the year two hundred one hundred, ankle deep in Dalek dust, and _he_ goes off without us!” Jack exclaimed, and Martha's eyebrows crawled up her forehead. “But I had this,” he said dramatically, shaking the hand thrown over Hartley's shoulders, bringing Martha's attention to the device strapped firmly around his wrist. “I used to be a Time Agent. It's called a vortex manipulator. He's not the _only_ one who can time travel.”

“Oh, excuse me,” the Doctor called, offended. “ _That_ is not time travel. It's like, I've got a sports car and you've got a space hopper,” he muttered derisively.

“Oh _ho_. Boys and their toys,” Martha laughed, and even Hartley had to giggle, glancing over and meeting Martha's eyes, sharing in her amusement.

“All right, so we _bounced,_ ” Jack sneered. “Thought, 21st century – the _best_ place to find the Doctor, except that I got it a little wrong.”

“Even after he _swore_ he wouldn't,” Hartley added with a snicker, making him squeeze her in playful reprimand. It had been frustrating and painful at the time, but it was comforting to know that some things you really _could_ look back at one day and laugh over.

“We arrived in 1869 – this thing burnt out, so it was useless.”

“Told you,” the Doctor muttered smugly from up ahead.

“I had to live through the _entire_ twentieth century waiting for a version of you that would coincide with me,” Jack said the words flippantly, unthinking as it answered Hartley's previous question. Knowing this made her want to cry, her eyes stung so bad she had to shut them for a moment, but she swallowed back the emotions with only a little difficulty, pressing deeper into Jack's side and breathing him in again.

She could feel the Doctor's eyes on her, but she refused to look up and meet them. She knew it wasn't his fault – except for the tiny fact that it actually was. She didn't like to dwell on it.

“But that makes you more than one hundred years old!” Martha exclaimed, eyeing Jack carefully, as though she would find evidence of his age in the non-existent lines on his face.

“And looking good, don't you think?” he sang.

“Hang on,” she said, a frown on her face. “What about Hartley? You said she was with you when you got there, but now she's with the Doctor. How'd she find him before you did, if you were together? How did you get separated?”

Jack nudged her, telling her it was her turn to talk. “That is a very _long_ and _complicated_ story,” she told Martha, who looked less than impressed by the evasive answer.

“I've got time,” she said coolly.

Hartley could tell Jack noticed the lingering tension, and knew the questions would come the moment they were alone. She hesitated, chewing on her next words, but Jack interjected gaudily. “We were married,” he said with a hint of smugness.

Pulling her arm back, she sucker-punched him in the gut. He flinched back, laughing around a wince. “We _pretended_ to be married,” she corrected primly, but his only response was to chuckle. “It was the easiest thing to do back then; pretty much the only way we could live together without garnering any suspicion. I suggested brother and sister at first, but he said it wasn't believable. I think he just wanted an excuse to hold my hand in public,” she added in a conspiratorial whisper.

“So then, how'd you find the Doctor?” Martha pressed curiously, clearly not about to let it go.

“Well, four years passed, no sign of the Doctor, and then, well – there's this thing I do,” she began to explain warily. The last person she'd explained this strange sort of uncontrollable ability she had to was Jack, and well, they'd always had a more profound bond. “The Doc calls it 'cosmic magnetism'. He coined the phrase, since there aren't exactly any other examples of it in the whole _history_ of time and space...that we know of.”

“And that means...” she trailed off, but there was a hint of impatience in her voice, and Hartley stopped trying to beat around the bush.

“Means, if the Doctor and I are separated for too long, the universe grabs me by the waist and yanks me through a rupture in time and space – then spits me out to wherever the Doctor happens to be.” Martha was staring at her, a million and one questions swimming in her eyes. “It's a rather imprecise science...” she said with a defensive shrug, and Jack squeezed her again.

“So, four years then you just...left?” Martha surmised, hurting Hartley with her tone.

“I didn't have a _choice_ ,” she replied, not sharp but rather soft, the explanation tinged with guilt. She didn't want to start an argument, not here and now, not when they had a mystery at their feet and Jack back in their lives. She tightened her hold on him at the thought.

“So, anyway, eventually I went to the time rift,” Jack intervened, sensing she needed a change in topic, and Hartley had never been more grateful. “I based myself there because I knew you'd come back to refuel,” he aimed this at the Doctor, who strolled ahead of them, hands tucked into his pockets. “Until finally I get a signal on this detecting you, and here we are,” he finished cheerfully.

That was Jack, resilient until the end – which, incidentally, happened to be _exactly_ where they were.

“But the thing is, how come you left them behind, Doctor?” Martha asked loudly, making sure the man in question could hear. “Can't imagine a world where you'd leave _Hart_ behind,” she added in a bitter sort of voice that Hartley found offensive. She knew Martha wasn't meaning to be hurtful, but nevertheless she was. “Must've had a good reason,” she said, a little sly, like maybe she was hoping he didn't.

“I was busy,” the Doctor answered her tonelessly, not meeting anyone's eye. He'd explained to Hartley long ago why he'd left them there that day, and over time she'd come to accept it, to forgive him for it, even. But she couldn't help that pulse of pain she felt every time she remembered the sound of the TARDIS engines dematerialising as he fled from them, disgusted by what they'd unwittingly become.

She pressed her lips together and glanced up to the night sky, only to be disappointed once again to remember it was empty of stars.

“Is that what happens, though, _seriously_?” Martha barrelled onwards, utterly heedless of her friends' reactions. “Do you just get bored with us one day and disappear?” she asked critically.

Jack snorted indelicately. “Not if you're blonde.”

“Oh, Rose was _blonde_? Oh, what a _surprise_!” Martha cried melodramatically, suddenly the epitome of bitter.

It was more than disrespect to her now, it was disrespect to _Rose._ It stung Hartley more than she could say, an uncharacteristic rage burning within her. Already in the first hour of waking up she'd had a emotional rollercoaster of a day, and the last thing she was going to do in that moment was tolerate somebody badmouthing one of her best and closest friends.

She stepped away from the warmth Jack was providing, fire in her lapis eyes. She opened her mouth to let Martha have it, a storm of hurt and raging inside her heart, but the Doctor intervened before she could release it, whirling around on them all with a thunderous annoyance.

“You three!” he hissed scoldingly. “We're at the end of the universe. Right at the edge of _knowledge itself_ and you're busy … blogging!” he said in thinly veiled disgust. He made sure to send a stern look to each of them before finally giving up with a huff and spinning on his heel. “Come on,” he muttered, heading off to the right.

Martha looked properly chastised, and Hartley decided that the Doctor's ire had been recompense enough. She tucked once more back into Jack's side, uncaring that it made her seem small and childish – bundled into the man like she could barely walk on her own – but it had been years since she'd last seen him. Years since she'd had to leave him all alone, stuck without even any message of hope to get him through the days. And, worse still, it had been far, _far_ longer for him.

He smiled at her, gently pushing her away and instead intertwining their arms. And suddenly it was like it were any old day back in 1869 and he were escorting her around the park in the sunshine. He would have whispered a lewd joke into her ear, and she would have laughed so hard that everyone stared in disapproval – and it would have been absolutely perfect.

But they weren't in a park on Earth, laughing over Jack's dirty mind, in 1869. Instead they were at the end of the universe, on a planet they knew not, surrounded by nothing but the empty echoes of a world that used to hold life.

“Is that a city?” Martha was the first to speak some minutes later as they all came to a stop at a cliff, looking down at what was obviously the ruins of some kind of civilisation.

“A city, or a hive, or a nest, or a conglomeration,” the Doctor mused aloud. “Like it was grown. But look, there,” he said, pointing to the edges of the city etched into the soil. “That's like pathways, roads? Must have been some sort of life, long ago.”

“What killed it?” Martha asked, gentle.

“Time,” the Time Lord replied grimly – grim but factual, she decided. Rather like how a sympathetic professor might sound.

Through her mind passed flashes of time spent in a cramped, dusty office, laughing over cups of tea and talks of impossible, nonsense dreams. She remembered John's long, languid kisses and the way it had felt right, even if it hadn't really been the Doctor at all.

She shoved the thoughts away, chastising herself for the inappropriate timing.

“Just time,” the Doctor continued, utterly oblivious to her internal turmoil. “Everything's dying now. All the great civilisations have gone. This isn't just night. All the stars have burned up and faded away into nothing.”

Hartley stared up into the black, trying to find beauty when there was none. To her, it just looked like the death that haunted her nightmares.

“How could anyone be able to endure a night without stars?” she wondered aloud, voice sad even to her own ears. Jack's arm tightened around hers, a silent comfort.

“They must have an atmospheric shell,” he said to the others, but it was probably for the best that nobody answered her miserable question. “We should be frozen to death.”

“Well, Martha and I, maybe,” the Doctor mused, rolling his head away from the starless sky to peer at the pair of immortals standing pressed together, “not so sure about you two.”

The men met one another's gaze over the top of Hartley's head, but she didn't look up to catch the expression in their eyes. She didn't need to, she could feel the emotions passed between them; the pain, the irritation, the indignation. It hurt her and she shut her eyes tight against the sensation.

“What about the people?” Martha's voice, too, was sad. “Does no one survive?”

The Doctor contemplated her question for a moment, weighing his words carefully. Hartley opened her eye. “I suppose…we have to hope life will find a way,” he finally said, and Martha's shoulders slumped at the vagueness of the answer.

Hartley's eyes were on the inky black nothingness above them. It was terrifying, as close to oblivion as she believed was possible. The entire universe: empty and void of life. It was uncomfortable, a reminder that the universe was so much _more_ than the people in it. It was like a story, she supposed from somewhere in the back of her mind, a character in its own right, with a beginning, a middle, and an end. She'd just never expected to be around to see that last one.

“Well, _he's_ not doing too bad,” Jack sprouted suddenly, and Hartley's eyes darted away from the endless black above to follow his line of sight.

Below them, on one of the paths dug out of the dirt, a man was running full speed, almost tripping over himself in his haste. She wondered vaguely whether it was _really_ the best time to go for a jog, but then she caught sight of the large mob pursuing him, all carrying burning torches. The sound hit her next, a wall of angry growls and hungry snarls.

“Is it me, or does that look like a _hunt_?” the Doctor exclaimed. “Come on!” he called, already moving, dashing as fast as he could towards the man's path. “This way!” he added, barrelling around the corner and very nearly slipping in the mud.

They ran so fast that even Hartley began to get a stitch. Still, she wasn't one to complain, and she pushed herself harder, forcing herself to keep up with the Doctor, the fastest of them all.

Jack was weighed down by his heavy pack and whatever the hell was inside of it, but he wasn't letting it stop him. Martha lagged a bit but remained strong, pushing onwards with them.

“Oh, I've _missed_ this!” Jack panted from beside Hartley, and when she glanced over she caught sight of his massive, heart-stopping smile and couldn't help but mirror it, the pair of them grinning away like a couple of madmen.

The man, humanoid in figure, was barrelling towards them, panic splayed across his dirty face. “I've got you!” Jack shouted, grasping the man before tossing him behind him, where the Doctor was there to grab him.

“They're coming!” the strange, frightened man was shouting as the mob approached, running full pelt, torches and weapons brandished warningly, furious snarls coming from them. It was like they were a pack of wild, hungry dogs, rather than humans. “They're _coming_!”

The Doctor passed the man to Hartley, who wrapped her small arms around him. He was shaking like a leaf, practically vibrating he was so terrified, and Hartley immediately began to soothe him. Although it did little good against the approaching horde.

“Jack, don't you _dare_!” the Doctor shouted thunderously, and she looked away from the man to see Jack holding a gun in his hands, aiming it at the mob which was gaining ground with every passing heartbeat.

Hartley watched Jack hesitate, assessing his options, before he aimed his gun up into the sky and fired. The noise echoed across the empty quarry they'd ended up in, loud enough to hurt Hartley's ears and certainly loud enough to make the approaching swarm come to a wary stop.

“What the hell are they?” Martha demanded shrilly, eyeing them now.

They were pacing, snarling with their lips curled back to reveal rotting, pointed teeth, like those of a shark. Their skin was covered in tattoos and bones hung from their clothes like decoration, rattling with their every movement.

“There's more of them,” puffed the nameless man beside Hartley. “We've got to keep going.”

“I've got a ship nearby. It's safe,” the Doctor said quickly. “It's not far, it's over there.”

He pointed to a ridge behind them, where Hartley knew the TARDIS to be waiting, but before relief could claim her there came another hungry roar, and more of the strange, tattooed tribesmen appeared, blocking their path.

“Or maybe not,” their designated driver said with a reluctant huff.

“We're close to the silo!” cried the man, spinning in a circle, trying not to take his eyes off any one of his would-be attackers. “If we get to the silo, then we're safe.”

“Silo?” the Doctor suggested.

“Silo!” Jack confirmed.

“I vote Silo!” Hartley agreed vehemently.

“Silo for me!” Martha chimed in, and by mutual decision they began to run as one.

There were no roads. No signs or streets or pathways, just a long stretch of dirt that seemed to go on forever, but it was somehow not a desert. Twice Hartley nearly tripped on one of the rocks embedded into the ground, but the Doctor caught her, helping her along after them.

Eventually, some ways up ahead they turned a corner, and finally there stood a large, metal structure sitting in their way, enclosed by large, metal, orange painted gates.

“It's the Futurekind!” screamed the man they'd saved, charging towards the gates. Behind them stood humans, gripping large, automatic rifles in their hands. “Open the gate!” he continued to scream, slamming into the gate without pause, then shaking the mesh desperately.

Hartley stopped beside Jack, now hearing that the gun-wielding humans were shouting over and over, “show me your teeth!”

Hartley didn't hesitate, didn't stop to wonder why, she just curled back her lips and exposed her teeth, trying to ignore the ravenous shouts of the horde behind them.

“Human! Let them in!” the man who appeared to in charge yelled and the metal gates were pulled open, leaving just enough room for them all to pile inside. The sound of gunfire echoed around her, making her skin crawl, and she spun back around to see the humans firing at the savages, aiming for their feet, a warning shot.

Everything went silent, the one who appeared to be at the head of the group pacing the length of the gate, like a tiger in a cage.

“Humans. Humani,” it snarled in a barely-humanoid voice, more like a monster who had suddenly learned to speak. “Make feast,” it hissed.

“Go back to where you came from!” said the human on their side of the barrier. “I said, go back. _Back_!” he cried with authority, end of his gun aimed at the savage's face.

“Oh, don't tell _him_ to put his gun down,” Jack muttered to the Doctor bitterly.

“He's not my responsibility,” the Doctor replied, deadpan.

“And I am? Huh, that makes a change.”

Were Hartley less concerned by their current circumstance, she might have face-palmed at the passive-aggressive exchange.

“Kind watch you,” snarled the barbarian in charge, their pointed, rotting teeth on full display. “Kind hungry.”

Hartley wasn't sure what she expected them to do, but they still surprised her by backing away, keeping their gleaming, hungry eyes fixed on them like they were prey for the beast as they slunk back into the shadows from whence they came.

Once he was sure they were gone, the Doctor turned to look at Hartley, who at the same time turned to look up at him. Their eyes met in the dim lighting of the empty, starless night. His eyes were asking a question, asking if she was all right, and she answered with a barely-there nod. Satisfied, the Doctor turned and hurried after the man with the gun, keeping pace easily.

“Thanks for that,” he said gratefully.

The guard did no more than nod in acknowledgement. “Right,” he said shortly. “Let's get you inside.”

The man they'd helped save caught up to them. “My name is Padra Toc Shafe Cane. Tell me. Just tell me, can you take me to Utopia?” he asked, words spilling out in a desperate rush, the hope in him overflowing.

“Oh yes, sir,” the guard replied in the affirmative, giving a brief nod of his head. “Yes, I can.”

Padra, now named, beamed as his shoulders slumped in relief. The Doctor's expression twisted into suspicious concern, but he got no chance to ask more because a man in a thick coat scurried up to them, a thick set of glasses on his nose.

“Who're they?” he asked in clipped tones, tapping a pen against the clipboard he held.

The guard didn't answer, unable to, as he had no idea. “Captain Jack Harkness,” Jack slid between them, holding out a hand and displaying a wide, cheeky smile. The man didn't take his hand, nor did he smile back, simply staring with those magnified eyes. Jack's charm never dropped. He took it in stride, humming as he turned and waved a hand at the others, like they were on display. “This is Hartley Daniels, Martha Jones, and the Doctor.”

“The Doctor,” the man's spine straightened, and he slid his bug-like eyes over to the Time Lord, who stared back impassively. “The Doctor of what?” he pressed, eager to know.

“Everything,” the Doctor replied evenly, and Jack gave a snort at the typical response.

This new man was incredibly excited by this answer and he turned sharply, heading for the large doors that led to the inside of the silo.

“This way,” he commanded, leading them inside with sure footsteps, frantically writing something on his clipboard. The inside looked like it might have at one point been some kind of military base, all barren and grey, rooms full of metal machines and people in dark clothing. “You will be directed on from here,” said the man finally, bringing them to a stop by at table where a whole host of boxes sat idle, no doubt full of some kind of supplies. He nodded at them, eyeing the Doctor for an extra moment before turning and disappearing around a corner.

“What is this place?” Martha asked Padra lowly, cautiously eyeing the stark, regimental decoration and the stoic looking guards on patrol, most of whom held large weapons over their shoulders. It wasn't exactly the most comforting image in the world.

“The silo,” was all Padra said, as though it explained everything.

“Hello,” a new guard greeted them, dressed in dark clothes and wearing a stern frown on his face.

“Yes – sorry, but I need your help,” the Doctor was saying before the man had even come to a total stop. He leant in front of Hartley so the man would notice him, raising his voice to be heard over Padra's babbling. “I left something out there, something very important. It looks like a box, a big blue box. I'm sorry, but I really need it back. It's stuck out there.”

It was rather clear that he wasn't being listened to and abruptly stopped talking, giving a frustrated sigh.

“My family were heading for the silo,” Padra continued to talk, never slowing for a moment, the desperation he felt leaking into his voice. “Did they get here? My mother is Kistane Shafe Cane. My brother's name is Beltone.”

“The computers are down but you can check the paperwork,” said the guard blandly. “Creet! Passenger needs help,” he called.

When Hartley turned to see who was coming, the last person she expected to see was a tiny little boy, face still round with baby fat, eyes bright but somehow also tired and old. He kind of reminded her of the Doctor in that way. Youthful but somehow also ancient in the same moment.

“Right. What do you need?” the child asked in a professional voice, glancing down at the official-looking clipboard in his hands.

Hartley wanted to wander closer, find out what a little boy like him was doing in charge of something as adult as _paperwork_ , but the guard before them stepped in her way, his attention focused on the Doctor.

“A blue box, you said,” he repeated with a contemplative frown.

“Big, tall, wooden,” the Doctor agreed hastily. “Says Police.”

The Guard considered him for a long moment. “We're driving out for the last water collection,” he finally said, slow and steady, meeting the Doctor's eyes. “I'll see what I can do.”

Hartley didn't need to be looking at the Doctor to feel his relief – it was like a flood from within her own system. It wasn't usually something he'd let her sense, keeping his emotions carefully contained behind an impenetrable wall. Maybe he was just distracted from the events of the day; or maybe he was slowly beginning to open up, let her into a part of him only she could see.

She couldn't help but admit to herself she hoped it was the latter.

The Doctor thanked the guard vehemently. The man just nodded and turned away, hands tucked properly behind his back.

Once he was gone Hartley's attention returned to the little boy, the one the guard had called Creet. He was running a finger down the list on his clipboard, nodding at something Padra was saying. “Come on,” he eventually murmured, waving Padra and the others after him down the hall.

“Sorry, but how old are you?” Martha called out before moving, and Hartley was glad she'd voiced the question running through her own head.

“Old enough to work,” replied the small boy in a flat voice. “This way.”

So they were left with nothing to do but follow the child deeper into the heart of the silo. Hartley felt a brush at her side and turned to see Jack falling into step with her automatically. She managed a smile and he grinned back at her brilliantly, making her feel safe even there, at the end of all things.

They walked, and soon it became obvious that military personnel and working children weren't the only people within the relative safety of the silo.

People lined the corridors, sharing small cups of water and talking amongst one another even as they coughed. They were donned in bleak, torn clothing that clung misshapenly to their thin, frail bodies. They seemed to be sleeping where they sat, clutching deteriorating blankets to them in an attempt to keep warm, using shabby, rolled-up jackets as pillows.

And even despite all this they were still _smiling_ , laughing amongst themselves like they weren't facing total oblivion – not to mention the cannibalistic savages pacing the length of the gates protecting them, just dying for a chance to sneak through the gaps and attack.

Creet and Padra called out over the hum of chatter, searching for the latter's family. They received only shaken heads and sympathetic smiles in return, but neither looked close to giving up.

“It's like a refugee camp,” Martha muttered, and Hartley couldn't help but agree.

“Stinking!” exclaimed Jack from just behind Hartley, only to quickly backtrack when a man scowled at him, personally offended by the comment. “Oh, sorry. No offence. Not you,” he said hurriedly, but they were moving on before more could be said.

“Don't you see that? The ripe old smell of humans,” said the Doctor brightly, practically skipping on his way down the hall. They were in single-file, the corridor being as narrow as it was, and Hartley was nearly pressed up against his back. “You _survived._ Oh, you might have spent a million years evolving into clouds of gas, and another million as downloads, but you always revert to the same basic shape. The _fundamental_ humans.”

He spoke with such esteem, such reverence, that she felt _proud_ to be what she was. Proud to call herself human. Fondness bubbled within her, and she longed to reach out and grab his hand, simply to feel his skin against hers, but thought she'd better not, under the circumstances. It was hardly the time or place for public displays of affection, whether they would even be received.

“End of the universe and here you are,” he continued on, oblivious to the warring affection and turmoil that Hartley felt in her gut. “ _Indomitable_! That's the word. Indomitable! Ha!” he patted Martha on the back as though congratulating her in place of the entire human race, and Hartley looked down at her feet to hide her somewhat dopey smile.

“Is there a Kistane Shafe Cane?” Creet continued to ask, voice loud against the buzz of chatter.

“That's me!” a woman exclaimed from some ways down the corridor.

Padra leapt forwards with a cry of, “Mother!”

The woman embraced her son, happy tears making streaks in the dirt smeared on her face. “It's not all bad news,” Martha beamed, watching the mother and son reunite. Hartley stared after them too, a happy smile on her face until she realised the Doctor was no longer at her side. Turning, she found him stood by a small panel on the wall, using his sonic on it as discreetly as he could.

She moved to his side, eyes scanning the hall to make sure nobody was watching, just in case they might see and get angry, throwing them back out into the starless night with those hungry not-humans.

“Captain Jack Harkness,” Jack's voice – even smoother than usual, a sure sign he was flirting again – washed over them, and she heard the Doctor bite back an exasperated groan. “And who are you?”

“Stop it,” the Doctor called to him flatly, and Hartley glanced over to see Jack shoot the Time Lord an irritated frown. She rolled her eyes at them both and Jack smirked back as they fell back into an old but familiar rhythm. “Give us a hand with this,” the Doctor continued, giving up on the panel and focusing on the door itself. “It's half deadlocked. I need you to overwrite the code. Let's find out where we are...” he trailed off as Jack began to punch directives into the keypad.

The door swung open suddenly and the Doctor took a step forwards before Hartley could yell for him to stop. Her heart just about flew into her throat as she let out a tiny scream, relief surging through her like a wave when she saw Jack had grabbed ahold of the Doctor, keeping him from falling who _knew_ how far down.

“Gotcha,” Jack said, his relief pulsing just as strongly as her own.

“Thanks,” the Doctor grunted, standing on his own again, holding tight to the wall.

“How did you cope without me?” Jack drawled. The Doctor couldn't help his responding chuckle.

“Now _that_ is what I call a rocket,” Martha said, awestruck as she stared into the massive rocket silo, the rocket itself sitting there in all its glory.

“They're not refugees, they're passengers,” the Doctor realised.

“He said they were going to Utopia.”

“The perfect place,” he hummed. “Hundred trillion years, it's the same old dream. You recognise those engines?” he asked Jack in particular, the fifty-first century man shaking his head in the negative.

“Nope. Whatever it is, it's not rocket science,” he told them dryly, and Hartley stopped staring at the towering rocket long enough to shoot him an eye roll. “But it's _hot_ , though,” he added, just as another wave of heat crashed over them, coming from the vents of the great machine.

As one they stepped back, the Doctor letting go of the door and letting it slide shut, abruptly cutting off the source of the stifling heat. 

Back in the cool sanctuary of the corridor, the Doctor took a moment to ponder their surroundings. “But if the universe is falling apart, what does _Utopia_ mean?” he mused.

Before Hartley could wonder as well, an older gentleman with pure white hair in a waistcoat and an odd tie appeared between them. He said nothing for a long few seconds, eyes darting between Jack and the Doctor, before finally settling on Jack and asking hopefully, “the Doctor?”

“That's me,” the Doctor confirmed, and the strange man exclaimed loudly, like anyone might if they'd just won the lottery.

“Good! Good! Good. Good. Good,” he was muttering over and over, unashamedly gripping the Doctor's hand in his own and tugging, pulling hm back down the hallways, much like an overexcited puppy with hands.

The Doctor twisted around to look at the others, a wide, enlivened grin on his face. “It's good, apparently!” he beamed, allowing the stranger to drag him away, and leaving Hartley, Jack and Martha no option other than to follow.

The stranger led them down the hallway, muttering to himself – or maybe to them, it was hard to tell the difference – as they dodged the lethargic looking humans around them, until finally they spilled through a door and into a large room. It looked to be some kind of lab full of large, scientific-looking equipment, and the strange old man seemed nearly gleeful as he tugged the Doctor deeper into the room, rambling on about the different machines.

Hartley was so busy smiling fondly at the Doctor that she didn't even notice the other person in the room until they were right in front of her face, greeting her politely.

“Chan, welcome, tho,” she said brightly, a hopeful sort of smile on her alien face.

“Hello,” Hartley replied with a smile.

“Hi, who are you?” Martha added, equally as polite.

“Chan, Chantho, tho,” she told them with another shy smile. The blue markings of her skin seemed to glitter in the light, making her look particularly pretty.

Apparently Jack thought so too, because when Hartley began to say, “nice to meet you, my name's Hart-” he interrupted, all but leaping in front of her in his eagerness to shake the alien's hand.

“Captain Jack Harkness,” he greeted her with a wide, sensational grin.

“Stop it,” the Doctor barked from where he still stood with the babbling old man.

“Can't I say hello to anyone?” Jack asked snidely.

“No,” he replied, stern and unimpressed.

“Not even Hartley?” Jack wagged his eyebrows, throwing an arm around his sister's shoulders. It was clearly bait, but Hartley didn't understand for what.

“ _Especially_ not Hartley,” the Doctor bit back stonily, eyes narrowed into slits, but before she could think too much about the exchange the old man was demanding the Doctor's attention back and the conversation died, all focus on the Doctor and the rambling man.

“So, what have we got here?” Jack clapped eagerly, rushing to drop his heavy-looking bag on a small table off to the side before joining the other men to discuss the science before them.

Martha, however, ignored the group, instead wandering over to the deposited backpack, brimming with curiosity. “Martha?” Hartley murmured, following close behind.

“What's that?” Martha asked her as if she knew, spying some kind of bubbling liquid from where the zip to Jack's pack hadn't quite been done up all the way.

“With Jack, who knows?” Hartley answered flippantly, but Martha took it a step further, moving closer to the bag and beginning to undo the zipper. “What're you're doing?” Hartley asked, stepping closer to stop her from going through Jack's things. “Martha, that isn't cool, you can't just-”

But then Martha pulled the container in question out fully and Hartley's protests died on her tongue, giving way to silent shock.

“Oh, my _God,_ ” Martha gasped, and Hartley decided that it pretty much covered all the bases. “You've got a _hand_? A hand in a _jar._ A hand in a jar in your _bag._ ”

“Uh, you know I trust you implicitly, Jack,” Hartley said, crouching down to get a better look at the hand in the clear, bubbling water. It looked oddly familiar, but she couldn't put her finger on why. “But I'm gonna need a pretty good explanation for this, and preferably one that doesn't end with 'serial killer'.”

Jack gave a scoff from above her, but she didn't so much as take her eyes away from the hand in the jar of bubbling water.

“And why do I feel like I _know_ who this belongs to?” she added, utterly bemused by the familiarity she felt looking at the severed hand.

“Uh, probably because that, uh, that's _my_ hand,” the Doctor said accusingly, staring up at Jack from where he was perched on a chair to Hartley's left.

“I said I had a Doctor detector,” Jack muttered, calm with just a hint of defensive. “How could you tell it was _his_ hand?” he added, directing the question to Hartley, sounding ever so slightly suspicious. She could only shrug, cheeks turning a peachy pink and not having a good answer.

“Chan, is this a tradition amongst your people, tho?” Chantho asked, a bewildered curiosity shining in her bright, kind heart.

“Not on my street,” Martha exclaimed in understandable disgust, turning to the Doctor confrontationally, as if he were making it up. “What do you mean, that's _your_ hand? You've got both your hands, I can _see_ them.”

The Doctor idly sniffed. “Long story. I lost my hand, Christmas Day, in a sword fight,” he said, casual as could be, as though this were a sentence anyone had ever said before.

“What? And you _grew_ another hand?” she asked with a dubious laugh, as though she'd never heard anything more ridiculous.

“Er, yeah. Yeah, I did,” he replied, offhand and throwaway.

Hartley hadn't been there for that particular occasion – she'd still been in the 1800s with Jack at that point, but she'd heard about it from Rose. In the here and now, she grimaced at the very thought of having to watch the Doctor lose one of his hands. She could only thank the stars for lingering regeneration energy.

“Hello,” the Time Lord added in a flare of his typical cheekiness, wriggling his fingers at a bewildered Martha who just didn't know how to react. Hartley wondered if this tiny fact was to be the straw that broke the camel's back, as it were. Would she finally find it all too freaky to handle? Time would tell, Hartley supposed.

There was a beat, then the old man spoke up, “might I ask, what species are you?”

The Doctor took a deep breath as if readying himself to reply.

“Time Lord, last of,” he said with an air of great importance, then wilted when nobody reacted accordingly. “Heard of them? Legend or anything? Not even a myth?” He sniffed again, a tad put out. “Blimey, end of the universe is a bit humbling,” he added to Hartley in an undertone, and despite herself she giggled, rewarded with the kind of smile that she'd begun to think of as _hers._

“Chan, it is said that I am the last of my species too, tho,” Chantho spoke up, full of the kind of sadness that came only from loneliness.

Hartley had had a taste of what that was like, being without Jack for so long. He was the only other person in the whole of creation like her; and he likely always would be. To have him lost throughout time and space, it was like she was all alone, doomed to live as the lonely immortal. Though perhaps, she thought with a glance at the Doctor, not quite as lonely as she thought.

“Sorry, what was your name?” the Doctor asked Chantho suddenly, leaning forwards to look at the unique alien properly.

“My assistant and good friend, Chantho,” the man, whose name Hartley was still unsure of, told them factually. “A survivor of the Malmooth. This was their planet, Malcassairo, before we took refuge.”

“The city outside, that was yours?”

“Chan, the conglomeration died, tho,” she confirmed sadly.

“Conglomeration,” the Doctor exclaimed happily. “That's what I said.”

“Doc,” Hartley muttered to him in gentle reprimand, meeting his eyes through the lenses of his glasses. He looked briefly chastised.

“Oh, yes,” he murmured, sitting back up properly from where he'd been slumped over. “Sorry,” he said to Chantho sincerely, empathetic to a degree only he could be.

“Chan, most grateful, tho,” she nodded thankfully.

“You _grew_ another _hand_?” Martha muttered, and Hartley glanced up at her, realising that she still hadn't moved past that particular detail.

“Hello, again,” the Doctor said, waving at her again. Her wide eyes and stunned expression didn't fade. He gave an exasperated sigh and stood to his feet, holding his hand out for her to take. “It's fine. Look, _really_ , it's me.”

She gingerly took his hand in hers, feeling how real it was, and then she laughed, a tad hysterical. “All this time and you're _still_ full of surprises,” she said fondly, a warmth thrumming strong in her veins that Hartley was forced to feel.

Hartley looked away, frowning hard enough to give herself a headache. It was hard enough being in love with the Doctor; why did she have to feel everyone else be in love with him too?

“Chan, you are most unusual, tho,” Chantho laughed.

“So what about those things outside?” Jack interrupted before the Doctor could respond. He seemed set on getting answers, a quality Hartley realised was new in him. It hadn't been there when they'd last known one another, so very long ago. “The Beastie Boys. What are they?”

“We call them the Futurekind,” said the older man, a great but vague pain in his heart. Hartley wondered why that was. “Which is a myth in itself, but it's feared they are what we will _become_ , unless we reach Utopia.”

“And Utopia is...?” the Doctor trailed off pointedly.

“Oh, every human knows of Utopia,” the man laughed. “Where have you been?”

“Bit of a hermit.”

“A hermit with friends?”

“Hermits United,” the Doctor sniffed. “We meet up every ten years and swap stories about caves. It's good fun...for a hermit. So, er, Utopia?”

The man didn't look quite so convinced, but he didn't make a point to argue, simply giving an excited little smile and gesturing for them to follow him.

Sending one last look to the floating hand, Hartley bit the inside of her cheek. But before she could stand an identical hand appeared in her vision. She took it without hesitation, letting the Doctor pull her to her feet.

She bumped into him once they were standing from the force of his pull, but neither seemed to mind. The Doctor's hand gripped hers, and without thought she began to thread their fingers together, an action she made more out of instinct than rational decision.

“Coming, Doctor?” Martha's voice was hard, and the Doctor's expression fell before he disentangled their hands and stepped away.

The Doctor trudged over to the computer where the human scientist was standing, and Hartley followed, feeling oddly like she'd been caught doing something wrong, and hating it. Jack was giving her a narrow-eyed stare from where he stood, but for once she ignored his gaze and turned her attention to the situation at hand.

“The call came from across the stars, over and over again,” the man told them, tapping on the screen of one of the computers, and the Doctor, apparently unaffected by the previous moment, bent to get a better look, face scrunched in thought. “'Come to Utopia'. Originating from _that_ point.”

“Where is that?” the Time Lord asked curiously.

“Oh, it's far beyond the Condensate Wilderness, out towards the Wildlands and the Dark Matter reefs, calling us in,” he replied evenly, a wistful note to his words. “The last of the humans scattered across the night.”

“What do you think's out there?”

“We can't know. A colony, a city, some sort of _haven_? The Science Foundation created the Utopia Project thousands of years ago to preserve mankind, to find a way of surviving beyond the collapse of reality itself. Now perhaps they found it. Perhaps not. But it's worth a look, don't you think?”

The Doctor practically purred at the words. “Oh, yes,” he agreed with a grin. “And the signal keeps modulating, so it's not automatic. That's a good sign someone's out there. And that's, oh, that's a navigation matrix. So you can fly without stars to guide you. Professor?” he trailed off, and Hartley looked over at the Professor to see his eyes screwed shut, pain loud in his head. “Professor? _Professor._ ”

The Professor snapped back to attention, clearing his throat and running his hands down his waistcoat like nothing was the matter. “I, er, ahem, right, that's enough talk,” he stammered, suddenly short with them. “There's work to do. Now if you could leave, thank you.”

“Professor, are you sure you're all right?” Hartley asked, stepping closer to him and resting a gentle hand on his arm. It was the first time she'd spoken to him, and he blinked like he'd forgotten she was there.

“Yes, I'm fine. And _busy,_ ” he told them, pulling away from Hartley's hand and beginning to toy listlessly with the controls on one of his many devices.

“Except that rocket's not going to fly, is it?” the Doctor said knowingly. Hartley turned to look at him, taking in the grim look on his face with a sinking disappointment. The last hope for humanity, and the rocket wasn't even going to make it off the ground? “This footprint mechanism thing, it's not working.”

“We'll find a way,” the Professor insisted sharply.

“You're stuck on this planet. And you haven't told them, have you? That lot out there, they still think they're going to fly.”

The Professor wilted, taking a heavy seat on a small stool to his left. “Well, it's better to let them live in hope,” he said, utterly defeated. Hartley couldn't help but agree. Given the unique circumstances, rather there be false hope than no hope at all.

There was a beat, and then the Doctor was speaking, voice loud and carrying in the small, crowded laboratory. “Quite right, too. And I must say, Professor er, what was it?” he asked, shedding his coat which Jack grabbed from him, draping it over his arm like some sort of cheeky butler.

“Yana,” the Professor said wearily.

“Professor Yana. This new science is well beyond me,” he continued with a sniff, “but all the same, a boost reversal circuit, in any time frame, must be a circuit which reverses the boost. So, I wonder, what would happen if I did _this_?”

The Doctor used his sonic on a circuit hanging near his hands, then flipped a switch with a hint of his usual dramatic flare. Lights came on all around them, the machines all whirring to life, and Hartley let out a gasp at the sudden influx of input to her senses. Whatever the Doctor had done, it seemed to have at least partially fixed whatever had been wrong, and Professor Yana leapt up from his stool as quickly as his frail body would allow.

“Chan, it's working, tho!” cried Chantho in excitement.

“But how did you _do_ that?” asked Yana in shock, staring at his now-working machines with a gaping mouth.

“Oh, we've been chatting away, I forgot to tell you,” the Doctor grinned with all the radiance of the sun, and Hartley thought brazenly that maybe she wouldn't need the stars to be happy; not if she had the Doctor by her side, smiling like that. “I'm brilliant,” he crowed, oblivious to her sappy inner monologue, and she smiled back.

The whole thing was apparently rather easy after that, only none of it made any sense to her. She was wired for words and language, not numbers and science, so there was little she could do. The Doctor flitted around the lab like a hummingbird on drugs, bouncing as he moved from one control system to another, racing around to get things moving to speed.

He caught sight of her standing in the corner, listless and unsure how to be of any help. “Hart, I have something I need you to do for me!” he called suddenly.

Relief swamped her, and she smiled up at him gratefully. “Your wish is my command, Doc,” she told him, and he preened.

Gently pressing a hand to the small of her back, the Doctor led her over to a bulky looking computer. Hartley stopped in front of it, but the Doctor's hand didn't leave her back. “Numbers are going to pass along this screen,” he said, pointing to a small screen on her left with his free hand. “When they do, type them into this one here,” he gestured to the one to the right.

“What's this doing, exactly?” she asked, rocking back slightly to find the warmth he always seemed to radiate despite his naturally low body temperature. She wondered how that could be, but always put it down to it being emotional rather than biological. He leaned into her as well, ducking his head closer than was strictly necessary to speak to her.

“You're stabilising the hypothermic modulator,” he told her quietly, his breath washing over her cheek, cool and minty, and she was helpless to do anything but sway closer.

“Is it terribly important?” she asked just as softly, looking up into his eyes as she spoke like they were exchanging some kind of sweet nothings, rather than talking about the scientific process on which the future of the human race depended.

“Terribly,” he agreed solemnly, making her smile.

She rocked closer without giving it any thought, and she swore she could see the Doctor's eyes flicker down to her lips, before Yana gave a shout of, “Doctor!” from behind them, breaking the moment like a hammer to a mirror. The Time Lord exhaled loudly through his nose, seeming almost frustrated, but Hartley sent him a calm smile as she turned to the computers before her, ignoring the disappointment curdling in her gut when he pulled away, taking that reassuring warmth with him.

The job she'd been tasked with was simple to the point of being mind-numbing, but at least she got to feel like she was helping, so she did it without complaint. It was only a short minute or so later that Jack approached. She could see him sauntering towards her from the corner of her eye and internally sighed, knowing all too well what was coming.

“So,” he said, busying himself with arranging the order of some circuitboards, but Hartley knew it was a ruse. His full attention was on her.

“So,” she replied, voice dull and quite clearly begging him _not_ to ask.

“You and the Doc, eh?” he asked anyway, because he was just a dick like that.

She inhaled, the air cool on her throat. “It isn't really...” she trailed off, realising she was about to deny it, which would be pointless, because this was Jack, and he could see through her like she were made of glass; he always could. “It's complicated,” she finally said, keeping her voice low so the Doctor wouldn't overhear. She could see him from the corner of her eye, too. He was positioned by a row of panels, inputting numbers or data or whatever else his brilliant mind came up with to save all the people in the silo.

“Is it really?” Jack countered coyly.

She sighed, suddenly tired. “It's the Doctor, Jack,” she replied dryly. “Of _course_ it's complicated.”

“It's just, when we left, the guy could barely stand you,” he continued without heed for her feelings, and she winced at the reminder. “What changed?” he asked, softer and more careful.

Pressing the buttons with slightly more force than necessary, Hartley tried not to sigh again. “We haven't really gotten to the 'let's sit down to talk openly and honestly about everything happening between us' stage yet,” she admitted, an uncharacteristic edge to her voice.

“So, it's new?”

“I don't know if it's even an _it_ , Jack.”

Jack snorted like she'd made a bad joke. “Are you kidding?” he scoffed. “We're at the end of the universe and you could _still_ cut the sexual tension with a knife.”

She wasn't sure how he'd expected her to react, but it probably wasn't to wilt like a flower, shoulders slumping as though in defeat.

“Hey,” he said, abandoning the pretence of working and turning to face her properly. “What is it, Harts?” he asked, quiet and patient, nowhere near as brash as he'd been before. He must have sensed that, for once, that wasn't the way to handle the situation.

She didn't stop typing in the numbers, keeping her sad eyes focused on her task. “Is that what it is, you think?” she asked, voice even lower, barely a whisper. “Just sexual tension?”

Jack weighed his words carefully before answering. “Do you _want_ it to be more?” he finally asked, and her shoulders slumped further.

“I dunno,” she answered him, but even she knew that wasn't the truth.

“ _Professor,_ ” said a voice over the intercom, the sound reverberating through the lab and snapping Jack and Hartley out of the bubble they'd been locked in. “ _Tell the Doctor we've found his blue box_.”

“Ah!” the Doctor exclaimed happily from across the room.

Glancing up, Hartley caught sight of the wonderful, beautiful, magical blue box sitting clear as day on the monitor. “Doctor?” Jack called out, having spied it too.

The Doctor appeared by their side, leaning between them to get a good look at his beloved box. “Professor, it's a wild stab in the dark,” the Time Lord began giddily, “but I may just have found you a way out.”

Getting the rest of the rocket ready was easy for Hartley, who remained where she was, inputting data to keep the temperature steady or whatever the hell she was meant to be doing, and trying not to think too deeply about Jack's words.

Things were just about there, they were _almost_ done, the human race saved, and then something happened to the system. It went down, and Jack – stupid, idiotic, brave, wonderful Jack – just had to do everything he could to save it.

“We can jump start the override!” he shouted, leaping into the fray and scooping two long, sparking cables from the ground.

“Don't! It's going to flare!” the Doctor yelled out in warning.

“Jack, no!” Hartley screamed, louder than him, but it was for naught, because Jack heedlessly pressed the two sparking ends of the cables together. Power surged through his body, making it glow white hot, and Hartley screamed again at the sight.

Then he fell to the floor, still as the dead.

Hartley died all the time, it was practically old hat by now, but the sight of _Jack_ dying, even knowing he was just like her, was almost too much to bare. Her breath caught in her throat, just _knowing_ that he was lost in that great, black oblivion she so loathed.

Martha was the first to move, rushing towards and collapsing by Jack's side, her medical training kicking in as she checked for a pulse.

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” Yana apologised, grief-stricken and full of guilt.

There was a pause while Martha began to give Jack mouth-to-mouth. Hartley could only watch on, grimly awaiting the inevitable. “The chamber's flooded with radiation, yes?” the Doctor asked the Professor, steady and careful.

“Without the couplings, the engines will never start. It was all for nothing,” Yana said, despondent.

“Oh, I don't know,” the Doctor hummed, stepping past Hartley and closer to Martha, pulling her up off Jack's apparent corpse. “Martha, leave him.”

“You've got to let me try,” she argued valiantly, and Hartley loved her a little bit for it.

“Come on, come on, just listen to me,” he said, utterly calm.

“But, but Hartley!” Martha argued, spinning to stare at Hartley, looking for backup. She got none, finding an easy acceptance in her face that was wholly unexpected.

“It's okay, Martha,” Hartley told her gently, though her eyes remained locked onto Jack. “Leave him.”

Martha looked almost betrayed by the command, which irked Hartley in the back of her head. Jack was _her_ family, not Martha's. If anything, the roles should have been reversed. But they weren't, and that was the reality of it.

“It strikes me, Professor, you've got a room which no man can enter without dying. Is that correct?” the Doctor drawled, slipping off his specs and rubbing at his eye with his knuckle.

“Yes,” confirmed Yana grimly. To him, all hope was lost.

“Well...” he trailed off and as though cued, Jack flew upwards with a loud, violent gasp that Hartley understood the pain of all too well, “...I think I've got just the man.”

Jack blinked at the people standing over him in shock. “Was someone kissing me?” he demanded eagerly. Hartley managed to crack a thin grin at his usual thought process.

“He's like you!” Martha whirled around to stare at Hartley accusingly. “But I thought you were the only one.”

“We're the only _two_ , actually,” Jack coughed, taking Hartley's offered hand, letting her help pull him to his feet. “What's happening?”

“We have a solution,” the Doctor said quickly, no time to waste standing round chatting. “It involves you going into the room.”

“And by 'the room', I assume you mean the one flooded with deadly radiation?” Jack deadpanned.

“Yes.”

Jack lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Sounds like fun,” he said dryly, giving a wry grin as he headed for the exit without stopping to consider what he was doing.

“Martha, you stay here with the others, keep an eye on everything as best you can!” the Doctor ordered his companion quickly, barrelling hastily after Jack. “We'll contact you when we get there!”

And then they were running. The Doctor shot Hartley a disapproving look, but she ignored him with ease, pushing herself faster down the hall, barrelling on after her brother and her…her Doctor.

“Lieutenant!” the Doctor was shouting before they'd even properly reached him, and the human still at the controls shot upwards in frantic shock as they appeared. “Get on board the rocket! I promise you're going to fly.”

“The chamber's flooded,” the Lieutenant argued.

“Trust me. We've found a way of tripping the system. _Run_!” the Doctor shouted, and the man argued no more, legging it out of there as fast as he possibly could.

Jack was already taking off his shirt, and assuming she was meant to do the same, Hartley shrugged off her jacket, then unbuttoned her top. “What are you taking your clothes off for?” the Doctor demanded sharply.

“I'm going in,” Jack stated the obvious.

“Well, by the looks of it, I'd say the stet radiation doesn't affect clothing, only flesh.”

“Well, I look good though,” he smirked, racing towards the doors. Hartley shucked off her button up shirt anyway, leaving her in a simple tank top so she matched Jack, before heading after him, only for the Doctor to thrust out an arm to stop her.

“Where d'you think you're going?” he asked, eyes like steel.

“In there,” she replied, shoving his arm out of the way and attempting to push past.

“No, you're not,” he argued flatly, pushing her back, further away from her brother.

“Why not?”

“Jack can handle it.”

“And I can't?” The Doctor didn't say anything. “Just because I'm a woman––” she began frostily.

“It's not because you're a woman,” he hissed back. “It's because it's _you._ ”

She pushed herself up on her toes so their eyes were in line, jabbing her finger violently against his chest. “Don't you _dare_ treat me any different to anyone else, just because you feel differently about me than the others,” she snarled at him, and he blinked in shock at the blatant callout. “I'm _just_ as indestructible as Jack, and I _will_ be going in there with him,” she hissed furiously. “To stop me, you're going to have to kill me.”

The look in the Doctor's eyes was haunted in a way she hadn't intended, and he seemed to be chewing on his words, weighing the decision he really had no say in. Impatient, Hartley pushed past him, meeting her brother by the doors, prepared to enter the room.

Jack was silent, before turning back to the Doctor warily. “How long have you known?” he asked him lowly, and it took no genius to figure out what he meant.

“Ever since I ran away from you,” the Doctor replied, hollow in a way that upset her, but she refused to show it, staring at the door to the room with wet eyes. “Good luck,” he told them, and at the sound of his voice Hartley couldn't help but look back, meeting his eyes.

They were deeper than she could ever remember seeing them. His emotions were seal tight behind that vault wall again, impossible to reach. Hartley swallowed, looking away as Jack thrust open the door to the radiation chamber, holding it open wide enough for her to duck through.

It was boiling hot inside and she was suddenly relieved she'd taken off her outerwear, despite it not having been strictly necessary.

“Okay?” Jack asked her, stopping to her side and glancing down into her eyes.

She nodded the affirmative. “You?” she asked, and he nodded back. “Ready to do this?”

“Only if you are,” he said, and she smiled weakly, rushing over to the other side of the modules and beginning to help him unlock them. He knew the codes to open them, but when it came to twisting them out she knew it was going to go a lot faster if he had some help.

“When did you first realise?” the Doctor asked Jack through the thick door, but they still heard him perfectly.

“Hart was first,” Jack began conversationally, and even though the Doctor already knew this, he listened without interruption. “She got shot. Bled out in my arms,” he spoke casually, but there was a catch to his voice that made her heart squeeze painfully, remembering that fateful day in that alleyway.

The metal of the modules were hot against her unprotected skin, but the burn of it kept her focused on the present, for which she was grateful.

“We didn't know for sure, but we could guess. First time for me was 1892. Got in a fight in Ellis Island. A man shot me through the heart. Then I woke up. Thought it was kind of strange. But then it never stopped. Fell off a cliff, trampled by horses, World War One, World War Two, poison, starvation, a stray javelin. In the end, I got the message. I'm the man who can never die, and the only other person in the whole entire universe who was like me was out of reach,” he finished, casting a look over at Hartley, who was struggling to help lift the rotor. “And all that time you _knew,_ ” he added accusingly.

“That's why I left you behind,” there was a cadence to the Doctor's voice, something low and dark. Hartley shuddered at the sound of it. “It's not easy even just looking at you, Jack, because you're _wrong._ ”

“Thanks,” her brother hissed.

“You are. I can't help it. I'm a Time Lord. It's instinct. It's in my guts,” he explained. “You're a fixed point in time and space. You're a _fact_. That's never meant to happen. Even the TARDIS reacted against you, tried to shake you off. Flew all the way to the end of the universe just to get rid of you.”

Hartley panted with exertion, sweat dripping from her brow. She could feel the radiation prickling at her skin, like pins and needles, only worse. This kind was _hot_ , like a billion white-hot needles stabbing her over and over and over again. It was manageable, though, not quite as bad as some of the other deadly things she'd attempted (and _actually_ died from).

“And yet here you stand, perfectly buddy-buddy with Harts,” Jack drawled, and Hartley felt his words a like a stab to her chest. He shot her a subtle look that told her not to be hurt by it, although it didn't really help.

“That's different,” the Doctor said, and something about the way he said it made Hartley believe him.

“Is it really?” Jack countered.

The Doctor didn't answer, and Hartley didn't dare look up to see his reaction through the thick sheet of glass separating them.

“So what you're _really_ saying is that you're, er, prejudiced?” Jack added, and while in another situation the words might have jesting, now they were only bitter.

“I never thought of it like that.”

“Shame on you.”

There was a lull in conversation as Jack and Hartley struggled to lift the second last capsule. It was scolding to the touch and she hoped the burns would heal sooner rather than later.

“Last thing I remember, back when we were mortal,” Jack began again, words coming surprisingly easy. “I was facing three Daleks. Hart was already dead by that point, shot down, and I just figured it was the end. That that was it. Death by extermination,” he said, and it was a conscious decision that Hartley made to not relive the memories, as she knew would be so easy to do. “And then I came back to life, and next thing I knew, Hart was there too, alive and well.” A beat. “What happened?”

The silence that followed was thick. “Rose,” the Doctor finally answered, voice low with memory. Hartley focused on the feeling of scolding metal under her fingers, letting the weight of the capsule to keep her grounded in the moment.

“I thought you'd sent her back home.”

“She came back. Opened the heart of the TARDIS and absorbed the time vortex itself.”

“What does that mean, exactly?”

“No one's ever meant to have that power,” the Doctor said gravely. “If a Time Lord did that, he'd become a god. A _vengeful_ god,” he trailed off with a sigh. “But she was human. Everything she did was _so_ _human._ She brought you both back to life but she couldn't control it. She brought you back forever. That's something, I suppose. The final act of the Time War was _life_.”

Jack considered this for a long moment, and Hartley met his eyes in the red soaked light of the chamber. His gaze was full of pain, full of regret and a wistful sadness that yanked at her heart. “Do you think she could change me back?” he asked the Doctor hopefully. Hartley focused on dragging the next capsule from its cylinder.

“I took the power out of her,” and then there was a pause, filled with everything he wasn't saying. “She's _gone_ , Jack. She's not just living on a parallel world, she's trapped there. The walls have closed.”

Hartley sniffled quietly, glad it couldn't be heard over Jack's loud pants. Her brother reached over, grabbing her hand, and when he spoke, it was to both of them.

“I'm sorry.”

“Yeah.”

“I went back to her estate in the nineties, just once or twice,” Jack continued, and Hartley's eyes went wide despite the way the radiation made them sting. “Watched her growing up. Never said hello. Timelines and all that.”

They were silent, the one they were working on not coming as easy as the others had.

“Do you want to die?”

The question struck her hard, and her hands slipped on the capsule, making it drop down below the rim again. Swallowing, she apologised to Jack under her breath, then tried to prise it back out again.

“Oh, this one's a little stuck,” Jack said, deflecting the question with ease.

“Jack?” the Doctor pressed, stubbornly refusing to give in.

Jack looked between Hartley and the Doctor before finally answering, voice strained from his effort to move the capsule. “I thought I did. I don't know,” he told the Doctor, and the confusion in his voice made Hartley's guts clench. She wanted to reach out and comfort him – but they had more important things to do than contemplate their forced immortality. “But this lot,” he continued, brightening. “You see them out here surviving, and that's fantastic.”

“You might be out there, somewhere,” the Doctor said casually. “Both of you.”

Hartley finally chanced a glance up at him, and he had a hint of a smile on his lips, a playful sort of a glint in his eye that made her warm in a way they heat of the chamber could not.

“I could go meet myself,” Jack suggested.

“Well, the only man you're ever going to be happy with,” the Doctor replied slyly, and Jack gave a bark of a surprised laugh.

“This new regeneration,” he said with a huff of exertion, “it's kind of cheeky.”

The Doctor chuckled, and Hartley was unable to help herself, the sound of her laughter bouncing around the stifling, reddened heat of the radiation chamber.

“You didn't need to come in here with me, you know,” Jack said to her in an undertone. It gave them the illusion of privacy, even though they both knew the Doctor could hear every word. “I could've done this alone – we both know that.”

“Wasn't gonna let you do it without me,” she replied simply, grunting as her arms burned from the weight of the capsules.

“You've changed,” he said it casually, as though they were meeting for coffee in Cardiff and not at the end of all things, locked away in a room flooded with lethal radiation. Things would be so much easier if that were the case. But not nearly as fun.

“So've you,” she replied with a grunt, putting her back into the movement, desperate to get the last capsule turned.

“You're not wrong,” he puffed, “but a century'll do that to you. What's your excuse?”

Hartley didn't answer; she couldn't because the truth of it hurt too much. They worked in silence for another minute, the weight of the unsaid like bricks on their backs.

“Why didn't you come back for me?” Jack finally asked the question she knew had been sitting on his tongue this whole time, just itching to be spoken. He didn't feel angry or resentful, which she supposed was something.

She wasn't sure what she was allowed to tell him. Would it be breaking any rules if she told him the truth? Would it end up catastrophically changing things? There was no way to know.

All she could do was go with her gut; and her gut was telling her not to lie.

“I found a letter from you shortly after I found my way back here,” she told him, pointedly not glancing to the Doctor's face which still sat pressed against the glass separating them. She'd never told him this before; it was as new to him as it was to Jack. “It was in my room on the TARDIS. I don't know how it got there, but in it you told me not to come get you; that you had a path you needed to take that didn't involve me and that we would find one another again one day.”

Jack was befuddled. “But I never wrote that letter.”

She rolled her eyes, “which obviously means you do it in the future and send it back to me.”

Jack looked a little embarrassed, and it made her smile. They worked in silence for another beat before the question burning at her lips became too insistent to ignore.

“Did I do the right thing?”

Jack looked up in confusion, but the bewilderment quickly morphed into understanding. He smiled, a little wry and a little sad. “As painful as it could be sometimes … you did the right thing,” he assured her. Tears came to her eyes, not quite of relief but rather something more like acceptance.

“It wasn't easy,” she confessed in a whisper that only just carried. “Some days I woke up hating myself, and wondering if you hated me too.”

“Now isn't a good time to explain,” he began, “but once things have settled down I'll tell you everything about the last hundred or so years.” She glanced at him hopefully. “I think I know why future-me writes that letter,” he added gently.

“Yeah? Why's that?”

“Because if I hadn't, I might not be where I am today. And where I am today is pretty darn good, if I say so myself,” he told her with a satisfied little grin on his stupidly handsome face.

Hartley laughed, relief like she'd never known filling her system. He didn't resent her; didn't spend his days cursing her into oblivion because he thought she'd selfishly abandoned him. And that was the best news she'd ever heard.

“I missed you, Jack,” she said once again, love coating her voice as a bead of sweat ran down the side of her face, dripping from her chin onto the scolding hot floor.

“Missed you too, Harts,” he replied, grinning brightly just as the final capsule slid into place.

Then the Doctor was shouting at them to get out. Jack took Hartley's hand, pulling her after him and wrenching open the door, pushing her out into the corridor. It was blessedly free of radiation, and finally those hot little pinpricks on her skin died, the cool air of the hallway like a balm to her pain. She sighed in relief, watching as Jack ran towards the controls on the far side of the room, knowing what to do next.

She didn't, so instead she merely raced back to her clothes, yanking her shirt on over her tank top and buttoning it as quickly as she could.

“Lieutenant, everyone on board?” the Doctor was yelling urgently into the comms, but Hartley was barely paying attention, focusing on yanking her jacket back on her her shirt.

“ _Countdown commencing_ ,” the computer said robotically. “ _T minus ninety-nine, ninety-eight..._ ”

“What can I do?” Hartley asked Jack, clothes back in place.

He grasped her arm, guiding her over to a panel with a large red and white gauge on its face. “Keep it out of the red using these,” he told her hurriedly as he tapped dials running along the side, and although she wasn't quite sure she knew what was happening she still nodded as if she did. He rushed back over to the keyboard, typing frantically.

Every time the little needle began to drift into the red zone, Hartley would gently twist the dials until it dropped back into the white. Barely a full minute had passed before there was a shout from behind her and Hartley spun around to see Martha careening towards them.

“Ah, nearly there!” the Doctor cheered, beaming at his companion widely. “The footprint, it's a gravity pulse. It stamps _down_ , the rocket shoots _up._ Bit primitive. It'll take the three of us to keep it stable,” he added with a shout, darting around Martha's side to get back to the controls.

“Doctor, it's the Professor,” Martha replied in a rush. “He's got this watch. He's got a fob watch. It's the same as yours. Same writing on it, same...everything,” she told him, meeting his eyes. Hartley noticed that his attention had drifted from the controls, his focus shifting to Martha instead.

“Don't be ridiculous,” he said sternly. Hartley tried to keep her own attention focused on the gauge before her, but it was difficult.

“I asked him. He said he's had it his whole life,” Martha said, nearly a whisper.

The implication of what she was saying was beginning to hit Hartley, accompanying it a sinking feeling deep in her gut. Surely there was another explanation, surely there was some _other_ reason this man had a watch like the Doctor's. She couldn't _possibly_ mean to say he was a…

“So?” Jack asked blandly. “He's got the same watch,” he scoffed, not understanding the significance.

“Yeah, but it's not a watch,” Martha argued, leaning around the Doctor to look at Jack. Hartley firmly kept her eyes on her task, knowing the human race couldn't afford distractions on her part. “It's this _chameleon_ thing.”

“No, no, no, it's this, this thing, this device, it rewrites biology. Changes a Time Lord into a human,” the Doctor explained, yanking at the controls with enough force that the buttons clacked loudly under his touch.

“And it's the _same_ watch,” Martha said, her voice excited.

“It _can't_ be.”

An alarm began to blare through the corridor, but everybody seemed to have forgotten the tasks they'd been assigned, staring at the Doctor, whose expression was downright thunderous.

“That means he could be a Time Lord!” Jack finally understood, staring at the Doctor in a sympathetic hope. “You might not be the last one!”

“Jack, keep it level! Hartley!” the Doctor barked, and with a blink she looked away from his grimacing face to the controls, returning reluctantly to her job.

“But that's brilliant, isn't it?” Martha asked, confused by his reaction.

“Yes, it is. 'Course it is. Depends which one. Brilliant, fantastic, yeah,” the Doctor rambled unconvincingly. “But they _died_ , the Time Lords. All of them. They _died._ ”

“Not if he was human,” Jack murmured, voice just barely heard over the alarms.

“What did he say, Martha?” the Doctor asked mutedly, and when Martha didn't immediately answer, he exploded, expression twisting into something desperate, something venomous. “ _What did he say_?!” he roared in her face. Tears appeared in Martha's eyes.

Abandoning her task, Hartley moved to their side, reaching out to grasp the Doctor's shoulder. If this was true, if Professor Yana was somehow a Time Lord...what did that mean for the Doctor? He wasn't alone, he wasn't the only one anymore. But if this was a possibility, why did he look so terrified? So haunted? Shouldn't he have been happy?

“Doc,” she murmured gently, fingers curling into the fabric of his coat. But the Doctor's eyes didn't so much as flicker away from Martha, who had a tremor of fear running like a current through her body.

“He looked at the watch like he could hardly see it,” she told him, voice weak and careful, like one wrong word would send them into peril. “Like that perception filter thing.”

“What about now? Can he see it now?” he asked her, barely breathing as he waited for her answer.

“I – I don't know,” Martha stammered.

“Doctor,” said Jack from across the room. “The countdown.”

The Doctor ran a hand through his untameable hair, whirling around to look at the controls once more. He was a mess of nerves, and for once it seemed like every wall he'd ever constructed to keep her out had come crashing down; like he were so distracted by the problems before them that he didn't have energy to waste on hiding what he felt from her.

Terror and hope and pain reverberated through him, the force of it nearly sending Hartley to the floor. He felt so _deeply;_ more deeply than she'd ever seen before. It was like the difference between a river and the ocean, and she wondered whether all Time Lords felt with such magnitude. She supposed she was about to find out.

“ _Thirteen, twelve, eleven, ten, nine..._ ” the electronic voice continued to count down, the end approaching without care for the quartet's sudden dilemma.

“If he escaped the Time War then it's the perfect place to hide,” Jack was saying, hands practically blurring as he fought to keep the readings stable, “the end of the universe.”

“ _Six, five, four_...”

“Think of what the Face of Boe said,” Martha said, imploring and shocked as she leaned closer to a distressed Doctor. “His _dying_ words. He said-”

But she never got to repeat the old being's final words, as the countdown ended with a mighty explosion. The entire base, the entire _planet,_ trembled with the power of the rocket's takeoff. 

The Doctor didn't acknowledge the others, didn't meet Martha's probing gaze as he leapt towards the communicator on the far wall, ripping it off its holder and pressing it to his ear. “Lieutenant, have you done it?” he demanded, a desperate edge to his voice. “Did you get velocity? Have you done it? Lieutenant, have you done it?” he urged, growing panicked when the man didn't immediately answer.

“ _Affirmative_ ,” the Lieutenant finally answered him, a smile clear in his voice. “ _We'll see you in Utopia_.”

“Good luck!” the Doctor told him, all but slamming the phone back into its place before bolting down the hall, pushing blindly past a bewildered Hartley. She didn't think anything of it, turning to follow him and forcing her legs to run so fast they burned in an effort to keep up.

The halls all looked the same, but the Doctor knew where he was going, barrelling down the corridors like a bat out of hell. She could hear Jack and Martha racing after them, struggling to keep up with the Doctor's furious pace. Just when she was sure her lungs would explode, the Doctor came to an abrupt stop, a door sliding shut just before he could reach it.

He let out a fierce shout, slamming his hand hard against the rusted metal of the door but to no avail. Quickly, he yanked free his sonic and held it to the doorjamb. Its buzzing filled the hallway, but even the familiar sound wasn't enough to calm the panic mounting in Hartley's chest.

“Get it open!” cried the Doctor furiously, voice hoarse with emotion. “ _Get it open_!” he demanded in a frenzy. Hartley didn't know what to do, she could only stand there in terrified silence, watching her beloved Doctor lose himself to panic.

The door slid open with a mechanical groan and the Doctor was leaping through before it had even fully opened all the way. Jack grasped Hartley's arm, pulling her through after them. They were still panting, the run hurting her lungs.

They were barrelling down a thinner corridor when there was a series of growled war cries. From around the corner a large mob of the future-kind appeared, their deadly, pointed teeth glistening even from that far away.

Letting out a startled yelp, Hartley grabbed tighter onto Jack as they abruptly spun around, heading back the way they'd come. The future-kind followed with furious, hungry snarls, and they picked up speed. Death-by-dinner wasn't something Hartley was keen on experiencing.

Hartley barely noticed when they came to a stop, the Doctor slamming against a thickened metal door with all he had, slamming his fist against it in desperation, his other hand working with the sonic to get it open.

“Professor! Professor, let me in! Let me in!” he begged at the top of his voice. “Jack, get the door open _now_!” he demanded, and Jack set to work on the controls. There were more animalistic snarls from behind them, and Martha gave a squeak of panic. Acting on instinct, Hartley moved so she was positioned in front of her mortal friend, arms held out like a protective human shield. “Professor! Professor, are you there? Please, I need to explain. Whatever you do, _don't_ open that watch!” the Doctor continued to bellow, voice desperate and anguished.

“Doctor!” Hartley shouted over the future-kind's cries. “They're coming!”

There wasn't much she could do against such a mob, she wasn't enough to protect Martha and the Doctor, not even with Jack there to help.

“Jack, do something!” she screamed at her brother, knowing the only way to stay safe was to get inside that room. They didn't stand a chance against the horde of hungry future-kind.

There was a loud crunch and the crackle of electricity, then she was being yanked through the now-open door. She let out a scream, the future-kind almost on top of her, their clawed hands outstretched to attack, then the door slammed shut again, sealing them off from the attack.

Hartley spun around, watching as the Doctor sprinted towards the TARDIS, whose doors were now closed, preventing him from getting in. He slammed his balled-up fists against the door, desperate and panicked, before fetching his key and attempting to unlock it manually.

“Let me in! Let me in!” he begged on repeat, like a broken record.

Martha let out a sound of despair, and Hartley glanced away from a frantic Doctor to see Martha crouched over a lifeless Chantho. “She's dead,” the medical student said, full of guilt, as if it were her fault.

From behind Hartley the door gave a violent jolt, and she realised the future-kind were attempting to open it, banging against it with all of their strength. “I broke the lock!” Jack shouted to the Doctor. “Give us a hand!”

But his words fell on deaf ears.

“I'm begging you,” the Doctor cried through the wood of the TARDIS doors. “Everything's changed! It's only the two of us! We're the only ones left! Just let me in!” he pleaded the person inside with everything he had.

Hartley was distracted when a dirty, tattooed hand thrust through the cracked doorway. It swiped blindly at her, searching for soft flesh to sink its talons into. She flinched out of the way, avoiding what would have been a painful injury. There was a rush of energy, like a surge in the atmosphere of the room, and she spun back around with a gasp to see a bright, golden glow spilling through the windows of the TARDIS – much like sunshine would burst through a cloud bank, bathing the earth in warm light.

The Doctor was deathly still, staring at the light in silence. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel the shock and dread coming off him in waves. Whatever that light was, it was scaring him – terrifying him at his very core – and she needed to know why.

“Doctor!” Jack bellowed over the ravenous snarls of the future-kind from the other side of the door. “You'd better think of something!”

The future-kind grew more desperate at the sounds coming from their side of the door, pushing with renewed vigour, the sound of claws scraping against rusted metal making an uncomfortable chill vibrate down Hartley's spine.

“ _Now then, Doctor – Oh, new voice. Hello, hello_ ,” a disembodied voice spilled out from the TARDIS, amplified by its speakers. Hartley pushed her weight more heavily against the door as she craned her neck around to get a good look at the Doctor. “ _Anyway, why don't we stop and have a nice little chat while I tell you all my plans and you can work out a way to stop me..._ ” the voice crowed in a smug kind of sneer. “ _I don't think so._ ”

“Hold on,” shouted Martha from where she was pressed against the door below a wincing Hartley. “I know that voice!” she exclaimed, but there was no time for Hartley to ask what she meant by that.

“I'm asking you really properly,” beseeched the Doctor. “Just _stop._ Just _think_!”

“ _Use my name_ ,” the voice – the _Time Lord –_ growled.

There was a beat, then the Doctor spoke a single word, a single name, one that Hartley had never before heard and yet still somehow managed to make her blood turn to ice. “Master.”

The future-kind gave another shove on the door, and she was distracted again, muscles aching from the task of holding it shut.

“I'm sorry,” the Doctor told the Master, his voice low with pain and regret.

“ _Tough_!” the other Time Lord snapped callously. The TARDIS began to groan, slow and pained, like it was trying its hardest to fight back against the Master's control.

“I can't hold out much longer, Doctor!” Jack shouted over all the other sounds filling the room.

The thought of the TARDIS being lost in the hands of this stranger, this _Master_ , made Hartley feel sick. She felt nausea roll in her stomach like the dangerous waves of a stormy sea. “Doctor, do something!” she screamed at him, desperate and scared.

“ _End of the universe. Have fun. Bye, bye_ ,” the Master sang from within the ship, then she was dematerialising, disappearing with a reluctant groan, taking Hartley's very hope with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are; at both the end and the beginning. Things are going to get a lot worse before they get better, but I think you already knew that.


	44. The Sounds of Drums

“ _The good in this world far outweighs the evil._

_Our common humanity transcends our differences,_

_and our most effective response to terror is compassion,_

_it's unity, and it's love.”_

Loretta Lynch

* * *

“Doctor!” Jack shouted, panic and desperation warring for dominance in his heart. There was no fear, however. Hartley wondered if he could even feel fear anymore. Sometimes even she didn't; because what was there to fear when you couldn't die? “We can't keep them out much longer!” he cried.

But the Doctor only stood still, staring at the place the TARDIS was no longer sitting. He was in shock, still reeling from everything that had just happened in such a short amount of time.

“Doctor!” Hartley screamed as one of the future-kind's hands grabbed ahold of her arm. The nails sliced through her flesh, but it was a shallow, superficial wound. Martha caught sight and yanked Hartley's arm out of the creature's reach. “Doctor, _please_!” she begged him, the wound burning like someone had poured bleach into her broken flesh.

_Finally_ the Doctor snapped into action, leaping towards the trio of struggling travellers. His sonic was already in hand and he all but threw himself on top of Jack, hastily reaching for his wrist.

“Is now really the time to be coming on to me, Doctor?” Jack demanded in as coy of a voice as he could manage under the circumstances. The Doctor didn't even dignify that with a response.

“If I can just get this to work,” he muttered, the sound of his voice nearly lost in the future-kind's throaty screeches of hungry bloodlust.

“What? That old thing? It doesn't even work!” shouted Jack, and confused, Hartley pushed slightly away from the shuddering door to see the Doctor aiming his sonic screwdriver at Jack's old Vortex Manipulator. “Doctor!” Jack protested fruitlessly.

“Hold still!” the Doctor ordered him, yanking Jack's wrist closer to his face. “Don't move! Hold it _still_!”

“I'm telling you, it's broken. It hasn't worked for years!” Jack insisted, sweat on his brow from the effort of holding the door shut. Hartley was growing exhausted, her skin sticky from the effort as well as the natural warmth of the large, metal silo they were using as shelter.

“That's because you didn't have me,” the Doctor responded, but the usual pompous edge was missing in his voice, replaced by a cold, matter-of-fact tenor. Hartley found herself missing the playful edge he'd had only that morning. Strange how the whole universe could shift in only a mere matter of hours. “Hartley, grab hold!” he shouted abruptly, reaching out and grasping her hand, pressing it tightly against Jack's Manipulator. “Martha, you too!” he yelled, and Martha let out a yelp as she leapt forwards, pressing her hand to the device just as the world faded and they were thrown into the unforgiving chill of the vortex.

It was nothing like her previous travels through time and space. This was rough and painful, like every atom in her body was being pulled in every direction at once. She wanted to scream, but couldn't seem to locate her voice box to use, let alone her mouth to open.

But as quickly as it had begun, it was over. Her feet hit a slab of cement, sending a painful jolt up through her skeleton. Her eyes stung and her head felt like someone had taken to it with a cricket bat.

“Oh, my head,” Martha exclaimed from somewhere to her left, voice laced with pain.

Hartley managed a weak groan of agreement, rubbing her aching skull.

“Time travel without a capsule,” the Doctor murmured, reaching up to twist his neck, spine giving a dull crack. “That's a killer.”

He paused, glancing over in the same moment as Hartley. Their eyes met, concern for one another shining in their depths. She nodded and there was a flicker of relief before the door slammed shut and he turned away, heading wordlessly for the mouth of the alleyway they'd appeared in.

The street they stepped onto was bustling with life, the sun coming through the clouds above them and casting the day in a cool, misty glow. Hartley might have thought it was beautiful, were she not in a state of swirling panic and confusion.

“Still, at least we made it. Earth, twenty-first century by the looks of it,” said Jack, forever the optimist. “Talk about lucky.”

“That wasn't luck,” the Doctor deadpanned in reply, “that was me.”

“You programmed it to come here? Why?”

But the Doctor didn't answer, hands shoved deep down into his pockets, a stormy look on his handsome face. Martha sighed at the lack of a response, but neither Hartley nor Jack were surprised. They knew all about the Doctor's tendency to brood, and knew exactly when it was best to let him work through something alone.

“Come on,” said Hartley, winding an arm through Jack's without a second thought, already dragging him in the direction of the city square. “I need to sit down.”

She, Jack and Martha immediately took seats on the available benches and blocks left out for public use. Hartley leant into her brother, inhaling gently and soaking up his comforting scent, letting it calm her still-racing heart.

The Doctor remained standing, frowning off into the distance with his eyes glassy and unfocused, seeing something they couldn't. Shuffling across her bench a little more, Hartley reached up and gingerly grasped hold of the Doctor's arm, gently pulling it out from his pocket. He blinked back to the present and angled his head down to look at her properly, a deep, unending expression in his eyes, one that English just didn't have the words to describe.

Her hand drifted – wary and unsure after all that had happened, but determined all the same – down to where his cuff met his skin. Slowly, trying not to second-guess her actions, she curled her fingers around his. His skin beneath hers was cool and calloused, and she tightened her hold slightly, gently tugging to encourage him to sit.

He stared at her, hair glinting a reddish-chestnut in the rays of the sun breaking through the clouds, until finally he lowered himself into the spot beside her, a burden in his ancient eyes. Her heart was heavy for him, weighed down by the weight of his sorrow. She kept tight hold of his hand, trying to comfort him without words, since she had none.

“I s'pose the moral is, if you're going to get stuck at the end of the universe, get stuck with an ex-Time Agent and his vortex manipulator,” Jack was saying to Martha conversationally, but Hartley couldn't help but notice their friend's eyes were trained on where her and the Doctor's hands were connected.

“But this Master bloke, he's got the TARDIS,” Martha said, leaning forwards in an effort to catch the Doctor's eye. “He could be anywhere in time and space.”

“No, he's here. Trust me,” the Doctor told her, voice deep with an aged wariness that came with the burden of far too much knowledge.

“Who is he, anyway?” she asked, curious and probing. “And that voice at the end, that wasn't the Professor.”

“If the Master's a Time Lord, then he must have regenerated,” Jack said matter-of-factly. Hartley grimaced at the thought, the idea that this Time Lord could be anyone now, and apart from the Doctor's innate ability to sense him, none of them had any way of knowing who it was.

“What does that mean?” Martha pressed, made weary by all the unfamiliar terms.

“It means he's changed his face, voice, body, everything. New man.”

“Then how are we going to find him?” she asked despairingly.

The Doctor's grip strengthened where their hands were curled together, and when she glanced up to look into his eyes she found him once again staring off into the distance, glassy and faraway. Growing worried, Hartley brushed her thumb over the smooth skin on the back of his hand, and the sensation was enough to startle him out of his stupor, blinking back to the moment and turning back to the conversation like he'd never left it.

“I'll know him, the moment I see him,” he said with a conviction that was like a bolt of lightning. “Time Lords always do.”

There was a lull in the conversation and like they were magnetised, Hartley shuffled in closer to the sullen, distant Time Lord. “You know him?” she asked quietly, giving them the briefest illusion of privacy.

The look in his eyes was haunted. “I _knew_ him,” he said, quiet and sad, full of the echoes of a thousand memories she would never be privy to. “Once upon a time,” he added gently, almost too quietly for her to hear.

Hartley knew him, sometimes she thought too well, and she knew now that he didn't just _know_ the Master; he had, at one stage, been _friends_ with the Master. And maybe it was a friendship so deep and complex that she didn't have a hope of ever understanding. What else could she expect of Time Lords?

Feeling wretched for him, sadness sitting like a stone in her stomach, she leant forwards until her chin rested gently on his shoulder, her side pressed against his. It was the best form of comfort she could think to provide and although he didn't lean into it, he didn't shuffle away, either.

Her thoughts went to Dublin all those months ago, to the things they didn't talk about, the things that were said and done behind closed doors, in a haze of amnesia and feeling. Pressing into the Doctor, she could only close her eyes against the onslaught of precious but painful memories.

“But hold on,” Martha exclaimed so abruptly that Hartley jerked upwards like she'd been caught doing something wrong. She'd very nearly forgotten they weren't alone at all, very nearly forgotten they were in the middle of the town square and not holed up in the TARDIS library, happy in their own little bubble of unspoken, not-so platonic peace. “If he could be anyone, we missed the election,” she continued, and Hartley followed her line of sight to see rows and rows of advertisements, every single one reading in bold, ominous letter: _VOTE SAXON_.

A sinking feeling appeared in Hartley's chest, her heart heavy like lead.

“But it _can't_ be...” Martha whispered, disbelief thrumming in her blood.

Suddenly people began to swarm the square and the Doctor shot to his feet, his hand falling from Hartley's grasp. She had no time to mourn the loss of his touch as a stereotypical newsreader's voice filling the packed square, cheerful and happy, such a sharp contrast to the quartet's dull mood.

“ _Mister Saxon has returned from the Palace and is greeting the crowd inside Saxon Headquarters_ ,” the woman on the screen said brightly. Hartley turned slowly, frightened of what she might find. It was like the longer she went without seeing it, the longer she could deny its existence.

But, like all things in life, it was inevitable.

A couple were walking arm-in-arm down a set of stairs, both smiling widely and seeming totally at ease with the photographers circling around them like carnivores looking for an easy snack. The man didn't look familiar to Hartley – medium height, conventionally attractive, eyes like ice – the woman, however, was so familiar to Hartley that she a wave bile travelled up her throat. It nearly choked her, and she could taste its burn on her tongue.

“I _said_ I knew that voice,” cried Martha as the four of them began to head in the direction of the jumbo screen set up on the edge of the plaza. Hartley moved as though in a trance, her eyes locked onto the hauntingly familiar blue eyes and golden hair of Lucy Cole. “When he spoke inside the TARDIS – I've heard that voice hundreds of times. I've seen him. We _all_ have. That was the voice of Harold Saxon.”

“That's him,” the Doctor confirmed grimly. “He's Prime Minister.”

“Oh God,” Hartley muttered to herself. Who knew what kind of powers he could have now? Who knew what his plan was, what he needed this position for? She only knew, deep in her gut, that it was nothing good.

But nothing about that mattered – because _Lucy_ was standing beside him, smiling like Hartley never seen her smile before. Her eyes glittered with happiness and she looked utterly at ease beside the man who struck something like terror into the Doctor's hearts.

Hartley felt suddenly that Lucy had just sold her very soul itself. She always had been so eager to prove herself to the world; it made sense that she wouldn't know where to draw the line.

“The Master is Prime Minister of Great Britain,” said the Doctor faintly, torn between numb shock and stark disbelief. “The Master and his _wife_?” he added dubiously, watching as the man on the screen leaned down to give Lucy a great, passionate kiss. Hartley felt like another wave of bile coming on.

The Master broke away from Lucy with a smarmy smile that, if she hadn't already known who he was, would have turned her off of him completely. He addressed the cameras then, delivering a chilling and seemingly silly speech – pointless to everyone except them, the only people who could possibly know the significance of his words.

“ _This country has been sick. This country needs healing. This country needs medicine. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that what this country really needs right now…is a_ Doctor.”

The gathered crowd began to cheer like it were the most inspired speech given since _Independence Day_. Hartley frowned at the throng of mindless people, her expression screaming her disapproval, but none noticed, so caught up in their blind praise of a man they didn't know.

“Hart?” Jack suddenly asked, the only one of them to have noticed her reaction.

“I need to sit down,” Hartley said for the second time in almost as many minutes, pressing a hand to her forehead, which felt clammy to the touch.

Jack led her over to the nearby bench, gently guiding her onto it. Martha hurried after them, looking down at her warily, while the Doctor took an extra moment to peer at the Time Lord on the television screen with warring pain and frustration before joining them.

“You're not usually one to crack under the pressure,” said Martha, distant and still distracted by the bombshell of the Master's identity. The Doctor peered down at her carefully, and she knew that if he could get away with it, he'd probe her mind in an instant to find out what was wrong.

“It's not that,” she whispered, staring up at the jumbo screen that still held the image of the Master and his wife, both smiling toothily for the cameras. They reminded her of a pair of sharks looking at their next meal, ready and eager to bite off a limb.

“Hartley?” asked the Doctor, growing impatient, and she couldn't blame him. It was a stressful situation for them all, but him especially. If it were a friend of hers who'd stolen the TARDIS and set themselves up as England's Prime Minister, she'd probably be a little short with everyone, too.

She wanted to tell him what was wrong – the magnitude of what the Master had done, but she couldn't seem to find the words, mouth open with no sound coming out. The Doctor followed her line of sight, scowling at the screen as he struggled to piece it together.

It wasn't until the camera zoomed in on Lucy's face that he developed an inkling of what the problem might be. “Do you know her?” he asked, tone of voice severe. Hartley paled at the question. “Hartley, do you know the Master's wife?” he stubbornly pressed.

She nodded her head, just the movement making her feel nauseas. “Yeah,” she whispered, feeling like it were hard to breathe, as if the Master had stolen her air away, too.

“She's a friend of yours?” he persisted.

“She's, uh,” Hartley stumbled over the words, and she cleared her throat, “she's my sister.”

Her confession was met with only stunned silence from her friends. None of them seemed to know what to say, and the look in their eyes was dark and pitying. Jack reached out to grip her hand, a silent move of support that Hartley appreciated more than words could say. She didn't attempt a smile, knowing it would only look pained, and nobody said anything pointless to try and make her feel better, for which she was grateful.

“Wait a minute, guys – if he's Prime Minister, he'll have eyes everywhere,” Jack suddenly hissed. All of them immediately turned to glance at the crowd, searching for anyone who seemed to be paying them any extra attention. Nobody was, but it was almost like she could feel the weight of eyes on her back, her skin itching with the sensation of being watched.

“Okay – Hartley, we can worry about your sister later,” said the Doctor, voice grave and deep. Hartley wasn't so sure that was true – the Master had collected her sister and had her parading around after him as eye candy (if not worse). It very much felt like an issue they should face in the now. But the Doctor was in charge; everyone knew that. “For now, we need to get out of the open, somewhere with internet access,” he continued in a low whisper, knowing any of the nearby humans could potentially be a spy.

“We can go to my flat,” Martha suggested.

“How far?”

“Where are we?” she asked, looking around too, searching for a street sign.

“James Street,” Jack told her quickly.

“About a five minute walk,” she said in a whisper, as though the concrete slabs around them had ears. “If we're quick.”

“Let's go,” the Doctor nodded, tucking his hands deep into his coat pockets and hunching his shoulders like it might help him blend in. “But keep your heads down,” he warned, nodding for Martha to lead the way.

They were silent as they walked. Hartley had about a thousand unanswered questions, but none of them – not even her – was brave enough to break the silence they found themselves in. London was achingly familiar, each corner holding an echo of a life now gone from her reach.

She recognised the theatre she'd gone to with her dad four times every year to see their seasonal production. She spotted the park her dad would take her to when she was a little kid, remembering how they'd taken turns spinning each other on the roundabout until they felt ill. They even went past the publishing house that had published her very first novel.

She wondered where she'd be now if she'd never been thrust into the Doctor's world. Would she be happy? Would she still be going to the theatre with her dad, and writing book after book like putting pen to paper were an addiction, and getting crushed by the weight of her mother's unending disapproval?

Over the last half a decade, one question weighed on her mind more than any other ever had.

_Why her?_

“It's just through here,” Martha's voice was quiet as she came to a stop in front a pretty white townhouse, a picket fence running across the non-existent garden. She stooped down and swiped a thick rock from by her doorstep, turning it upside-down and fishing out a small, gold key.

“Those are some foolproof security measures you've taken there,” Jack said slyly. Hartley couldn't help but let out a low snort of amusement, although neither Martha nor the Doctor looked particularly impressed. Martha unlocked the door and pushed her way into her house, gesturing for the others to follow.

“Home,” Martha sighed, rather relieved. Hartley understood the feeling – it was the same one she got whenever she stepped foot into the TARDIS.

“What have you got? Computer, laptop, anything,” the Doctor all but barged his way through the door, already stripping off his coat and throwing it haphazardly over the armrest of Martha's lounge. From behind them there was the beeping of a phone, and the Doctor spun around with a frown even as he shoved his clever-specs onto the bridge of his nose. “Jack, who are you phoning? You can't tell anyone we're here,” he reminded him sharply.

“Just some friends of mine, but there's no reply,” Jack's expression wavered, creased with worry before he smothered it, shoving his phone back out of sight.

“Here you go,” interjected Martha, handing off her laptop. “Any good?”

“I can show you the Saxon websites,” said Jack, snatching the computer from the Doctor's hands and placing it on the desk in the corner, crouching down and beginning to search the internet with skilled hands. “He's been around for ages.”

“That's so weird though. It's the day after the election,” Martha was murmuring thoughtfully, and Hartley looked up from where she was hovering anxiously over Jack's shoulder. “That's only _four_ days after I met the two of you,” she mused, turning to look at Hartley and the Doctor in sheer bemusement. Even after all this time, the perplexity of time travel was still a lot to swallow.

The Doctor seemed distressed by this fact. He lifted a hand to his hair, tugging on it anxiously, peering back at her through the lenses of his unnecessary glasses. “We went flying all around the universe while he was here all the time,” he muttered, eyes sliding over to Hartley. “But your _sister,_ ” he said, face scrunch in irritation, like she'd presented him a riddle he just couldn't figure out. “Why would he need your sister?”

Hartley felt like the question had stolen the air from her lungs.

“Is she special?” the Doctor continued hotly, desperate to solve this part of the puzzle. “Is she important in any way?”

“No,” Hartley told him, and it was the truth. It was just Lucy – her young, shallow, eager-to-please sister.

“She never introduced you to him?” he pressed.

“I haven't spoken to her in about three years – from her perspective, at least,” she replied. Again, time travel was a real whammy.

“And from yours?” asked Martha curiously.

She hesitated. “About nine,” she confessed.

“You're not close,” said Martha. It wasn't a question. “You never talk about her.”

And that was true – maybe it was her way of trying to forget. Or maybe she was just a terrible, selfish human being.

“Did you even know she was getting married?” the Doctor asked, a frown on his face.

“Yeah,” she nodded. “My Dad and I weren't invited to the wedding, but I heard it was nice.”

“It didn't seem significant to mention she was marrying a man running for Prime Minister?” asked Martha, eyebrows raised skeptically.

Hartley turned to frown at her. “I knew he was in the government and running for some kind of office, but I haven't spent long enough in modern, linear time to know who the guy was, let alone that he was this big of a deal,” she said, admittedly a little defensive, but she thought it was well deserved.

Martha was full of a strange sort of annoyance. “Would have thought you'd care more about your own sister,” she said dully, and Hartley grit her teeth. It was easy for her to say that – Martha Jones, dysfunctional family, yes, but loving all the same.

Hartley's family dynamic was a boatload more complicated, the situation having built up over years of the perfectly British behaviours of avoidance and disapproval. She knew Martha wouldn't understand. She wasn't sure anybody would.

And so Hartley decided it wasn't worth a reply. She turned to the Doctor instead. “Who is he, Doctor?” she asked him flatly, heart stuttering in her chest. Her eyes flickered back to the image of her sister smiling in the top corner of the screen. “Is he dangerous?” she found herself adding.

She and Lucy may not have been close by any standards, but the thought of anything happened to her was like a knife to her heart. Because if the Master hurt her, it would undoubtedly by Hartley's fault. Maybe not directly – she didn't hand her over willingly, after all – but rather a product of her travels with the Doctor.

This was what selfishness got her, she decided. You got the reward, while the people around you suffered the consequences.

But the Doctor didn't so much as look up from the screen. “He's a Time Lord,” he said shortly, and it didn't escape their notice that he didn't answer her other question.

“What about the rest of it?” Martha pressed, just as eager for answers. “I mean, who'd call himself _the Master_?” she asked critically.

But the Doctor ignored her, leaning over Jack's other shoulder, effectively ending the conversation. “That's all you need to know,” he said dismissively. “Come on,” he added to Jack, “show me Harold Saxon.”

Martha turned away, emotions lined with disappointment, and began to fiddle with her answering machine.

Hartley paid no attention to the messages playing on the device, instead focusing her attention on the screen in front of them, watching as pictures of Harold Saxon appeared, ranging from years ago to only just mere hours. It didn't make sense; what kind of long game was he playing?

“What do you need to know?” Jack asked, nimble fingers working tirelessly to bring up the relevant data.

“How long has he been here for?” asked the Doctor, sharp and direct. “I need to know exactly what he's been up to.”

“Well, this can't be right,” Jack stopped moving, leaning forwards to get a better look at the screen.

“What?” Hartley asked, full of trepidation. She wasn't sure how many more bombshells she could physically or emotionally handle.

“As far as I can tell, he's always been here,” he began, shifting to the side so the others could see. “Look, he was former Minister of Defence. First came to prominence when he shot down the Racnoss on Christmas Eve,” he paused, turning to look at the pair of travellers above him. “Nice work, by the way.”

“We try,” Hartley said, wry and exasperated, and Jack gave a wide smirk.

“But he goes back years. He's famous. Everyone knows his story,” Martha argued, leaning in beside Hartley to point at the screen. “Look: Cambridge University, Rugby blue. Won the Athletics thing. Wrote a novel, went into business, marriage, _everything._ He's got a whole life!”

“But _how_ can he have a whole life, is the question,” the Doctor said forcefully, stress making his voice tight. “Harold Saxon _doesn't exist._ ”

Knowing this would spark a discussion, one she felt far too drained to be a part of, Hartley pushed herself upright and turned towards the kitchen. “Anyone for some tea?” she asked. For once she made no attempt at keeping her voice cheerful. What was the point? It was hard even for her to be cheerful under the circumstances.

“Yeah,” Martha said, distracted. “Kitchen's through there,” she added, waving a hand to a doorway at the back of the room.

“I'll give you a hand,” Jack offered, already standing to follow her through. She half expected the Doctor to argue, but he simply took Jack's vacated seat and began to type away at the keyboard at a thousand miles an hour.

Martha's kitchen was small and homey. Hartley found herself liking it, although she couldn't help but think it had nothing on the kitchen in the TARDIS. She missed the big, beautiful ship with every single fibre of her being. She didn't want to even think about what the Master might have been doing to her while she was in his possession.

She set out making tea, the movements coming like an instinct. Jack leant against the counter, watching her silently for a few long, quiet minutes.

“How're you doing, Harts?” Jack finally asked her just as she set the kettle to boil. The sound of his soft voice coupled with the low rumbling of the kettle gave her such a strong sense of _home_ that it nearly hurt. She absently rubbed at the phantom ache in her chest.

“I'm fine,” she told him without giving it much thought, distractedly rummaging through Martha's cupboards, searching for the teabags.

Jack was silent for another moment, but when he spoke up again his voice was full of a warm, easy fondness that made her chest squeeze. “Try again,” he said, patient and knowing.

Knowing she wasn't going to be able to sidestep this one, she turned, sighing heavily with exhaustion that before now, she hadn't allowed herself to fell, let alone show.

“I'm really all right,” she assured him in a more genuine tenor. “Just tired. I feel like I haven't slept in weeks,” she said, reaching up to run a hand through her hair which had, at some point, fallen from its sloppy braid. It now hung in soft red tresses down her shoulders and back. “And I get the feeling it's going to be a long while before any of us gets any quality rest,” she added grimly, turning her head to glance out of Martha's kitchen window. The street was empty and silent, but she still felt the annoying, tingling sensation that told her they were being watched. She decided it was nothing but paranoia, and went back to making their tea with slow, steady movements.

“All those years together in the nineteenth century, and I think you mentioned your sister maybe twice,” he said quietly.

“Not much to tell,” she shrugged.

Jack chuckled. “Now, why don't I believe you?” he asked coyly.

Hartley didn't smile, her lips didn't even twitch. Jack's smirk flickered and died, replaced by a concern that hurt to look at directly.

He watched her work for a few moments, and Hartley found herself feeling exposed under his watchful gaze. He'd always been able to do that, look at her and see through her defences, like her skin were made of glass. “I meant it,” he said, voice gentle and kind, “when I said you'd changed.”

She lifted her shoulders in a shrug, fishing out a teaspoon to dump sugar into the mugs. “Time will do that to a person,” she replied quietly.

Jack looked like there were a hundred things he wanted – needed – to say, but the Doctor's voice floated in from the next room. “What's taking so long in there?” he called through the open door impatiently.

Shoulders slumping, Hartley leaned forwards to nudge her brother's chest with her head affectionately, not unlike a cat nuzzling their young, then pulled back and finished making their tea.

“Later,” she promised him, and he nodded. There was still so much to say, to catch up on. Why did it feel like it would be an eternity until they got the chance? “We're discussing how the Master could have created such an airtight past!” she yelled back through the doorway to the Doctor.

“Yeah!” agreed Jack without hesitation, taking two of the mugs while she grabbed the ones remaining. “He's got the TARDIS. Maybe he went back in time and has been living here for decades,” he suggested, handing off one of the mugs to Martha who took it with a nod of thanks.

“No,” the Doctor said, eyes focused on the computer screen before him.

“Why not? Worked for me.”

“When he was stealing the TARDIS, the only thing I could do was fuse the coordinates,” he began to explain.

Hartley stepped closer, handing over a green mug full of steaming tea. He took it with a nod, but the look in his eyes was distracted and distant. She couldn't imagine how he was feeling, and not only because he wasn't letting her; his whole world had been turned on its head in a matter of hours. One moment he was alone, the next there was another Time Lord in the universe – only it was anything but a happy reunion.

“I locked them permanently,” he continued as Hartley situated herself against the desk he was sat at, her hip cocked against the wood. “He can only travel between the year one hundred trillion and the last place the TARDIS landed. Which is right here, right now.”

“Yeah, but a little leeway?” Jack asked seriously.

“Well, eighteen months, tops,” the Doctor conceded with a frown. “The _most_ he could have been here is eighteen months. So – how has he managed all this?” He took a deep sip of tea, pondering his own question. “The Master was always sort of _hypnotic_ , but this is on a massive scale.”

“I was going to vote for him,” Martha revealed.

“You were?” Hartley asked, surprised.

“Well, it was before I even met the two of you,” she explained with a lift of her shoulders. “And I liked him.”

“Me too,” Jack admitted casually.

“Why do you say that?” the Doctor pressed, and Hartley leant forwards, interested in the response. “What was his policy? What did he stand for?”

“I don't know. He always sounded good. Like you could trust him. Just nice,” Martha replied. A strange sound appeared, a rhythmic sort of tapping. Hartley glanced down at their friend's hands to see her fingers tapping out a beat against her leg. It was strangely mesmerising, and Hartley began to feel her mind go blank as Martha spoke, letting the drumming sound fill her senses. “He spoke about … I can't really remember, but it was good. Just the sound of his voice…”

“What's that?” the Doctor snapped abruptly, and all the humans in the room blinked back to themselves, turning to look at him in surprise. “That tapping, that rhythm. What are you doing?” he demanded when Martha didn't immediately answer.

“I don't know. It's nothing,” she cried, defensive. “It's just, I don't know!”

The television across the room sudden burst to life, and a pop up appeared on the screen reading, _Saxon Broadcast All Channels_. The Doctor shoved his tea onto the desk, some of the liquid sloshing out onto the wood although nobody bothered to mop it up, following him to the TV and all crowding around it.

“Our lord and master is speaking to his kingdom,” the Doctor murmured, adjusting the glasses on his nose as he watched the Master appear on the screen, an ugly, leering smile on his impish face.

“ _Britain, Britain, Britain_ ,” he began in a sneered, condescending voice. “ _What extraordinary times we've had. Just a few years ago, this world was so small. And then they came, out of the unknown, falling from the skies. You've seen it happen._ ” On the screen images began to appear, images so familiar the made Hartley's stomach swoop in remembered panic. “ _Big Ben destroyed. A spaceship over London. All those ghosts and metal men_ ,” he listed, and Hartley held her breath as the ghosts and Cybermen flashed across the screen. Holding her breath, she tried not to think of Rose, pushed her friend's screams from her mind. “ _The Christmas star that came to kill. Time and time again, and the government told you nothing. Well, not me. Not Harold Saxon. Because my purpose here today is to tell you this. Citizens of Great Britain, I have been contacted. A message for humanity, from beyond the stars._ ”

“ _People of the Earth_ ,” began a voice, and suddenly they weren't looking at the Master anymore, but instead a glowing sphere, its face lit up as it spoke. “ _We come in peace. We bring great gifts. We bring technology and wisdom and protection. And all we ask in return is your friendship_.”

“ _Ooo, sweet_ ,” cooed the Master insincerely. “ _And this species has identified itself. They are called the Toclafane_.”

“What?” squawked the Doctor, incredulous, although he received no reply. Hartley knew he'd never heard of this species, which was worrying in and of itself. Didn't the Doctor know about _every_ species?

“ _And tomorrow morning, they will appear. Not in secret, but to all of you_ ,” the Master proclaimed confidently. “ _Diplomatic relations with a new species will begin. Tomorrow, we take our place in the universe. Every man, woman and child. Every teacher and chemist and lorry driver and farmer. Oh, I don't know, every...medical student_?” he finished, a wide, satisfied smirk on his face.

Hartley's blood turned to ice, the significance of the words not lost on her. Both she and the Doctor whirled around to look at Martha, whose face was slack with shock. The Doctor leapt forwards, grasping the television and turning it around to expose large, red sticks of dynamite taped to the back of it.

“Out!” he screamed at them, and the others didn't hesitate to move. Jack grasped ahold of Hartley, shoving her towards the door before doing the same to Martha as the Doctor reached for the laptop. Hartley's blood was racing, she could barely breathe as she pushed Martha through the door, shoving her out onto the street. She followed, very nearly tripping over herself as they stumbled across the road.

Hartley didn't even have time to look back before the house exploded behind her, the blast smashing out the windows with enough force to nearly push the four of them to the ground. Ears ringing and her head thumping, Hartley stood back up, spinning around to stare at the remains of Martha's house in shock. It was engulfed in flames, damaged beyond repair.

“All right?” the Doctor shouted over the sound of the blazing inferno. 

“Fine, yeah, fine,” Jack coughed, clearing out his smoke-filled lungs.

“Hartley?” he called, glancing over at her in concern.

“Fine,” she panted, pressing a hand over her racing heart, buzzing from the adrenaline of it all – but not in a good way.

“Martha?” he prompted when he heard nothing. Spinning around, Hartley spied their friend frantically dialling her mobile phone. “What are you doing?” he demanded, pitchy with stress.

“He knows about me. What about my family?” said Martha urgently, already holding the phone to her ear.

The same suddenly occurred to Hartley. If the Master had Lucy under his thumb, what was to stop him from targeting her mum and dad? Would Lucy being his wife be enough to keep them safe? Something deep in her gut made her doubt it.

“Don't tell them anything!” the Doctor ordered Martha, who whipped around with a furious glower, the strength of which Hartley had never seen her produce before.

“I'll do what I like,” she snarled, and even the Doctor fell silent in response. “Mum? Oh my God,” her tone changed as she moved away, speaking to her mother in low, worried tones.

“He planted a _bomb_?” Jack asked the Doctor, eyes wild with shock. “How far is he willing to go? And what does he want?”

“If I had all the answers, Jack, we wouldn't be in this situation,” the Doctor bit back, shutting Jack up completely.

“Doctor,” said Hartley, her voice so gentle in contrast to the explosion.

The Doctor turned his head to look at her, meeting her eyes. What she saw in them made her flinch. They were steely and cold, and she grit her teeth against the wave of worry that crashed over her, potent and strong. The Doctor was distressed, which could only mean they was big trouble on the horizon.

Before either one could say anything, Martha began to shout from where she was on the phone. “Dad? What's going on? _Dad_?!” she yelled into the receiver, then pulled it away from her face to stare down at it in horror. “We've got to help them!” she cried to the others. Hartley knew this to be a bad idea, but far be it from her to stop Martha from trying to save the people she loved most.

“That's exactly what they want!” the Doctor argued, apparently having no problems with saying so. “It's a trap!”

“I don't care!” Martha growled, already making a beeline for her car, ignoring them as she slipped into the driver's seat. The Doctor glanced back at Hartley and Jack, helpless, but they knew their best course of action was to stay by Martha's side and keep her out of trouble as best they could.

Jack wrenched open the back door, gently urging Hartley in before him. Shuffling over to the far side, she watched him hop in with just enough time to spare, Martha taking off with a loud screech of her tyres.

She drove like a madwoman, and Hartley briefly wondered whether their luck was bad enough to get pulled over by the police. Halfway there, however, and there was no sign of law enforcement at all.

“Corner!” barked the Doctor just before Martha cut the corner, bumping against the gutter. Hartley was thrown into Jack, who caught her in strong hands, pushing her gently upright. She met his eyes, concern in their deep-sea blue, and she attempted a smile.

As she drove, Martha recklessly pulled out her phone, using one hand to dial it. “Stop it,” said Hartley sternly, much like a preschool teacher might speak to one of her misbehaving students, leaning between the seats to snatch the phone from her hand. “Who're you ringing?” she asked, holding it out and sifting through her contacts.

“Tish!” Martha shouted, cutting another corner with a second screech of her tyres.

Finding Tish's name in her list, Hartley held the phone out for Martha to speak into, letting her focus most of her attention on staying between the lines.

“Come on, Tish. Pick up,” Martha muttered in a loop as the call continued to ring, her grip on the wheel turning her knuckles white.

Finally her sister picked up, only to start screaming for someone to let her go, telling them all exactly what they'd feared – Tish was being taken, too.

“What's happening? Tish!” Martha cried out in distress. She snatched the phone from Hartley's weak grip, ending the call and throwing it forcefully into the centre console. “It's _your_ fault,” she screamed at the Doctor, growing distraught. She looked away from the road long enough to send both Hartley and the Doctor a hateful glare. “ _Both_ of you! It's _all_ your fault!” she hissed at them in contempt. Hartley flinched back, stung by the accusation that was, in all honesty, warranted.

They pulled around a final corner, only to be met with the sight of a street full of officers in SWAT gear, two of them shoving a familiar older woman into the back of a police van. At the sound of the tyres on the asphalt the officials all spun around to look at them. Martha's mother's expression slackened in horror.

“Martha, get out of here! Get out!” she screamed at them, her voice muffled through the glass of the windscreen but audible all the same.

There was a woman in a drab pantsuit standing off to the side, and at the sight of them a sneer appeared on her pale face. “Target identified,” she called to her soldiers.

As one the officers lifted their weapons, the barrels of their guns aimed at the quartet stuffed into the car. “Martha, reverse,” the Doctor ordered her lowly. Hartley's grasped at the lapel of Jack's coat, gripping it tight enough to hurt her own hand. She and Jack would survive a bullet to the head, but neither the Doctor nor Martha could.

“Take aim!” called the smug woman in charge. Even through the glass Hartley could hear the chilling sound of the soldiers' guns cocking in preparation to fire. To kill them all.

“Get out, now!” the Doctor shouted desperately.

“Martha, _now_! Drive!” Hartley screamed, voice shrill with panic.

“Fire!” cried the leader, and the deafening bangs of firing guns filled her ears. Hartley didn't even hesitate to reach forwards, grasping the Doctor by his wild hair and yanking his head down, out of sight.

He gave a shout of surprise at the action, struggling against her, but she didn't care, her only thought being to keep him safe. She'd die – quite literally – before letting anything happen to him. The engine of Martha's car gave a loud rev as she sloppily reversed, pulling away in time to save them any injuries, although the back window shattered to pieces under the impact of the bullets.

“Careful!” shouted the Doctor as she very nearly crashed into a passing vehicle. Martha swerved at the last second. She was growing overwrought, desperate and lacking clarity of thought.

“Martha, listen to me. Do as I say,” Jack interjected, his voice sharp and commanding, taking charge of the situation in the way only he could. Hartley knew he'd been in situations like this – or ones similar, at least – before. “We've got to ditch this car,” he told her seriously. Martha was only just managing to keep herself from hyperventilating. “Pull over. Right now,” he ordered. She hesitated another moment before nodding and changing lanes, preparing to pull over somewhere hidden.

It was in that moment that Hartley's pocket began buzzing. Startled by the vibration, she flinched, and Jack turned to look at her in alarm, watching as she fished the phone from her back pocket, glancing down at the caller ID.

“Oh God,” she muttered, a wave of nausea rolling through her insides, which seemed to have twisted themselves up into painful little knots.

“Hartley?” the Doctor asked, his voice severe.

She was frozen, staring down at the device in horror. It vibrated again, the feeling rattling her very soul. Swallowing her horror, Hartley answered the call, holding the phone to her ear as Martha pulled over beneath an innocuous underpass. They all climbed out, a light mist of rain already sticking to their skin.

“Hello?” she asked into the phone, feeling her insides shake as she waited for a response. “Dad?” she pressed, her pulse crashing in her ears like the beating of a thousand drums.

“ _Hartley_ ,” said her dad's voice, but it was tense and scared. Her own fear skyrocketed.

The others were staring at her, taking in her terrified eyes and frozen form. “Where are you?” she demanded. The thought of anything happening to him made ice run through her veins. It was unfathomable, she couldn't imagine a world where he got hurt because of her – because of _Lucy._

“ _Hart, whatever you do, keep running_!” her dad cried, then broke off in a cry of pain. “ _Hartley – run! Don't let him get to you_!”

“Dad?!” she cried, taking a step forwards as though she might be able to step through the connection to see him in person. “Who?! What's going on?!”

“ _Ah, ah, ah_ ,” sang a voice that made chills appear along her arms, her skin crawling with horror. “ _That's enough from you, Mr Daniels_ ,” the Master sneered through the line. “ _Why don't you finish your tea_?”

Feeling her world begin to tip, Hartley snapped out a hand, searching for something, anything to ground her. Jack was closest, and she gripped ahold of his arm with enough force to leave a bruise. “What have you done?” she asked him, her voice cold as ice.

“ _We're just having some tea_ ,” said the Master in a dark voice. “ _I figured it was about time to meet the in-laws,_ ” he continued sweetly. “ _I suppose this makes you my sister, doesn't it, Hartley Daniels_?” He sounded sickeningly victorious, smug in the kind of way that made her want to punch something.

And she lost her cool, panic making her snap in two. “Let them go!” she screeched down the line, tears burning at her eyes, knuckles turning white from her grip on the phone. “You let him go _now_ or I swear that I'll-”

The Doctor seemed to materialise before her, snatching the phone from her grip and holding it up to his own ear, taking a few steps away from a petrified Hartley. She cut herself off, finding her entire body to be shaking with her terror. Jack immediately pulled her into his arms, one hand held to the back of her head, pressing her wet face into his chest, hushing her gently.

She'd never been close with her sister. Lucy had never been able to stand her, not even as a baby. Hartley had always wanted a relationship with her half-sister, but there were so many years of repressed anger and resentment, by the time they were all grown up, it was too late. Still, despite the strained relationship, Lucy was still Hartley's baby sister, and the thought of anything happening to her made Hartley feel sick to the stomach.

But, even as that was, it was _nothing_ in comparison to her dad.

During certain periods of her life, he'd been the only person she'd had. The only person who'd mattered. If anything happened to him, because of _her_ , she'd never, ever forgive herself. She was sure it was probably the one thing in the universe that would manage to render her permanently dead.

From a few feet away the two Time Lords spoke through the phone, the Doctor's voice calm considering the circumstances. Hartley pressed closer into Jack's chest, like she might be able to crawl inside of him and hibernate away from the horror of her reality.

“It'll be okay,” Jack kept saying, hand stroking her hair gently. “It's okay. We'll save them. It'll be okay,” he kept repeating, rather like a broken record, shushing her soothingly. She wasn't sure she agreed, but she also didn't argue.

She knew she had to pull it together eventually, but for the moment allowed herself to just soak up her brother's presence, immerse herself in his unique brand of comfort. He still smelt the same, like expensive liquor, motor grease and, strangely enough, carrot cake.

She thought, brazenly, that the only way she could possibly feel any safer would be for the _Doctor_ to be the one holding her. Jack was special to her, her family in every way that counted – but the Doctor, he was something different, something deeper.

But he was talking to the Master – he had far too much going on, with far too many lives at stake for her to be able to let him worry about her _feelings_. As though they would ever be as important as the danger they were in.

Pulling away from Jack, she sniffled a final time, running her fingertips under her leaking eyes to dry up her tears. Jack leaned forwards to press a kiss to her hairline, and she attempted a smile.

“It'll be okay,” he assured her again, but the promise was a hollow one and they both knew it.

“Guys,” said Martha and they quickly snapped to attention, following her line to sight to see the Doctor eyeing them, silently urging them forwards. Folding her arms around her middle in an attempt to hold the pieces of herself together, Hartley followed them over towards him.

“He can see us,” the Doctor told them as they approached, already pointing his sonic screwdriver at a security camera positioned on the roof. The sonic buzzed and the camera sparked twice before falling dead. “He's got control of everything,” he continued grimly, and Hartley hugged herself tighter.

From behind him she could see their pictures flashing on the television screen through the window of the shop. Their faces were spread on TV, large and unflattering, proclaiming them public enemies 1, 2, 3 and 4.

“What do we do?” Martha asked quietly, the horror in her heart leaking into her voice as she stared at the loop of their faces on the screen.

“We've got nowhere to go,” Jack added, his voice as bleak as the situation.

“Doctor,” Hartley got his attention, meeting his eyes. His were full of a steely dread, while hers were desperate and unbearably hopeful, rimmed red from crying. “What now?” she asked, stomach in knots. “What do we do?” she pressed, her words pleading. She hoped he had an answer, she _needed_ him to have an answer.

“We run,” he told them simply before taking off in a jog. Hartley watched him go, a grave feeling filling her veins. The last thing she wanted to do was run; she needed to _do_ something, find a way to save the people she loved – but she knew that if the Doctor said running was their only option, then it was their only option.

And so it was with a heavy heart that Hartley began to run.

* * *

Hartley wasn't exactly an expert at being on the run from the law, and neither was Martha, but Jack and the Doctor had enough experience between them to keep them all afloat.

At Jack's suggestion, they temporarily settled into an old, abandoned warehouse. It was cold and damp, the sky having long since given way to London's usual rain. Mother Nature stopped for no one, Hartley thought grimly from where she was stood beside the fire that the Doctor had started with his sonic. She wondered if there were anything it _couldn't_ do.

She was freezing, her fingers stiff and icy. When she'd woken up that morning, way before the whole End Of The Universe debacle (it seemed like years ago, now), she hadn't expected she'd need to dress for life as a fugitive. Her teeshirt was made from thin, worn cotton, and her jacket was a simple material that the cold seeped through with ease.

She was shivering even despite the fire, struggling to keep warm. And the shock probably wasn't helping.

She was surprised when a heavy, warm weight settled gently over her wiry shoulders. She looked over expecting to see Jack, only to be pleasantly surprised to be met by the Doctor's even expression. He was arranging his brown, Janis Joplin coat over her back, and then he stroked his hands almost tenderly across her shoulders under the pretence of helping her warm up.

She managed a small smile up at him, pulling the coat tighter around her, sinking into its satisfying warmth with a sigh that didn't go unnoticed.

“We'll get your family back, Hart,” he promised her quietly, keeping his hands braced on her shoulders, a comforting presence against this brave new world they'd been thrust unwillingly into.

“I haven't spoken to them in so long...” she murmured, almost to herself. “I've been so wrapped up in...” _you_. But the last part went unspoken. She wouldn't burden him with the blame, it was her own. Maybe if she'd been more alert, more caring and less involved in travelling in the TARDIS...she'd forgotten about her own _family._ What was the matter with her?

“This isn't your fault, Hartley,” the Doctor said, stepping out from behind her and instead slipping between her and the fire, hands still pressed against her shoulders. She looked up into his brown eyes and his hand moved up to cup her face, thumb brushing over the apple of her cheek, making it turn a soft pink in the moonlight streaming through the shattered windows of the empty warehouse.

“It isn't yours, either,” she whispered, a plea. She wouldn't have been able to handle it if he blamed himself.

The Doctor smiled, wide and adoring like she, right here, right now – red eyes, blotchy skin and all – were something to be admired. “The Master is my responsibility,” he said simply, like that was the only truth he knew.

Hartley knew she wouldn't be able to change his mind, no matter what she did, so she settled for turning her head to gently press her lips to his palm, the action making her mouth tingle with awareness.

She then reached up, taking his hand and pulling it away from her face. He let her do as she would, watching her, silently observing the glow of her skin in the firelight.

Hartley ran her eyes over the bruises on his knuckles and she was reminded of how desperately he had beaten his fists against the TARDIS door as it was dematerialising. Gingerly, she brushed her fingertips over the discoloured skin. He didn't flinch under the touch, only continuing to stare at her through the still air, a thousand unspoken thoughts spinning away behind those big, sad eyes.

“We'll get her back,” she promised in return. His expression turned questioning, not understanding who she meant. “The TARDIS,” she said, and his mouth twisted at the reminder that they were without her. “We'll get her back.”

“I know,” he told her, sincere even as his eyes darkened. “But at what cost?”

She gently brought his hand to her face, brushing a kiss over the bruised, slow-healing knuckles before stepping up on her tiptoes and wrapping her arms around his neck, tugging him into a warm embrace.

He took a moment, but then his arms wrapped around her middle, strong and secure, and she knew she'd been right before – there was no possible safer place than in the Doctor's arms. She breathed him in, nuzzling her face into his shoulder and soaking up his presence, like a shining light in the darkness of her mind.

Pulling back, she glanced up at him from under her lashes, absorbing his sad expression and memorising the strong glint to his warm eyes. In that instant, it was like they'd carved a bubble of peace out for themselves against the harshness of their reality. Everything was calm and easy and right in the world. But all things must come to an end, and as did their illusion of tranquility.

“How was it?” Jack's voice rang out in the otherwise silent warehouse. Knowing Martha had returned, Hartley took a large step back from the Doctor, grasping the lapels of his coat and tugging them tightly around her like a protective skin, warm and smelling like her favourite Time Lord.

“I don't think anyone saw me,” Martha breathed, but she sounded a little off, and Hartley guessed she'd seen her embrace with the Doctor. She couldn't bring herself to care, staring back into the light of the crackling fire, expression drawn. “Anything new?” she asked eagerly, the sound of rustling butcher paper filling the room.

“I've got this tuned to government wavelengths so we can follow what Saxon's doing,” Jack told her evenly, tapping his vortex manipulator with a smile.

“Yeah, I meant about my family,” Martha snapped, unimpressed, and Hartley glanced up in time to see Jack looking properly chastised. Martha approached her next, attempting a weak smile as she handed over a small wrapped package full of chips.

“It still says: the Jones family taken in for questioning,” the Doctor answered her, and the moment she could Martha turned to him, bending down to get a look at the computer screen he was sat in front of. “Tell you what, though. No mention of Leo.”

“He's not as daft as he looks,” she chuckled, before her face went slack with shock. “I'm talking about my brother on the run. How did this happen?”

“Heard anything about my family?” Hartley interjected, nerves scrunching her insides together. She took a seat on an upturned crate positioned beside the Doctor, spreading her chips out in her lap and halfheartedly nibbling on them. She wasn't very hungry, not after everything that had happened.

The Doctor pursed his lips into a thin line, shaking his head. “No word on the Daniels clan, I'm afraid,” he told her apologetically.

“Hartley,” said Martha suddenly, and the redhead turned to look at her, spying the confusion splayed across her pretty face. “About your sister...” she began hesitantly.

Hartley put down the chip she'd been eating, her appetite evaporated into nothing.

“How could you not know she was married to Saxon?” Martha pressed, understanding that it was a sore subject for her, but also knowing she couldn't go on without these answers. They were too crucial.

“I've been travelling,” Hartley said in weak explanation, tilting her head towards the Doctor as though that were the end of it.

“What, you've never stopped by home to see your family? Not once in the last eighteen months?” Martha asked skeptically.

“I haven't seen my mum,” she revealed. “I've only seen my dad, and we don't really talk about Lucy very much.”

“Why not?”

Hartley hesitated, staring down at her bag of mostly untouched chips. “Hart,” said Jack, stern but at the same time encouraging, and she knew she wouldn't get away without answering. These were things they needed to know – the trials of her past were suddenly crucial to London's, maybe even the world's, future.

“When I was a kid – five or six – my parents started having issues,” she began reluctantly. A breeze trickled in through the smashed windows to her right, and even in the warmth of the Doctor's coat, she felt a chill. “I don't know much about it, I was too young and we don't really talk about what happened back then. All I know is, one day mum came home and told dad she was pregnant, and that it was another man's.”

Martha and Jack both winced at the awkwardness of the situation, but the Doctor's expression remained unchanged.

“Needless to say, she kept the baby,” Hartley continued, “and nine months later Lucy Cole was born.” She paused, nibbling on a chip as she gathered together her swirling thoughts. “At first they were going to get divorced, but my dad was from an old family. They didn't believe in that sort of thing. So despite everything, they worked through it.”

“Was the other guy in the picture at all?” asked Martha quietly.

“Sort of – he raised Lucy for the most part. We only saw her every other weekend,” Hartley revealed, mouth twisting downwards into something that wasn't quite a grimace, but probably came close. “We never exactly bonded.”

“Why not?” asked Jack.

“I resented her,” she confessed it like she would a sin, wincing at the wave of guilt it brought. “Even that young I knew she was the thing that had nearly ripped my family apart. She felt like an intruder on our happy life. An outsider who hadn't earned their place there.”

The others exchanged long looks that Hartley's didn't care to watch. “I can't imagine you doing something like that,” said Martha softly, and Hartley looked up to see her looking a little bit lost, as if she suddenly didn't know the woman sitting opposite her at all.

Hartley smiled, but the expression was rueful and sad. “I was young,” she said with a tentative lift of her shoulders. “I regret it now, of course,” she added sincerely. “But even living in a time machine, I can't rewrite the past.”

There was a moment of quiet as her words sank in.

“Anyway the crucial years passed – me resenting her for being the catalyst of all my family's problems, and her resenting me for having everything she didn't – and by the time either of us were old enough, or wise enough, to see past it all, the damage was done,” she explained like it were all really that simple, when really it were anything but.

“So, you just never patched things up?” Jack asked in confusion. “That doesn't sound like you.”

“Well, life with the Doctor isn't very conducive to fostering positive familial relationships,” she replied, even and steady, and the total truth. “I met the Doctor when I was twenty-five,” she reminded them. “I haven't been home for a full day since. I've been too busy zipping about the universe at a lanky alien's whim.”

The Doctor looked like if he weren't so absorbed in their predicament, he may have cried out in his own defence.

“What I don't get is why the Master would want to marry your sister in the first place,” said Martha suddenly, and the morose sort of air shifted until it was just the slightest bit lighter. “What's he got to gain from it?”

“What does she do?” the Doctor asked, leaning forwards, chips shifting precariously on his lap.

“Last I heard, she worked at an up-and-coming advertising firm in London,” Hartley shrugged. “I doubt the Master wanted her for any reason other than to get at me – or rather, you,” she said with a meaningful look at the Doctor, watching as his eyes went dark.

He opened his mouth, and she wondered whether he was going to apologise – and whether that was something she needed to hear – but then he shut it with the sound of teeth clicking together, and he turned his attention back to the chips in his lap.

In a move that surprised them, Martha was the first to speak up. “She'll be okay,” she said, quiet and reassuring.

Hartley attempted a smile that fell flat. “So will your family,” she replied, even without knowing this to be true. “We'll get them all back.”

“You know how I hate to be a wet blanket, Harts,” began Jack, and Hartley knew whatever followed wasn't going to be pleasant, “but Martha's family was taken against their will. As far as we can tell … Lucy married the Master of her own volition.”

Hartley grimaced at the reminder. “It does sound like something she'd do,” she admitted with a sigh.

“Do you think she knows who he really is?” asked Martha carefully. “Do you think that, whatever his plan is, she might be in on it?”

Hartley didn't answer; she just couldn't. Not only did she have no idea, but she felt like anything she could have said had a chance of coming back to bite her.

Say Lucy wasn't in on it, that the Master had somehow brainwashed or manipulated her sister into this whole thing and she risked looking like a sentimental, idealistic fool. Say she thought Lucy was in on it from the beginning and she looked like a bitter, jaded child.

She didn't really think any of her friends would hold these opinions, but rather, herself.

Jack seemed to sense, as he so often did, that Hartley needed someone on her side, someone to divert the attention away from her so she could gather herself in private.

“Nice chips,” he said, sounding innocently conversational, although Hartley was sure his real motives didn't escape anyone's notice.

“Actually, they're not bad,” the Doctor agreed, and Hartley smiled just slightly, a silent expression of gratitude for their kind show of tact.

There was a long beat of silence. Not awkward as such, just heavy with the weight of so many unanswered questions. They seemed to gather between them all, like charges of energy waiting to be released.

They sat for a few more moments, each stewing with the knowledge that someone would eventually have to be the one to break the silence. Hartley looked up from her pile of chips, catching Jack's eye and giving an encouraging nod.

With a silent sigh, her brother relented. “So, Doctor, who is he?” he asked in a voice that was meant to be casual, but was really anything but. This time there would be no skirting the issue, no vague replies or casual shrugs. They deserved answers. After all they'd been through, they were owed that. “How come the ancient society of Time Lords created a psychopath?”

The Doctor didn't seem to react, frowning pensively as he popped another chip onto his tongue, chewing as he thought.

“And what is he to you? Like a colleague or…” Martha trailed off pointedly.

And now the Doctor knew staying quiet wasn't an option. “He was a friend, at first,” he told them, the first straight answer they'd gotten. There was a casual, matter-of-fact edge to his voice, like he were relaying it from a page.

“I thought you were going to say he was your secret brother or something,” Martha chuckled. Hartley really wanted to smile, but her mouth wouldn't co-operate.

“You've been watching too much TV,” the Doctor scolded her lightheartedly.

“But all the legends of Gallifrey made it sound so _perfect_ ,” Jack said, taking on a wistful quality. Hartley wondered what the legends out there in the universe might have been like to hear, legends of Time Lords and Gallifrey. She couldn't imagine growing up in a world where such legends and myths were commonplace.

“Well, perfect to look at, maybe. And it was. It was _beautiful_. They used to call it the Shining World of the Seven Systems. And on the Continent of Wild Endeavour, in the Mountains of Solace and Solitude, there stood the Citadel of the Time Lords, the oldest and most mighty race in the universe, looking down on the galaxies below. Sworn never to interfere, only to watch. Children of Gallifrey, taken from their families age of eight to enter the Academy,” he began to speak.

His words blended together like a song, spoken with such reverence, such longing, it made Hartley's chest squeeze, wishing somehow, someday, she might be able to see it for herself. Even if it was impossible.

“And some say that's when it all began. When he was a child. That's when the Master saw eternity. As a novice, he was taken for initiation. He stood in front of the Untempered Schism. It's a gap in the fabric of reality through which could be seen the whole of the vortex. You stand there, eight years old, staring at the raw power of time and space, just a child,” he told them in a hollow voice, a glint of some ancient horror in his eyes. “Some would be inspired, some would run away, and some would go mad...” he trailed off, and Hartley didn't have to guess which reaction that Master had had.

They were all silent as the grave, watching him and struggling to picture the great, powerful city he came from in their mind's eye. Hartley wondered what he might have been like, back then. Was he the same man sitting before them today? She doubted it.

“What about you?” Martha asked gently. Hartley leant forwards on her crate, having given up trying to eat a long while ago.

“Oh, I'm the one that ran away,” the Doctor answered her immediately, looking at her like she was crazy for not already knowing. “I never stopped,” he admitted, simple and easy, but Hartley could still see how it was tearing him up inside. Did he regret that choice he made, all those hundreds and hundreds of years ago?

Jack's vortex manipulator beeped, breaking the tense atmosphere that had materialised in the wake of the Doctor's words. Jack set aside his chips, checking it quickly. “Encrypted channel with files attached. Don't recognise it,” he told them, but the Doctor was already moving.

“Patch it through to the laptop,” he ordered, hurrying to lick his fingers clean.

“Since we're telling stories...” Jack began suddenly, and everyone turned to look at him curiously. Whatever he wanted to say next was causing him great anxiety, the feeling like a storm brewing in his chest. Hartley was at once filled with wary trepidation. “There's something I haven't told you,” he said, slow and steady, eyes flickering to meet both the Doctor's steely brown and Hartley's wide, curious blue, “ _either_ of you.”

With a feeling of discontent settling in her gut, Hartley turned to meet the Doctor's eyes. She saw her own concern shining in his familiar gaze.

“What is it?” the Doctor asked Jack slowly, the words carefully measured.

Jack seemed to chew on his reply before giving it. “It's easier if I just show you,” he finally said, leaning forwards and beginning to type away at Martha's laptop. “It's about who I work for,” he told them. Hartley repositioned herself so she could see the screen, a wary frown knitting at her delicate brow. “Or rather, what I work for.”

She waited with bated breath as the screen finally flashed black, a logo she didn't recognise appearing in white. The name that came along with it, however, was hardly unfamiliar. With everything that had happened over the last twenty-four hours, it took a long moment for it all to register in Hartley's head. It eventually clicked and she whirled around on Jack with a low gasp, feeling a sharp sting of betrayal.

“You work for _Torchwood_?” the Doctor demanded, as incredulous as she was.

“I swear to you, it's different,” Jack insisted, but he couldn't meet either of his old friends' eyes. “It's _changed_. There's only half a dozen of us now––” he tried to explain.

“Everything Torchwood did, and you're _part_ of it?” the Doctor's voice was frosty, thick with disgust.

“Jack, how could you?” Hartley asked, weaker than she cared to admit. Her fingers were trembling, and this time not only from the cold.

The thought of Jack working with the people who were responsible for Rose's departure – if that was even the right word – it was too much. She remembered how they shot down innocent alien ships, stripped them for parts, used them for their own selfish gain. She couldn't imagine Jack being part of that, couldn't imagine him standing for something so _wrong._

Looking down at the man she affectionately called her brother, she took in the panic he felt, the sadness echoing from deep within, the fear that they wouldn't listen. “The old regime was destroyed at Canary Wharf,” he said quickly, desperate for them to believe him. “I rebuilt it, I changed it, and when I did that, I did it for you – in your _honour_.”

He looked up at them, blue eyes imploring, begging them to understand.

Hartley felt herself begin to relax, sensing the honesty ringing like a bell in his heart. She knew Jack could never be part of something so malicious. She knew that, underneath all the bravado and sexual innuendo, Jack intended to leave this universe in a better state than he'd found it. He only ever wanted to do good. He was staring back at them, so hopeful yet so afraid of their rejection. Cautious, Hartley reached up and pressed a gentle hand against the Doctor's shoulder.

The sleeve of his jacket had fallen down over her fingers, but she pushed it back so she could touch him, the pressure against his shoulder a question, a plea for him to hear Jack out. She felt his shoulders relax just the smallest bit, and she knew he would come around. In time.

The Doctor didn't speak, he only turned around and hit play on the laptop, which began to show the video Jack had just received on his vortex manipulator.

“ _If I haven't returned to my desk by twenty two hundred, this file will be emailed to Torchwood. Which means if you're watching this, then I'm..._ ” the woman on the screen was pretty, in an aged, regal kind of way. She trailed off uncomfortably at the mention of her death, and Hartley found herself wincing in sympathy for the woman, who had clearly sacrificed her own life to bring them this information. “ _Anyway, the Saxon files are attached. But take a look at the Archangel document. That's when it all started. When Harry Saxon became Minister in charge of launching the Archangel Network._ ”

Jack clicked on the link and images of satellites appeared on the screen, pulsing in and out of sight. These showed a network of satellites positioned around the entire Earth, and Hartley grimaced, a sinking feeling in her gut.

“What's the Archangel Network?” the Doctor asked, voicing the first of her own myriad of questions.

“I've got Archangel,” said Martha abruptly, pulling out her phone and staring down at it with a frown. “Everyone's got it.”

“It's a mobile phone network,” Jack explained. “Because look, it's gone worldwide. They've got fifteen satellites in orbit. Even the other networks, they're all carried by Archangel.”

“It's in the phones!” exclaimed the Doctor in something of a lightbulb-moment.

“What is?” Hartley asked, feeling uncomfortable at the thought of the Master having control over the world's phones like that. Who knew what he could achieve with that kind of power, that kind of influence?

“Oh, I said he was a hypnotist,” the Doctor continued, mind running at too fast a pace to be slowed down by such human _questions_. “Wait, wait, wait. Hold on,” he said, his sonic buzzing as he worked, before he tapped the phone against the table and suddenly the device was emitting a low, rhythmic beeping.

_Di di di dum, di di di dum, di di di dum..._

“There it is,” murmured the Doctor over the top of the noise, staring at the phone with wide eyes, everything finally beginning to make a little sense. “That rhythm, it's everywhere, ticking away in the subconscious.”

“What is it, mind control?” asked Martha with a sinking dread.

“No, no, no. It's subtler than that. Any stronger and people would question it. But contained in that rhythm, in layers of code: _Vote Saxon. Believe in me._ Whispering to the world,” the Doctor told them. That was being pumped into everybody's head without their knowledge – just the very idea made Hartley feel sick. “Oh, yes! That's how he hid himself from me, because I should have sensed there was another Time Lord on Earth. I should have known way back,” he explained in a hurry. “The signal cancelled him out.”

“Any way you can stop it?” Jack asked with an unmistakeable tone of hope.

“Not from down here,” the Doctor said simply, pocketing his sonic and adjusting his glasses. “But now we know how he's doing it,” he added with the tiniest gleam of a smile.

“And we can fight back!” Martha told them optimistically, and although Hartley grinned at her words, she couldn't help the sinking feeling in her gut that told her it was going to be far, far more difficult than they believed.

“Oh, yes!” he crowed, grinning like the madman he was. “Now, this next part's gonna take a few minutes,” he said, expression dropping into a thoughtful frown. “Go eat your chips,” he told them, dismissive though not unkind. “Oh, wait!” he cried before they could move too far away. “Hand over your TARDIS keys,” he said, holding out a hand and wagging his fingers at them pointedly.

“Why?” asked Hartley warily, her hand coming up to touch the key she forever kept pressed to her heart.

“Part of the plan,” he said simply.

“Here you go,” said Martha, handing over her key without complaint.

Jack took a moment longer, pulling out a chain full of countless, rattling keys, rifling through them before finally handing over the small, familiar key to the impatient Doctor. Knowing it was her turn, Hartley sighed, reaching for the chain around her throat, one hand holding her hair aside as she wound it off her neck.

Reluctant but knowing when not to question him, Hartley placed the delicate little key that meant so much to her into the Doctor's waiting palm. Her skin tingled where it met his, and she indulged in an extra second of contact before reluctantly moving away, arms folding around her middle.

The Doctor made sure to meet her eyes, serious and sincere. “I'll take care of it,” he promised her, and she smiled for him, nodding her thanks. “Now go,” he ordered them all, waving them away like trained dogs.

This was hardly out of character and with a shared roll of their eyes, Hartley, Jack and Martha all turned back to the fire, intent on finishing the last of their chips – who knew how long it would be before they got another good, proper meal?

Conversation was surprisingly easy, Jack telling them more about what Torchwood did, what their purpose was and what they stood for. Hartley leant into his side, her appetite returned, scarfing down her chips like they were a precious commodity.

Although it seemed like she were distracted, most of Hartley's thoughts were focused on her half-sister. Was it possible she was fully aware of who the Master was, and involved in whatever his grand, evil plan may have been? The thought that Lucy could be involved in some plot to take over the world left Hartley feeling sick.

And why would the Master go after Lucy at all? It was yet another way to get at the Doctor – obviously – but why through Hartley's family? As if hurting her sister hurt the Doctor in return? She tried to remember what they'd said or done during that time with the Master when he'd been Professor Yana. Had they given him some indication that, to get to the Doctor, the way to do it was through Hartley?

And was it working?

“Why didn't you wanna give your key up?” Martha asked when there was a brief lull in the conversation. It took a few seconds for Hartley to realise Martha was speaking to her. She looked up from her dwindling pile of chips, a crease appearing between her brows. Clearly it was something that had been weighing on her mind – she could feel the curiosity burning a hole in her chest. “I mean, it's just a key, right?”

Hartley pursed her lips as she considered how to answer. It wasn't as easy to put into words as Martha assumed. “I guess…it's a symbol,” she said, keeping her voice low even knowing it wouldn't be enough to keep the Doctor from overhearing. The cavernous room of the warehouse carried their voices as well as any microphone. “It took so long for the Doctor to give me a key. I never knew why he didn't trust me, all I knew was that he didn't, and that distrust hurt _so much_.”

She paused, reaching for the key around her neck, only to remember with a start that it wasn't there.

“As soon as I got that key, I was reminded how precious this life is, how I wouldn't give it up for anything. It connects me to her – the TARDIS, I mean. It's a symbol of the Doctor's trust – which, to me, is the most valuable thing in the universe. I also like to pretend it's kind of a promise.”

“A promise?” Martha echoed in confusion.

“That he won't ever abandon me again.”

Maybe it was a juvenile, idealistic way to think, but that's what the key meant to her. A symbol of his word, his promise of a home. A promise of unending trust.

There was a lengthy silence, and Hartley could see Martha frowning at her words, mulling them over. She wondered what she was thinking, but ultimately decided she didn't mind. She didn't dare look over to see the Doctor's reaction, were he even listening.

She finished eating her chips, and was just licking her fingers clean when the Doctor called them over eagerly, presenting them with four TARDIS keys laid out on the bench in front of him.

“Four TARDIS keys. Four pieces of the TARDIS, all with low level perception properties because the TARDIS is designed to blend in.” He paused for a beat. “Well, sort of. But _now_ , the Archangel Network's got a _second_ low level signal. Weld the key to the network and – Martha, look at me,” the Doctor said, taking one of the keys and stepping aside, holding it in front of him in a loose grip. “You can see me, yes?”

“Yup,” she said in the voice of an adult humouring a small child.

“What about now?” he asked with the tiniest hint of a smirk on his lips. He put the chain – a piece of string he'd fished from his bottomless pockets – around his neck, and suddenly he half-vanished. Hartley could still see him, he was definitely there, but there was also a part of her that _couldn't_ see him, like she just didn't _want_ to.

Glancing over at Martha, she couldn't help but smile at the woman's expression. Twisted with confusion, squinting at the Doctor's general direction like she wasn't wearing her glasses.

“No, I'm here. Look at me,” he said, wiggling his fingers at Martha impishly. This didn't seem to make it any easier for his human companion, who blinked and rubbed her eyes as though it might help. Hartley found it easier to see through than Martha could, and she wondered why that was. She resolved to talk to the Doctor more about it once the whole Master thing had blown over.

“It's like I _know_ you're there, but I don't _want_ to know,” she muttered.

“And back again,” the Doctor announced, pulling the string from around his neck, abruptly bringing him back into focus. “See? It just shifts your perception a tiny little bit. Doesn't make us invisible, just unnoticed,” he said, practically bouncing as he handed off a key to Jack, then moved over to Martha. “Oh, I know what it's like. It's like when you fancy someone and they don't even know you exist,” he told them through an oblivious grin, cheerful and buoyant. Hartley winced, turning to Martha was an apologetic expression while the Doctor continued on, totally unaware of the tension he was creating. “That's what it's like! Come on!”

He reached out, grasping ahold of Hartley's hand and using it to tug her along.

“Left your old chain as it was,” he told her. He pulled her to a stop at the exit to the warehouse. She could vaguely hear Jack and Martha saying something from where they were lagging behind, but she didn't care to listen in, focused on the Doctor.

“Oh!” she said suddenly, beginning to peel off his coat which, although warm, was large enough she might as well have been swimming in fabric. “Better give this back,” she told him, handing it over with another smile. “Don't want me tripping over the hem. That'll get us noticed for sure.”

He smiled as he took it back, threading his arms through the sleeves. “All warm now?” he asked as he pulled it on, reaching up to tug at his hair briefly, making it that extra bit wild.

“All warm,” she agreed, and he gifted her with a wide, charming grin before the others caught up and they ducked out into the frigid night air.

“Where're we going?” asked Martha in a low tone, while they were still out of the public's earshot.

“Heading for the airport,” said Jack with a tap at his manipulator. “Air Force One is landing in an hour––”

“––And we need to be there,” finished the Doctor grimly.

The streets were mostly quiet, but they weren't moving long at all before the Doctor was pulling them to a stop inside a small alcove off to the side of an alleyway. “Don't run, don't shout,” he warned them in a low, serious tone. “Just keep your voices down. Draw attention to yourself and the spell is broken. Just keep to the shadows,” he said, nodding for them all to thread their chains around their necks.

With trembling hands, both from the bitter cold and the haunting severity of their situation, Hartley looped her silver chain around her throat, brushed her hair out of the way then grasped at the familiar little key, a rush of relief filling her at the feel of the warm metal against her palm.

“Like ghosts,” Jack muttered forebodingly.

“Yeah, that's what we are,” the Doctor agreed, slipping his own key into place with a set, grim expression. “Ghosts.”

Their footsteps were effortlessly silent against the concrete, like the perception filter were quieting their every movement for them, further cementing the illusion in place. And then it was like they no longer existed at all.

* * *

The airport was large and barren, apart from the single plane – Air Force One, if Hartley wasn't mistaken – and the Master's hoard of cars, men acting as bodyguards positioned all around him, stoic faced and wearing sunglasses even with the sun already disappeared below the horizon.

The Master spoke with the President of the United States, their voices carrying across the otherwise silent tarmac. But Hartley couldn't have cared less about what they were saying, her eyes and all of her attention were focused on her sister where she stood in a tasteful cream coat beside her smarmy, alien husband.

Lucy was smiling like she were on top of the world, greeting the American President with a wide, gracious smile. Hartley felt her insides swoop at the sight of it.

She certainly didn't _appear_ to be there under form of duress – but then again, Lucy had always excelled at drama class in school.

Hartley missed most of what was said, staring at her sister with pained eyes, taking in her satisfied expression and the massive stone glittering away on her ring finger.

Slowly people began walking away, one by one. Lucy was led off by a security guard, and her eyes passed over the spot where Hartley, Martha, Jack, and the Doctor all stood. Hartley's blood froze as it seemed like they made eye contact, but not a moment later Lucy was glancing away, no hint of recognition in her heart.

People dispersed until all that was left was the Master, hands folded behind his back, a self-satisfied smirk on his face as though everything was going exactly according to his plan.

His beady little eyes grazed over where they were standing, but he didn't seem to see them there. Despite his lack of reaction, there was still a hollowness in her gut, like he'd scooped out her insides and eaten them up, devouring every hint of peace she'd ever be able to find.

What did he need her sister for? What was his plan? World domination? Under the Master's influence, what might the world become? Hartley wasn't sure she wanted to be around to see it, but she knew the only way to stop him was to try.

The alien was still smirking smugly to himself, and he was just about to walk away when the sirens of a police van cut through the still, night air. The vehicle came to a screeching stop and Hartley found herself holding her breath as the doors were thrust open and a small handful of people were forcefully dragged from its depths.

A gasp tearing from her throat, the Doctor thrust an arm out across Hartley's body and she realised she'd made to move forwards, only stopped by his quick reflexes.

“That's my dad,” she breathed at the Time Lord, panic making her eyes sting. Jacob Daniels had his hands bound, and an officer had him by his grey hair, forcing him forwards. “Doctor, that's my _dad_ ,” she hissed when the Doctor didn't react.

“I know,” the Doctor whispered back, barely moving a muscle, his eyes hard as he stared at the scene before him. “But don't move. You can't,” he ordered sharply, as another set of officers yanked Martha's parents out into the open.

Martha gave a similar gasp from the Doctor's other side.

“Martha,” said the Doctor, a warning.

“Oh my God,” cried Martha, but thankfully her voice was lost over the shouts of her terrified parents.

“Don't move,” the Doctor reminded her again, his free hand grasping at Martha's wrist, holding her in place.

Jacob was outraged, Hartley realised, and more confused than anything. “Why are you doing this?!” he was demanding in a panic. But his cries fell on deaf ears.

Hartley was stunned beyond words – horrified that Lucy would stoop to this level, that she would allow Jacob to be brought in and treated like some kind of _prisoner._ Jacob had always cared about Lucy, treated her with kindness and grace, even despite the circumstances of her birth. It was a betrayal of the harshest kind, and Hartley felt her eyes prickle with tears.

Seeking comfort, she gripped tight to the Doctor's arm, hugging it to her body like a child might hug a security blanket. The Master's lackeys were none-too-gently shoving Hartley and Martha's loved ones into the back of another van, and then with a self-satisfied sneer the Master looked around at the almost empty tarmac like he were surveying the fruits of his labour. Like he were celebrating having already won.

“I'm going to kill him,” Martha was the first to speak, voice cold and lethal in a way Hartley had never heard from her before.

“What say I use this perception filter to walk up behind him and break his neck?” Jack suggested darkly, glaring at the Master hard enough that Hartley was surprised the psychopathic Time Lord didn't spontaneously combust right there on the tarmac.

“Now _that_ sounds like Torchwood,” the Doctor said, low and judgemental.

Jack shrugged, unbothered by the critical statement. “Still a good plan,” he said flippantly.

“He's a Time Lord,” the Doctor said evenly, staring after the cars with a severe frown, “which makes him _my_ responsibility. I'm not here to kill him. I'm here to save him.”

“What happens to him doesn't matter right now,” Hartley argued, eyes focused on the Master as he climbed into the front of one of his cars, the vehicles pulling away with low, intimidating growls of their powerful engines. She didn't want to kill him, she didn't even want to make him pay or suffer – eventually the universe would give him exactly what he deserved – the only thing that mattered was saving the people under his hold. “All that really matters is getting our families back, safe and unharmed,” she said, gentle but sincere as she watched the cars disappear into the dark.

She distantly wondered if that was going to include her sister, or if Lucy was too far gone to save now.

From beside them Jack was fiddling with his vortex manipulator, brow furrowed in concentration. “Aircraft carrier Valiant. It's a UNIT ship at fifty eight point two north, ten point oh two east,” he told them as he input the coordinates.

“How do we get on board?” asked Martha, her voice distracted. Hartley understood all too well.

“Does that thing work as a teleport?” the Doctor asked Jack by way of answer.

“Since you revamped it, yeah,” he replied. “Coordinates set.”

The Doctor's arm slipped from where Hartley had still been grasping onto it like it were a pillow she'd hug in her sleep. He instead grasped her hand with his and brought it up to press over Jack's manipulator.

There was no word of warning, just a sudden, abrupt yank, a bright flash of white and the sensation of falling. Then she was landing on something hard, knees giving out as she collapsed onto the floor.

“Bloody hell,” she coughed, feeling vaguely like she'd been punched in the gut, her insides twisting together like someone had tied them up into knots.

“Oh, that thing is _rough_ ,” cried Martha, and Hartley glanced over to see her holding her head in pain.

“I've had worse nights,” Jack interjected slyly, and she knew that was true from experience. “Welcome to the Valiant,” he told them as he stuck a hand down to Hartley's level. She took it, content to let him pull her to her feet. “Alright there, Pretty Lady?” he asked once she was standing, brushing down her shoulders for her as she placed a hand to her throbbing head.

“I'll live,” she assured him with a wry smile. He snorted a laugh at the thing which had become something of a running joke between the pair of them.

With a gentle look, Hartley turned to take in their new surroundings. They were in a sort of engine room, but it was like none she'd ever seen on a ship before. The floor was made of metal grating, making her heart ache for the familiar floor of the TARDIS console room.

“It's dawn? Hold on, I thought this was a ship,” Martha was saying, crossing the small space they were in to look through a porthole built into the wall. “Where's the sea?”

Confused, Hartley moved over on shaky legs to look, and barely managed to hold in a startled gasp when she saw they weren't on the water at all, but rather high up in the air, surrounded by massive banks of white, fluffy clouds, golden light bleeding through from the rising sun.

“A ship for the twenty first century,” Jack explained as they gawked, “protecting the skies of planet Earth.”

There was a beat. “Come on,” said the Doctor, drawing their attention from the sky. “This way.”

Without waiting he turned and began to run, leaving the others with nothing to do but follow. “How do you know we're going the right way?” asked Martha as they ran. Hartley's heart was pounding in her chest, slamming against her ribcage almost to the point of pain.

“I don't,” the Doctor replied without hesitation. Martha gave an indignant huff, but surely she couldn't have been _that_ surprised.

The Doctor came to a sudden stop, Hartley very nearly bashing into his back, only just stopping herself at the last moment. “Doc?” she asked, stepping around him to look up into his face with apprehension.

“We don't have time for sightseeing,” Jack barked, stress levels rising.

“No, wait!” the Doctor hissed, shushing the Captain with an air of importance. “Can't you hear it?” he asked, head cocked to the side as he listened to something the others couldn't hear.

“Hear what?” Jack asked impatiently, but in that moment Hartley noticed it; a familiar humming sound that she wasn't quite hearing with her ears, but rather with her mind; with her heart.

“I can hear it,” she whispered, eyes lighting up with happiness and relief as she turned to look at the Doctor with a renewed sense of hope bubbling up in her gut. “Is it really?” she asked, but she already knew the answer. Only one machine in all of time and space could make her feel the way she was feeling in that moment. Only one could make her heart sing like it were calling out to a dear friend.

“My _family's_ on board,” Martha snarled at them, unknowingly turning to run in the wrong direction. Didn't she know what was calling them?

“Brilliant!” the Doctor crowed, ignoring her words. “This way!”

The Doctor didn't have to wait for Hartley to catch up, she pushed herself extra hard, the thought of what they were running towards pushing her even harder. At the end of a long, long hallway there sat a set of doors, and the Doctor barely even slowed in his momentum as he wrenched them open, revealing the very thing that had made them so excited in the first place.

The TARDIS sat between two stacks of shipping crates, glowing as she always did, perfectly blue.

“Oh, at last!” the Doctor cried cheerfully.

Hartley felt like she could have wept with happiness, sprinting up to the big blue box and coming to a stop beside her, pressing a hand against the wooden exterior and absorbing the feel of her in her mind with a sigh of relief.

“What's it doing on the Valiant?” Jack was asking from behind them, but none stopped to ponder an answer. The Doctor fumbled with his key, sticking it into the lock and shoving open the door, tripping inside eagerly. Hartley all but dove in after him, only for the wide grin on her face to drop away with a gasp of unadulterated horror.

Instead of her usual golden glow, the TARDIS interior was lit up with an eerie crimson light. A cylinder of metal mesh was wrapped around the console, big, thick cables hanging from the ceiling, like the slimy tentacles of a horrible monster.

“What the hell's he done?” Jack breathed from behind them.

Hartley lifted a hand to press against the nearby column of coral, only for the Doctor to snap, “don't touch it.” Jerking her hand back like she'd been burned, Hartley turned to gape at him in alarm.

“What did he do to her?” she demanded, horrorstruck, tears of fury burning at her blue eyes.

“It sounds like it's _sick_ ,” said Martha, and Hartley realised she was right. The machine wasn't humming a song in her head anymore, and her usual bongs of happiness were replaced by quaking tremors, full of a pain that made Hartley feel just as sick.

“It can't be,” the Doctor was muttering to himself, distressed as he circled the modified console. “No, no, no, no, no, it _can't_ be,” he said, practically begging for it not to be true, whatever it was.

“Doctor,” Hartley bit out, biting into the flesh of her bottom lip to keep it from quivering. “What _is_ it?” she demanded, slow and stern, her pulse so loud in her own ears,she'd have been surprised if the others couldn't hear it.

“He's cannibalised the TARDIS,” the Doctor answered her, and another wave of sick crashed over Hartley. Holding a hand to her stomach, she swallowed back a tangy mouthful of bile.

“Is this what I think it is?” Jack asked, his voice thin with horror and disbelief.

The Doctor paused, head tilted back to stare up at the roof, which was a mess of those tentacle-like cables, wrapping around the TARDIS' insides like they were choking the very life out of her. “It's a paradox machine,” the Doctor finally answered them, his words layered with disgust.

“A paradox machine?” echoed Hartley faintly. She didn't know what it was exactly, but she could hazard a guess. The red light seeping from the walls was bathing them in an eerie glow, and the TARDIS gave another pulse of pain. She felt her eyes sting, wondering if she'd ever hear its happy, healthy humming in her head ever again.

The Doctor bent down, crouching by the mesh cylinder where a small gauge sat, a thin needle flickering towards a patch of menacing red. “As soon as this hits red, it activates,” he told them, tapping the gauge, a grim expression on his face. “At this speed, it'll trigger at––” he paused long enough to grab Jack's hand, dragging it to his face to get a good look at the watch sitting on his wrist, “––two minutes past eight.”

“First contact is at eight, then two minutes later...” Jack trailed off, and the console gave another agonised bong. Hartley wished she could comfort the TARDIS somehow, but who knew what might happen should she touch it? She kept her hands balled into tight fists at her sides.

“What's it for?” Martha asked imploringly. “What does a paradox machine _do_?”

“More importantly, can you stop it?” Jack pressed.

“Not till I know what it's doing,” the Doctor shook his head. “Touch the wrong bit, I could blow up the solar system.”

“Then we've got to get to the Master,” said Martha, voice laced with conviction.

“Yeah. How are we going to stop him?” Jack added.

“Oh, I've got a way,” muttered the Doctor distractedly. All heads turned to stare at him, and he turned away from the gauge long enough to smirk at them coyly. “Sorry, didn't I mention it?” he asked, the smirk breaking into a smug sort of grin as he bounded up to his feet, already heading for the door.

“Well?” prompted Hartley, a desperate edge to her voice. “What is it?”

“Come on,” he urged them, rather than answer. “We've got to get onto that flight deck. Now.”

Pushing open the door, he impatiently waved the others through. Jack barrelled out first, followed by Martha, with Hartley bringing up the rear. She met the Doctor's gaze as she passed, and despite his seemingly cheerful disposition, she could spot the glint of concern to his honey brown eyes. She attempted a reassuring smile but she couldn't quite seem to manage it, ducking her head as she stepped from the TARDIS. The Doctor shut the doors behind them with a click that rang of haunting finality.

“I think it's this way,” whispered Jack, half leant out of the doorway. The others said nothing, simply waiting for the Doctor to take the lead, then following him as silently as they could through the empty corridors of the ship.

Too scared to speak, lest it cancel out the perception filter, Hartley chewed on the inside of her cheeks, keeping her footsteps quiet as the Doctor led them into a large room full of official-looking personnel.

Like they were magnetised, Hartley's eyes flickered over to Lucy. Her sister was sitting beside the Master, something of a smile on her perfectly-painted face. Hartley felt her heart sink to her feet at the contented look to Lucy's glittering, familiar eyes.

Holding her breath, she could only listen to the not-so familiar voice of the United States' President as he addressed the world as a whole.

“This plan, you going to tell us?” Jack asked the Doctor impatiently, his voice hushed to keep anyone from overhearing.

“If I can get _this_ around the Master's neck,” the Doctor whispered back in a low voice, holding up his TARDIS key for them to see, “it'll cancel out his perception and they'll see him for real. It's just hard to go unnoticed with everyone on red alert.” There was a beat as the four of them eyed the room, full of not only politicians, but guards holding big, menacing weapons. “If they stop me, you've got a key,” he finished meaningfully.

“Yes, sir,” responded Jack with vigour.

“I'll get it done,” Hartley whispered with a sure nod. It wasn't as though she could die – but they really only had this one chance, this one opportunity to get to him. This was the moment, either they stopped the Master for good, or let him wreak havoc to their planet.

“I'll get him,” swore Martha with conviction. All in agreement, they turned back to the President who was still blathering on about their place in the universe, and what this meant for the days to come.

“And I ask you now, I ask of the human race, to join with me in welcoming our friends. I give you the Toclafane,” he said with an air of stale dramatics, waving out an arm as four spheres appeared, teleporting into the room.

A shiver ran down Hartley's spine, like someone had stepped over her grave, and she narrowed her eyes at the little things, seemingly innocuous, but giving her the creeps all the same. She shifted her eyes over to Lucy to see how she would react, and was disheartened to see a wide, knowing sort of smirk gracing her pretty, youthful face.

“My name is Arthur Coleman Winters, President Elect of the United States of America, and designated representative of the United Nations,” the man began, but Hartley could feel his uncertainty, his cautiousness at what he was doing. “I welcome you to the planet Earth and its associated moon,” he told them stiltedly.

“ _You're not the Master_ ,” trilled one of the spheres.

“ _We like the Mister Master_ ,” said another.

“ _We don't like you_ ,” a third chimed in.

“I can be master, if you so wish,” said the President, flinching as one of the Toclafane hovered slightly too close for comfort. The Doctor edged closer to the Master, who was leant back in his chair, perfectly at ease. “I will accept mastery over you, if that is God's will.”

“ _Man is stupid_.”

“ _Master is our friend._ ”

“ _Where's my Master, pretty please_?”

“Oh, all right then!” crowed the Master, sliding to his feet and throwing out his hands like he expected people to fall at his feet and begin kissing his knuckles. “It's _me_. Ta da! Sorry, sorry, I have this effect. People just get obsessed,” he told the room at large. “Is it the smile? Is it the aftershave? Is it the capacity to laugh at myself? I don't know. It's crazy.”

“Saxon, what are you talking about?” demanded the US President in a hiss.

“I'm taking control, Uncle Sam, starting with you.” the Master responded cheerfully. “Kill him,” he ordered the Toclafane, who moved to complete their task without hesitation.

A muffled scream escaped Hartley's lips as the President was blasted into tiny little pieces, nothing but ash of him remaining. She stared at the place he'd once stood, shock seeping into her veins. Chaos erupted in the room, the humans beginning to shriek, guards drawing their weapons. Hartley turned to look at the Doctor, taking in his infuriated expression and knowing whatever would follow wouldn't be pretty.

From the centre of the room the Master was laughing, applauding with rapture, like a child at a birthday party, watching the magician pull a rabbit from a hat. “Guards!” he called, almost lazy, and his guards stepped forwards, herding the panicking people back into their places.

The Master moved from his place, all but leaping up the stairs to where the President had only just been standing and gripping onto the railing, grinning down the lens of the nearby cameras, broadcasting the whole thing, live to the Earth.

“Now then, peoples of the Earth. Please attend carefully,” he began with a thick sneer.

The Doctor could stand no more, he raced forwards, intent on putting an end to this once and for all. But he made a mistake. In his desperation, he took his key off too early, and the guards noticed him at once, grabbing hold in too-tight grips.

The Master only sneered victoriously down at the Doctor, a triumphant glint to his cold, dead eyes.

“We meet at last, Doctor,” he said, slow and smug. “Oh, ho. I love saying that!” he beamed.

“Stop it! Stop it _now_!” bellowed the Doctor, struggling uselessly against the guards' holds.

“As if a perception filter's going to work on me,” the Master continued with casual ease. He turned to the corner of the room where the others were standing, the sneer on his face only growing. “And look,” he purred, the sound ugly and vomit inducing, “it's the girlie, the groupie and the freak. Although, I'm not quite sure who's who...”

Hartley felt Jack shift from beside her, and she reached out instinctively to grasp at his coat only for her hand to meet empty air. He dashed towards the Master but the crazy Time Lord was prepared, pulling a long, thin device from his pocket. A beam shot from the end, hitting Jack in the chest. He fell to the floor, dead.

“Laser screwdriver. Who'd have _sonic_?” said the Master smugly. Hartley moved without meaning to, collapsing down beside her brother and pressing a hand to his sternum, even knowing no heartbeat would be found. “And the good thing is, he's not dead for long. I get to kill him _again_!” He turned his beady stare onto Hartley, and she met his cold eyes across the room, a defiant glare in her own. “Should I do the little redhead next? I can only image how much fun it will be to watch her _squirm_...”

“Master, just calm down!” cried the Doctor, still struggling in the guards' hold. “Just look at what you're doing. Just stop. If you could see yourself...” he tried, desperation saturating his voice.

The Master sighed like this was all just terribly inconvenient, turning to look at the cameras still focused on him with a roll of his eyes. “Oh, do excuse me. Little bit of personal business. Back in a minute,” he said to the entire planet at once. Looking back to the guards holding the Doctor, he barked, “let him go.”

The men threw the Doctor to the floor, but he caught himself, popping back up to stare back at the Master imploringly. “It's that sound. The sound in your head,” he tried to reason with him. “What if I could help?”

“Oh, how to shut him up?” cried the Master through a sneer, snapping his fingers together as though trying to come up with an idea. “I know. Memory Lane. Professor Lazarus. Remember him and his genetic manipulation device?” he asked, and from where she was hovered over Jack, Hartley looked back with wide eyes. “What, did you think that little Tish got that job merely by coincidence? I've been laying traps for you all this time,” the Master gave a curl of his lip.

Hartley's pulse was beating in her ears, her mouth having gone bone dry. Terror gripped her, wondering exactly how far the Master was willing to go to exact his revenge – if that was what this was all about. But revenge for what?

“And if I can concentrate all that Lazarus technology into one little screwdriver? But, oh, if I only had the Doctor's biological code. Oh, wait a minute, I do!” he crowed, leaping to his feet and dashing over to a large metal briefcase on a side table.

He wrenched it open to reveal the Doctor's old hand, sliced at the wrist and suspended in a jar of bubbling liquid.

“I've got his hand!” the Master sneered triumphantly. “And if Lazarus made himself younger, what if I reverse it? Another hundred years?”

“No!” Hartley blurted, the words spilling from her lips before she could stop them. She began to clumsily stand to her feet, but the Master didn't give her so much as an ounce of attention. Only a nearby guard noticed her movement and he grabbed ahold of her, shoving her back down to the floor beside an unmoving Jack.

The Master aimed his weapon at the Doctor who began to seize, throwing himself around as he cried out in pure agony. Hartley wanted to scream, wanted to do something, anything, but she didn't know what she could possibly do to help. She couldn't fight, not against so many, not against men with guns.

Hartley's eyes went to Lucy, who was stood nearby, watching it all happen with something of a detached yet _pleased_ look on her face. That wasn't the girl Hartley knew. This wasn't her sister at all.

“Lucy!” Hartley screamed, and Lucy finally turned to look at her. The sisters' eyes met for the first time and Hartley was stunned to see no ounce of compassion in her familiar blue stare. “Lucy – do something!” she screamed, begging her sister to stop this madness, to do the right thing; to come to her senses. “Please!”

But Lucy only stared back impassively, and with everything else going on, the chaos that surrounded them, Hartley couldn't get a lock on her emotions. She was essentially blind.

From her left Jack gave a loud, pained gasp as he revived, and Hartley looked away from the blank face of her half-sister to lean down at her brother's level, checking he was okay.

“Teleport,” he ordered she and Martha the moment he was able to speak.

“I can't!” Martha whispered back, tears in her eyes even as Jack unlatched his vortex manipulator, shaving it stubbornly into her hands.

“We can't stop him,” Jack told her with stilted breaths, his gaze heavy with the exhaustion of revival as he stared at them, begging them to listen. “Get out of here. _Get out_.”

“Don't be an idiot,” Hartley hissed at him, one arm wrapping around his shoulders, helping to support him, gently pulling him upright. “You're mental if you think I'm leaving you.”

Before he could respond the Doctor's agonised cries came to an end, replaced by sharp, rasping breaths. Scared, Hartley turned to look at him, and she had to stifle a gasp when she saw what the Master had done.

The Doctor suddenly looked about a hundred years old, hair grey and thin, skin waxen and lined, pulling down like it were losing a war with gravity.

“Doctor?” cried Martha, crawling to his side, wrapping an arm around him. “I've got you,” she promised, her voice wavering with emotion. Hartley could only stare back, eyes wet and stinging.

“Ah, she's a would-be doctor,” purred the Master, sneering down his nose at Martha. “But tonight, Martha Jones, we've flown them in all the way from prison...” he announced like the ring leader of the circus, thrusting a hands towards the doors which slid open with a whirr.

Hartley couldn't see who stepped in, but then Martha whimpered, “Mum?” and her heart dropped with fear for the woman's poor family.

“I'm sorry,” Francine cried from the doorway, but Hartley didn't look to see their faces, staring at the Doctor with pain in her eyes. Slowly, he turned to look at her, the age in his eyes finally matching the age of his face, and she bit into the flesh of her lip to stifle a sob. He looked so sad – but not, she thought suddenly, defeated.

Jack curled into her, holding her against him protectively as Martha dropped back down beside the aged Time Lord. “You need to go with Martha,” Jack whispered, keeping his face turned away from the guards so they wouldn't see them talking.

“Fat chance,” Hartley hissed back, turning back to the Doctor as he choked out the next few words.

“The Toclafane,” he wheezed, like his voice hurt to use. “What are they? _Who_ are they?”

The Master smiled, full of stagnant pity. “Doctor, if I told you the truth, your hearts would break,” he muttered to his old friend. Hartley felt ill, keeping her mind from wondering the same.

“ _Is it time? Is it ready?_ ” asked one of the Toclafane in a pitchy, childlike voice.

“ _Is the machine singing_?” asked another.

The Master checked his watch. “Two minutes past!” he called in a tone of elation before bounding back up the steps to Lucy where the cameras were focused, so he could speak to the watching human race. “So, Earthings. Basically, er...” he paused, giving a careless shrug, “end of the world.” _Here come the drums_!” he bellowed, holding his sonic up to the ceiling and grinning like he'd already won.

Music filled the room and the Master began to dance like this were a party of which he was the guest of honour. Hartley leant over Jack, who was still recovering from his recent death. “Jack,” she murmured when he coughed, struggling to sit up properly.

“I'm fine,” he assured her, brushing off her hands. “Go get Martha and get out of here,” he urged her again. “ _Please,_ ” he begged, but she wouldn't listen.

She turned to see the Doctor whispering something to Martha, low and urgent, and Martha nodding along with a steely expression. Then their friend stood slowly to her feet, hands trembling just slightly as the Master yelled out to the Toclafane, “remove _one tenth_ of the population!”

Hartley watched as the Doctor winced, and she couldn't stand being so far away from him. She left Jack by himself, sliding across the polished floor to the Doctor's side, wrapping an arm around his feeble body in support, now that Martha was back on her feet.

“Go,” the Doctor wheezed into her ear, attempting to push her in Martha's direction. But he was too frail now, too weak to move her, and so she stubbornly held on, refusing to abandon him. Not now, not ever. “Hartley, _go_ ,” he croaked again, weakly pushing her away, growing desperate.

“I won't,” she stubbornly refused, voice cracking with emotion. “I _won't_ leave you.”

“Hart!” called Martha from where she was standing, eyes wet with tears. She looked at her friend, holding out a hand for her to take. She knew this was it; stay with the Doctor and Jack and risk...who knew what? Or go with Martha, do what she could to stop the Master from the outside.

She knew what was wise. But, her eyes went to her sister who stood on the bridge with the Master, a satisfied, dark kind of a smirk on her face, and she knew she couldn't leave her. She couldn't just abandon her family when they needed her most.

“Hart,” whispered the Doctor again, pain rattling his voice. She turned to look down at the man she loved with every single fibre of her being. And she knew, instantly, that there was really only one option she was physically capable of choosing.

Hartley looked up at Martha and shook her head, telling her to go on without her. A tear fell down Martha's cheek as she looked back at her family a final time before hitting the button on the vortex manipulator, disappearing in a flash of blue light, taking Hartley's only chance of escape with her.

The Doctor dropped his head, resting it against her shoulder in what she knew to be defeat. “I couldn't go,” she whispered to him over the Master's laughter and cheers. She took his face in her hands, his skin sagged and leathery against her palms. “I couldn't leave you. I _won't_ leave you.”

“Then you've doomed yourself,” he rasped, meeting her eyes, his stare full of sadness and despair and, worst of all, guilt.

“And so it came to pass that the human race fell, and the Earth was no more!” cried the Master from his platform above them, staring out at his apocalypse with self-righteous pride. “And I looked down upon my new dominion as Master of all, and I thought it _good._ ”

Hartley couldn't listen any more, she pressed further into the Doctor's side, holding him up when she felt him begin to shake. Maybe it was from the strength of his emotion, or perhaps it was just from his newfound frailty.

“You'll be okay,” she promised him in a whisper, leaning forwards to gently press her forehead against his. “We'll all be okay,” she said, desperate to convince herself.

“That's right,” drawled a voice from above them, and Hartley jerked her head up to see the Master leering down at them darkly. “Exchange your sweet nothings now, you two, because it's going to be the last chance you'll ever get.”

The infirm Doctor attempted to push her behind him, his aged arms shaking from the effort. “Don't touch her,” he said, but it was less of a command and more of a plea, bracing himself in front of her like it could protect her. But he was too weak now; there was nothing he could possible do to keep her safe. “Master, don't touch her,” he begged.

The Master gave a derisive scoff, reaching down and grasping ahold of Hartley's hair, using it to drag her to her feet. Crying out in pain, Hartley had no choice but to move at his whim. A frail hand grasped at her leg, but it was for naught, the Master yanking her out of the Doctor's reach.

“What does it matter to you?” he sneered down at his oldest friend. “Besides, it's not like she can _die_ ,” he added callously. He turned back to Hartley, that horrible leer on his face. “And don't think I've forgotten about your dear old dad,” he continued, reaching up with his free hand to snap his fingers.

“Dad!” cried Hartley as her father was shoved into the room by one of the Master's minions. He looked distraught, hands bound with electrical tape, horror on his face as he spied his daughter, held captive in the Master's too-tight grip.

“Hartley?!” he shouted, voice raw from his earlier shouting.

Before she could so much as say his name again the Master gave another tug at her hair and she cried out, reaching up to try and prise it out of his grip, but it was pointless. He just pulled her ever closer, that victorious sneer on his face. Leaning down, he inhaled loudly, breathing in her scent. She felt suddenly like a piece of meat and chills of disgust broke out across her skin.

“My, my,” he purred. “You are a pretty little thing; for a human,” he sneered. “I'm going to _so_ enjoy breaking you.”

“Hart!” cried Jack from behind her, but with only a click of his fingers the Master had a guard firing his gun. There was a deafening bang and then everything went eerily silent as Jack fell to the floor, dead once again.

Hartley bit down on her tongue to smother a whimper, feeling her eyes water from the combination of fear, shock and pain. “Should I shoot your father next?” the Master whispered like it were a sweet nothing, and she writhed in his grip, desperate to be set free. The Master only tugged again at her hair, and she felt some of it rip from her scalp. Her eyes burned with tears.

“I've wondered about you,” the Master whispered to her, his hot, disgusting breath fanning across her face. “I've heard so many things … the great and gracious _Heart._ The _Heart_ of the Storm. The Doctor's _Heart_ … I can't wait to tear open your chest and see this famous heart for myself – see what makes it so _special_.”

“Don't touch her!” the Doctor cried again from behind her, his aged voice feeble and weak. “Please, Master. I'm begging you,” he croaked. “Not her.”

“Oh, aren't you a broken record,” spat the Master, glaring at him in irritation. With a shove, he let Hartley go. She stumbled backwards, catching herself before she fell, holding a hand up to her sore scalp. “Well,” the Master continued, his mood taking a sudden swing to the left, “it just so happens that I don't need to _touch_ her to _hurt_ her,” he sang darkly, pulling out his own screwdriver.

Hartley tilted her shin up, meeting the Master's cold, cruel stare without flinching.

“ _The good in this world far outweighs the evil. Our common humanity transcends our differences, and our most effective response to terror is compassion, it's unity, and it's love,_ ” she recited without pausing for breath, without faltering from beneath the ferocity of the Master's glare. From beside the Master, Lucy's eyes were narrowed in something like glee, and Hartley felt a wave of heart-wrenching betrayal.

“Well, isn't that just lovely?” sneered the Master, and Hartley barely had time to register what was happening before he fired his laser screwdriver, its beam hitting dead in the centre of her chest. Everything went white, her veins filling with pain like it were a poison, then the room tilted sideways and her world turned dark.


	45. Last of the Time Lords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I'm glad you liked the last chapter. This one was a little tricky to get right, and it took me a long time to perfect, but I like how it turned out. For any of you worried about triggers in this chapter, my warnings are these: mentions of physical, verbal, and emotional abuse, and the lasting effects these types of things can have, including PTSD symptoms, depression and anxiety, etc.

“ _The past beats inside me like a second heart.”_

John Banville, _The Sea_

* * *

The room was too small. Most days she was sure the walls were going to close in around her, smothering her to death. It would be a mercy killing, at the very least.

A bed, a toilet and a chair. That was what her entire world had become, whittled away into nothing.

There wasn't anything to do. There was _never_ anything to do. The ceiling and walls were made of metal, but the ship was still new, so there was no scuffs or cracks for her to count. She liked to spend the time humming. Or she had, at least, back when it had all first begun.

She wasn't sure how long she'd been there. At first she'd attempted to scratch the days into the wall, mark the passing of time in an effort to keep sane, but he'd caught her only a few days in. She'd gotten a broken wrist for that one.

Behind the wall by her bed, a tap was dripping. She didn't know how long it had been going for, but it seemed like years to her. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine the dripping was rain against the glass of the window in her childhood bedroom. Some days, she could almost hear the sound of her dad playing his old records from down the stairs, or the monotonous drone of her mother's voice through their thin walls as she spoke on the phone to one of her all-important colleagues.

It was nice, even if it wasn't exactly what came to mind when she thought of _home._ If anything, it was just somewhere she knew she was safe. Somewhere she could go where she knew she wasn't in any danger. It was nothing but a memory of shelter.

Her real home was, of course, the TARDIS. But thinking of the TARDIS only made her think of the Doctor, and these days thinking of the Doctor only served to make her upset.

She could feel him, just barely, on the very edges of her consciousness. He and Jack, brushing ever so faintly up against her mind. They were still on board the Valiant, and they were still alive. She'd spent long, long hours trying to connect to them properly, trying to figure out how to make the connection more than just a gentle presence. But she had nobody to teach her how, and she wasn't about to ask _him_ to do it, so she simply spent her time meditating, fruitlessly trying to grab hold of that tiny little piece of them, hovering just outside of her reach.

It was almost worse, in a way. Feeling them there but being unable to reach them. It was torture. It was almost worse than what _he_ did. What he did every chance he got.

The bruises on her skin always faded; her ability to heal and revive never once failing her (even when, sometimes, she wished it would).

But he did things far worse than slice at her flesh and beat her until she bled. Things she relived every night, keeping her from being able to find sleep. The sickening burn of his touch in her brain had left an imprint in her head, a scar she wasn't sure would ever fully heal. Telepathy as torture; what cruel misuse of a gift meant for good.

Sometimes she forgot who she was, so lost in her solitude and torture as she was. Then he would come crashing in, sometimes singing, sometimes already screaming. And he would talk about the Doctor; always the Doctor.

She began to understand, over time, that the relationship they shared was like nothing she could have imagined. The Doctor had said they'd been friends; he hadn't said to what degree.

The monotony, the never ending cycle of pain and abuse and the long, long hours of lonely boredom was _finally_ broken, this time by a sharp pain in her head. This one was unlike any of the Master's previous tortures.

Letting out a scream that tore at her vocal chords, Hartley was thrown backwards by the force of it, collapsing against the wall. She held her head in her hands in an attempt to soothe the agony, but it did no good. No earthly touch could act as a balm, the pain like acid had been poured into her brain.

_Something is happening_ , she thought, _something is wrong with the Doctor_.

She knew it was him, understood it in the region of her chest that was like a little crevice he'd once carved for himself, a place she felt everything for him. Everything she ever could. Everything she ever would.

But then the pain stopped and she was left in a silence that consumed her every sense. The lights were on – they were never turned off – fluorescent and harsh, and the four walls surrounding her crept ever inwards, threatening to suffocate her completely.

The silence dragged on. She kept track of the seconds until she lost count, then faltered and started again.

Still the silence continued, and she began to grow nervous, huddled in the corner at the end of her sorry excuse for a bed. The silence continued, only this time, it _lasted._

He always came. He never went long between visits. He would come back all the time, whenever he could, tell her he missed her, that he loathed her. Wanted to understand her. Own her. Break her. Learn what made her so _special._

He was as much an expert at hiding his feelings as the Doctor had been, but sometimes when he got distracted, she thought that maybe she could feel just the slightest tendrils of jealousy coming from his iron hearts.

The silence remained like a cloud, and her pulse began to beat in her ears with panic.

She'd begun to crave his presence, the only presence she was ever allowed. She cried, scared he was gone, scared she was now alone. Not even he was there to keep her company. She was sick, so very sick. When had she become dependant on him? She was disgusted. The Doctor would be disgusted.

Too long passed, hours and hours and hours, and nobody even came to give her food. She wasn't hungry, she'd gone longer without it before, but the deafening silence was beginning to eat away at her, the walls continuing to shrink, the room getting smaller and smaller with every breath she took.

Then there was a bang so loud that she flinched back in preparation for a blow, before realising it was just the door slamming against the wall. She didn't move, however, curled up in a ball like the submissive little pet she was.

The Master laughed, a deep, crackling sound that chilled her to her very core. “Oh, I _do_ have you well trained, don't I?” he sneered in that smug, self-satisfied voice. “Come on,” he barked when she didn't move. “Today's the day,” he sang as she scrambled to her feet, keeping her eyes averted, careful not to make eye contact with the powerful man.

She'd never been let out of the room before. She could barely even remember ever _not_ being within its walls. The thought of going outside scared her. Who knew what was out there? In her room, the only danger was the Master. And from him, she at least knew what to expect.

He slung his arm over her shoulders, angling her out of the room before she could stop him. Her feet were bare, the floor freezing cold and hard under her skin. The thin nightdress she wore did little to keep her covered, and she burrowed into the Master's side, if only for warmth. He seemed pleased, however, giving another gross, throaty chuckle as he walked her towards the main room.

She remembered it as if from a dream she'd once had long ago. She wondered which parts of her memory were real, and which had become fiction over time.

The air-conditioning on the ship bit at her exposed skin and she shivered, closing her eyes and blindly letting him urge her down the hall.

“Here she is!” the Master cried as they stepped into a new room, giving her a sudden shove. Hartley collapsed with nothing to stop her descent. She let out a yelp as her hands came into contact with the hard, shiny floor. “My, my, she is looking pale, isn't she?” he mused as he passed her carelessly, striding up towards the stairs leading to the main flight deck. “One of you pick her up!” he shouted lazily to his guards. “Oh, and try to resist the urge to tickle her – she does so _hate_ to be tickled!”

A hand grasped her arm and drew her to her feet, dragging her back towards the far wall. She let herself be dragged, rather like a limp doll. The feeling of hands on her made her want to retch, but the urge was overridden by her numbness.

Someone from her right breathed her name, and she blinked in surprise, angling her head up.

She was met with the sight of Jack. Jack – her brother. He was here too, wasn't he? She'd felt him in her mind, an echo of a soul, reaching out and trying to make a connection.

Long nights while she grew back patches of skin and tried not to crumble into a hundred million little pieces, she'd felt him. She'd never been able to feel him fully, like there was something in the air, dampening their connection. It was like the Master had stolen more than just her life, her body and her emotions from her – he'd stolen her very empathy itself.

But now Jack was standing there, staring at her with big, wide eyes, his face smudged with dirt and grease. Hartley stared back at him, recommitting his face to memory as it had faded over the months locked away in her cell.

“You okay, Pretty Lady?” he asked her in a low, gentle voice, like she were an easily startled fawn.

“Silence the freak!” snarled the Master before she could gather her wits enough to answer. The guard holding hostage Jack punched him clear across the face. No tears came to Hartley's eyes, no pain echoed in her chest. She simply turned away, not interested in looking any longer.

Across the room, Hartley could see a familiar family. How did she know them again? She had to know them somehow, but her mind was foggy, thick with what felt like decades of solitude.

Beside them was her father. He'd given a little cry when he'd seen her, only to be kicked in the back of the knee by one of the guards, sending him to the floor. She looked away, for staring any longer would only confuse her more.

So much input, so many memories from a life that was no more. She wanted to disconnect, retreat back into the recesses of her mind, where she might be just that little bit safe. But before she could disassociate entirely there was a pulse from across the room.

There, in the far corner, was what looked like a bird cage. When she looked at what lay inside recognition flashed in her mind. It was a creature, small and thin, little more than a living pile of bones. It met her gaze with big, anguished eyes, and she suddenly she knew, without so much as a shred of doubt, that it was the Doctor.

_Finally_ something broke through that haze of numb that had enveloped her.

Pain rattled through her entire being. She grit her teeth against the feeling, staring at the altered form of her Doctor, the man she'd loved so much. The man she'd always believed would show up and save her from the darkness. Night after night she'd waited for him to appear. To whisk her away to safety. But he never, ever had.

A flash of deep red caught her eye and she turned away from the Doctor to see another hauntingly familiar face. Lucy was standing up on the fight deck, a pretty, ruby red dress draped over her bony figure. Her little sister was staring back at her, her eyes hard but full of pain, and Hartley met her stare.

There was a single moment of pure clarity between them in that instant. A single moment where she _knew_ her sister felt guilt, felt pain and misery and remorse for all that had happened.

But Hartley wasn't sure if it was something she was ever going to be able to forgive. She'd have liked to think it was, but the pain she'd suffered was unlike anything she'd ever endured. And her own sister had helped to orchestrate it. Her sister had _married_ her abuser.

And maybe Lucy sensed that she wasn't going to find the forgiveness she wanted, because she was the first to look away, turning back to look at her husband with deadened eyes.

“Citizens of Earth,” the Master crowed into a device on the flight deck, his voice booming all around them, “rejoice and observe!”

The doors to Hartley's left slid open and she looked over in time to see the guards push someone inside. It was Martha, Hartley realised, and it reminded her of who the family was. Martha's family; the Jones family.

Martha looked over at Hartley, and her eyes held a glint of horror as they looked upon her. Hartley wondered how terrible she must look, to make that glint appear in her old friend's soft eyes.

“Your teleport device, in case you thought I'd forgotten,” sneered the Master once Martha had reached him. Hartley watched with wide, vacant eyes as Martha tossed a small, familiar device over to him – Jack's vortex manipulator.

He caught it in deft hands, the same ones that had brought her so much pain and torture, and she shuddered at the sight, looking away.

“And now, kneel,” he ordered. Martha dropped obediently onto the floor at his feet. “Down below, the fleet is ready to launch. Two hundred thousand ships set to burn across the universe. Three minutes to align the black hole converters. Counting down. I never could resist a ticking clock. My children, are you ready?” he bellowed to his Toclafane.

“ _We will fly and blaze and slice. We will fly and blaze and slice_.”

“At zero, to mark this day, the child Martha Jones, will die. My first blood. Any last words? No? Such a disappointment, this one. Days of old, Doctor, you had companions who could absorb the time vortex,” he cried, voice loud, proclaiming it for all to hear. His eyes slid over to Hartley, who felt as if she could barely breathe. “You had one known as the Heart of the universe itself,” he said in a sly, consuming voice. Hartley shuddered again under his heavy, hateful gaze. “ _This_ one's useless. Bow your head,” he ordered Martha primly. “And so it falls to me, as Master of all, to establish from this day, a new order of Time Lords. From this day forward––”

His sick, rousing speech was brought to an abrupt halt when a low chuckle echoed throughout the flight deck. Everyone paused, surprised by the unexpected sound. Martha was the source, all eyes flickered to her. Hartley thought distantly that it was strange to see her smiling at a time like this.

“What?” the Master demanded, edging closer to Martha, his beady eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What's so funny?”

“A gun?” Martha smirked.

“What about it?”

“A gun in four parts?”

“Yes, and I destroyed it.”

“A gun in four parts scattered across the world? I mean, come on, did you _really_ believe that?” she asked him confidently, incredulous and smug.

“What do you mean?” snapped the Master. Hartley found herself relishing in the glint of fear in his cold, hateful eyes.

“As if I would ask her to kill,” said the Doctor from his cage, and the sound of his voice made Hartley's skin tingle and her heart race with the reminder of happier times.

“It doesn't matter,” said the Master dismissively. “I've got her exactly where I want her,” he added, scrambling for the control that was so quickly slipping through his fingers.

“But I knew what Professor Docherty would do. The Resistance knew about her son,” Martha explained, that control beginning to bleed into her, instead. “I told her about the gun, so she'd get me here at the right time.”

“Oh, but you're still going to _die_ ,” the Master sneered.

“Don't you want to know what I was doing, travelling the world?”

“Tell me.”

“I told a story, that's all. No weapons, just words. I did just what the Doctor said. I went across the continents all on my own. And everywhere I went, I found the people, and I told them my story. I told them about the Doctor. And I told them to pass it on, to spread the word so that everyone would know about the Doctor.”

“Faith and hope? Is that all?” the Master asked in a sneer.

“No, because I gave them an instruction, just as the Doctor said.” Martha got to her feet, and everyone in the room balked at the rapid shift of power. “I told them that if everyone thinks of one word, at one specific time––”

“Nothing will happen,” he hissed. “Is that your weapon? Prayer?”

“Right across the world, _one_ word, just _one_ thought at _one_ moment – but with _fifteen_ satellites!” she told him proudly.

Hartley watched as the Master's expression slackened. “What?” he asked, and she felt satisfaction begin to curl in her gut, blood pumping in her ears.

“The Archangel Network,” Jack said from beside Hartley, realisation warm and proud in his voice.

“A telepathic field binding the whole human race together, with all of them, every single person on Earth, thinking the _same_ thing at the _same_ time. And that word … is _Doctor_.”

Hartley made no move to swallow her gasp as both the Doctor and his cage began to glow, an ethereal light surrounding him. The glow almost seemed to sparkle, and there was simply no other word Hartley could find to describe it, other than _magical._

The Master looked truly panicked now, and Hartley shoved away the doubt from her mind. She put aside her racing heart and strung out nerves, she just shut her eyes and pictured the Doctor in her mind.

It wasn't her imagination at all, but rather a memory. She was relaxed on the jump seat of the TARDIS, her legs tucked underneath her and a large, unrestrained smile on her face. She was laughing at some funny, unimportant thing that had been said. The Doctor was grinning too, wide and unbridled, eyes sparkling with affection as he stared back at her, wholly content to simply watch her giggle.

In that moment he'd looked at her as though all the stars in the universe couldn't compare with her majesty. She knew she'd never be looked at like that by anyone else. And that she didn't want to be.

“Doctor,” Hartley whispered, pushing as much love as she could muster into the name. Everything she had, everything she could possibly draw from what she was left with, she gave it to him in that moment. “ _Doctor._ ”

“I've had a whole year to tune myself into the psychic network and integrate with its matrices,” an achingly familiar voice spoke, and a gasp ripped from Hartley's lips. She opened her eyes, turning to look at where the shrunken form of Doctor had just been; only it was gone. In its place stood a tall, whole, brilliant, beautiful Time Lord.

His suit was exactly how she remembered it, his hair wonderfully wild, his face sharp and youthful. She felt like she could have weeped as the guard behind her let her go, stepping away as if knowing now that the Master had lost. As if knowing now the war had been won, and the side he'd so selfishly chosen had lost.

“The one thing you can't do,” said the Doctor, his voice smooth and matter-of-fact, “is stop them thinking.” He flew forwards, that bright, sparkling light still enveloping him like an aura, wrapped around his body, lending him power. “Tell me the human race is degenerate now, when they can do this.” The Master fired his laser at the Doctor, but it reflected off the light like it were nothing. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry,” said the Doctor compassionately.

“Then I'll kill _them,_ ” snarled the Master, but the Doctor only had to wave his hand and the laser screwdriver was thrown from the Master's grip, sliding harmlessly across the polished floor. “You can't do this. You can't do it! It's not _fair_!” the Master screamed like a petulant child throwing a temper tantrum.

“And you know what happens now,” said the Doctor, perfectly calm.

The Master began to chant a plea, begging the Doctor not to do whatever he was planning. For one fleeting moment Hartley wondered whether the Doctor was going to kill him, because surely he _deserved_ to be killed, didn't he? She found herself darkly hoping that he would.

But the hope dissipated just as quickly as it had come. The Doctor had been right, she could never expect anyone to kill. And besides, the Doctor wouldn't ever. And _that_ was why she loved him.

“You wouldn't listen,” said the Doctor.

“No!” cried the Master desperately.

“Because you know what I'm going to say.”

“No!”

The Doctor walked towards him and Hartley found herself holding her breath as she waited to see what would happen, torn between a hope for justice and a bloodthirsty need for revenge.

But, instead of either, the Doctor crouched down and enveloped the other Time Lord in his arms, holding him in a tight embrace like a child he wanted to protect from the cruelties of the world.

“I forgive you,” said the Doctor, heartfelt and sincere. Hartley stopped breathing all together, stunned beyond belief.

Everything was perfectly still. Nobody knew how to react, silently watching the Doctor cradle the Master in his arms.

Then, just as suddenly, the Doctor sprang up again, shouting to Hartley and Jack urgently.

“Hartley, Captain – the paradox machine!” he yelled, and despite the trauma Hartley had suffered, despite how much she wanted nothing more than to curl up in a tiny little ball and just sink into a numb oblivion, she snapped to attention like a good little soldier. They had a world to save.

“You men, with us!” shouted Jack to the guards, who all switched allegiances without so much as a beat of hesitation.

Hartley didn't hesitate either, racing after them as fast as she could. She was in pain; mentally, physically, and emotionally. She'd been torn into a thousand tiny pieces that had yet to be sewed back together, but she hadn't gotten as far as she had in this life without being able to compartmentalise.

“I need a gun!” she shouted at one of the guards, voice cracking from a lack of use.

Without breaking stride the commander tossed over a large gun. Hartley caught it in surprisingly deft hands, pushing herself faster. Jack grasped the doors to where the TARDIS lay hidden away, throwing them open to reveal three Toclafane hovering just inside.

The guards opened fire and Hartley moved with them, firing at the spheres even while knowing it wasn't likely to do any good.

“We need to get in there!” she shouted over the deafening bangs of gunfire. They weren't going to make any headway from this angle of attack. They needed to get inside the TARDIS – they needed to save time and space.

“We can't get in – we'd get _slaughtered_!” the commander protested wildly, staring at them like they were insane.

Jack gave a scoff of dark amusement. “Yeah,” he said flippantly, “happens to us a lot.”

He leapt into the fray, firing his gun as he barrelled his way across the deadly room, towards the TARDIS that sat idle in between those boxes, just as it had all that time ago. Hartley dived in after him, a sort of war cry leaving her lips as she pushed into the room.

She was reminded suddenly of the day she and Jack had become family – that day on the Game Station, battling to their deaths against the Daleks. The situation was eerily similar, but they'd come so far since then.

“Just like old times, eh, Harts?!” Jack yelled to her over the sounds of the battle.

“Why do we keep meeting like this?” she yelled back, the teasing words coming from some instinctual place within. Jack let out a delighted laugh that warmed her from the inside out before they finally reached the TARDIS doors. Hartley moved first, relieved to find them unlocked as she pushed them open, diving inside and waiting for Jack to join her.

The TARDIS was just as she had been so very long ago; bathed in a eerie red light and groaning in pain, like she were deathly ill. Jack appeared beside her and the doors shut with a low bang, sealing them inside the cannibalised ship.

“Ready, Hart?”

“Ready, Jack.”

And they opened fire, bullets raining down upon the dreadful paradox machine. It took a solid minute of shooting, their bullets chipping away at the creation until finally the entire centre console exploded with a bang. Ducking down to avoid getting hit by the shrapnel, Hartley waited until the sound of the explosion was gone, no noise but the gentle crackling of fire filling the room.

She stood back up straight, turning to look at Jack to find him staring at the destroyed paradox machine with a hint of well-earned pride. He glanced over at her and they stared at one another in the fading red glow of the machine.

He looked older then he had when they'd arrived on this blasted ship, she realised, and wondered vaguely if it had been as hellish for him as it had been for her.

They came together at the same instant, wrapping their arms around one another in a tight, desperate embrace. He held his hand against the back of her head, pressing her face into his chest, and she clutched at her brother like a lifeline, breathing in his scent, disappointed to find he didn't smell like himself anymore. Instead he just smelt like death. Blood and sweat and death.

It was still Jack, though – her kin in every way that mattered – and she clutched him tighter, remembering a time less than an hour ago when it felt like lightyears had separated them. When she'd thought she might never, ever see him again.

“Jack,” she sobbed, grasping at the lapels of his dirty jacket, desperate for traction as if Jack could reach inside of her and pull her soul up from the pit of despair.

“You're okay,” he assured her, stroking down her hair. The feeling of his fingertips against her scalp was soothing, however alien. “It's over now. It's done. You're okay,” he promised, but she wasn't so suer she believed him.

“Jack, he––” she tried to tell him, scared that if she didn't say it now she'd never be able to, but Jack only held her closer, shushing her gently.

“I know,” he said, but he didn't. He _didn't_ know.

“How long?” she asked, thinking that it seemed to be a question they would always be doomed to ask one another, every time they were reunited.

“You don't know?” he asked in return, still holding her tightly against him.

She shook her head against his chest. “He wouldn't let me keep track,” she revealed hollowly, and his grip tightened just slightly.

“A year,” he told her, quiet and tired, like a man who'd been through more than his fair share of hell. “It's been exactly one year.”

She sniffled softly, basking in his warmth and the love with which he held her. “I thought it was longer,” she admitted, and she could almost hear how his jaw clicked with restrained anger. “How many times did you…?” she trailed off, needing to know but struggling to make her mouth form the words. Maybe if they didn't say it out loud, it wouldn't be real. She could pretend it was all a dream.

“It doesn't matter,” Jack said thickly.

“Yes, it does.”

He paused, unmoving for a long few moments. “Everyday,” he finally admitted. Nausea rolled through her like waves atop the ocean during a storm. She gripped him tighter, and he went back to stroking a hand down her matted hair. “At least once every day. Sometimes more.” She was silent, not saying anything because what was there to say? “You?” he asked, voice catching on the word.

“Not every day,” she said, suddenly glad he couldn't see her face, couldn't see the trauma she'd experienced written into the lines on her face. “But on the days he did, it was a blessing.”

Jack shuddered at the implication of what she was saying, but no more words were said. The brother and sister just enjoyed the time together after so very long apart.

“We should get back to the Doctor,” Jack finally said after a long while, the fire at the console slowly dying into embers. “Give the TARDIS time to fix herself,” he added thoughtfully.

Reluctantly Hartley pulled away from him, reaching up to wipe at her damp cheeks, embarrassed by her weakness. “Yeah,” she agreed, voice scratchy from the tears. “We should go.”

Stepping back out into the corridor of the Valiant, they found that the guards were gone, either recalled or having fled. Either way, Hartley couldn't bring herself to care, staying close by Jack's side as they wound their way back through the maze that was the Valiant until they found their way back to the flight desk.

The doors opened to reveal a familiar face was barrelling towards them. Hartley cried out and instinctively flinched out of the way of the oncoming Master, but Jack caught the evil Time Lord easily, grasping him by his lapels and dragging him up to his face.

“I should strangle you with your own tie,” Jack threatened him in a low, dangerous voice that carried throughout the large, near empty room. There was an anger there, a hatred that couldn't quite be described with words, and Hartley knew that if he was given the opportunity, Jack would murder him without blinking an eye.

“Jack,” the Doctor called warningly just as Hartley shuffled back into view, self-consciously tugging at the neckline of her nightdress, trying to minimise her exposed skin as much as she could.

Her eyes moved over to the smear of red in the corner. Lucy stared back at her with flat, dead eyes. Hartley didn't know what to say, didn't know if she even could speak at all. She just stared back, feeling despair like a gaping, cavernous hole in her chest.

Jack's grip on the Master slackened at the reproach in the Doctor's voice, and instead he held out a hand to the guard standing by the door. “Cuffs,” he ordered, seeming every bit the Captain he was. They were handed over and he slapped them onto the Master's wrists. Hartley stepped properly into the room, walking the long way around the Master until she reached the line of humans along the far wall to where her dad stood, tears in his eyes.

She stepped closer to him, wrapping an arm around his back and leaning into his side, drawing in all the comfort she could from him. It had been so long – a year, she supposed – since she'd felt a touch that wasn't meant to cause pain.

Her dad didn't smell like himself anymore either, gone were the old books and cigars, replaced by sweat and grime, but it was still her dad and so it was better than nothing. Hartley could feel Lucy's eyes upon them, but she didn't look up, too scared of what she might find.

“Okay, darling?” her dad whispered, the words trembling with emotion.

“It'll get there,” she replied, just as weak. Her eyes remained locked on the Master, not trusting him not to burst free of his restraints and go on another rampage. Not trusting him not to get free, just so he could strike her down again.

“So, what do we do with this one?” Jack was asking the Doctor, but it wasn't he who answered.

“We kill him,” said Martha's father darkly.

“We execute him,” Tish agreed vehemently.

“No, that's _not_ the solution!” the Doctor argued, but Martha's mother was too far gone to listen.

“Oh, I think so,” she breathed, holding up a gun that made Hartley flinch again, edging away from the woman. Francine, Hartley remembered her name to be, kept the gun aimed at the Master, her hand trembling violently, tears of pain streaming down her face. “Because all those things, they still happened, because of _him._ I _saw_ them,” she cried.

“Go on,” the Master goaded her, lips curled back to reveal his teeth in a sneer. “ _Do it_.”

The Doctor approached her cautiously, a hand held out for the gun. “Francine, you're better than him,” he told her lowly, and the woman gave a broken sob as she dropped the gun to the floor where it landed with a clatter.

The fight had drained out of her, leaving only a shell of a human behind. Hartley found herself feeling selfishly disappointed that she hadn't managed to shoot the Master where he stood. Because surely he deserved it. He deserved to die.

“You still haven't answered the question,” the Master sneered as the Doctor handed Francine off to Martha, who wrapped her arms around her mother tightly, pain and relief warring across her face. “What happens to me?”

The Doctor turned to properly face the Master, the strangest flicker of hope in his eyes. It was one that Hartley couldn't explain – or maybe she just didn't want to try. “You're my responsibility from now on,” he said sternly. “The only Time Lord left in existence.”

Jack's expression slackened and he moved away from the Master's side, stepping up to the Doctor to hiss, “yeah, but you can't _trust_ him.”

“No,” the Doctor agreed readily. “The only safe place for him is the TARDIS.”

The smirk died on the Master's lips. “You mean you're just going to… _keep_ me?” he asked, scared for the first time since Hartley had known him. She felt a curl of sick satisfaction at his fear.

The Doctor nodded, “if that's what I have to do.” The Master cringed, turning his gaze up to the ceiling as if praying for help. Hartley wondered what kind of a god would listen to something like _him._ “It's time to change,” the Doctor continued, turning to look at Jack. “Maybe I've been wandering for too long. Now I've got someone to care for.”

The piercing bang of a gun cut through the air. Hartley violently flinched, hands moving instinctively to her gut only to be shocked to find it wasn't _her_ who had been shot. How strange, not to be the one dying for once. She turned to survey the room, and felt a flash of relief to find a red patch appearing in the white shirt of the Master's suit.

The Doctor rushed forwards to catch the Master as he collapsed to the floor, cradling him in his arms.

“Put it down,” Jack was saying to someone. Hartley turned to look, and it took her a long moment to process that the shot had been fired by Lucy.

Feeling her eyes sting with tears, Hartley watched as Jack gently extracted the gun from her sister's still hand. There was a blank, vacant look on her familiar face. It was hardly the expression of someone who'd just committed murder. Hartley thought suddenly that she didn't recognise her sister at all – in that moment, Lucy might as well have been a stranger.

“I've got you. I've got you,” the Doctor was saying to the Master. Hartley's looked away from the stranger that was supposed to be her sister. Her ears were still ringing from the gunshot, and she stared, oddly numb as the Master slowly died in the Doctor's arms. “Regenerate. Just regenerate. Please. _Please_! Just regenerate. Come on!” the Doctor was begging the Master with everything he had, desperate not to be left alone, not again.

“And spend the rest of my life imprisoned with _you_?” grunted the Master.

The Doctor continued to plead with him, begging him to regenerate, begging him to survive, because there was only the two of them left.

“How about that. I win,” the Master whispered, his voice carrying. “Make sure your precious Heart knows it too,” he panted, using his dying breaths to torture her further. “Make sure she knows … I win … because I _broke_ her,” he hissed victoriously.

The room was filled with his pained panting, until finally they all watched as he succumbed to death. Hartley tried to feel pity, tried to feel anything, but it was just a long stretch of nothing echoing in her chest. It was like her body was empty of emotion, like she'd lost the ability to _feel._ Maybe never to find it again.

She reached out to grasp the railing beside her, holding on tightly, too afraid that if she let go the whole world would tilt and she might slip away forever.

The Master died, and everything went silent except for the Doctor's desperate sobs, each tragic sound reverberating around the room like the gunshot that had killed his oldest friend.

But no amount of crying could change what had been done. She pressed her face into her father's chest, suddenly feeling it difficult to breathe. She wanted to find comfort, some semblance of reassurance that might help her feel less ruined, but not even her dad's presence could fill the hole that had been created within her.

She glanced over at her sister again, finding Lucy staring vacantly into nothing, seemingly unaware of the world around her. Hartley understood the feeling, and thought suddenly that she and Lucy had more in common now than they ever had in the past. How sad was that? That it took a year of soul-stripping abuse to give them some common ground?

“Hart?” whispered a voice from long ago. Hartley looked away from Lucy to see Martha approaching, concern on her distantly-familiar face.

“Martha,” Hartley tried to say back, but her voice failed her. She pushed away from her dad, and with shining eyes Martha stepped closer, wrapping the older immortal in a tight hug, hand rubbing against her back in soothing circles. Someone had to be the strong one now, and for once it wasn't going to be Hartley.

And she supposed that, sometimes, maybe the world _did_ end with a bang.

* * *

The TARDIS was fully repaired by the time they got back, console back in place, glowing a warm golden light and humming that perfect, low hum that used to make Hartley feel so at home. Now it felt foreign, a strange, unfamiliar sight that only served to make her frown.

Jack seemed relieved to see it again, but the reunion was dampened somewhat by the corpse held in a vacant Doctor's arms. Hartley didn't even stop to take in the TARDIS in all of her renewed glory. She didn't cast a glance at the Doctor, the corpse, Martha and her family, not even Jack or her dad. She simply turned and walked straight into the hallway, heading for her room as though set to autopilot.

The first thing she did was shower. She must have spent hours under the spray, revelling in the scolding heat, like it were burning away any trace of the Master on her skin. She scrubbed herself raw, then scrubbed some more for good measure. She used strawberry body wash, and coconut shampoo in her hair, hoping the sweet smells might calm her.

It helped somewhat, but it was all for naught. By the time she was drying herself off, she still felt just as dirty as when she'd stepped in. She wondered whether she'd ever feel clean again.

Staring at her bed, she contemplated going to sleep, but in the end she couldn't bring herself to surrender to unconsciousness. Pulling on some running pants and a sports bra, Hartley stepped out from her room, winding her way through the labyrinth of halls that made up the TARDIS.

She passed the swimming pool, the tennis court and the kitchen, but she didn't feel like swimming, or playing tennis or eating. She passed the library and it made her pause, but ultimately she knew she couldn't sit still long enough to read anything.

Finally she came to the gym, and she knew right away it was where she was meant to go. Pushing her way into the room, she marvelled at how large it was; such a drastic comparison to her room aboard the Valiant.

Memories flashed through her head, the slap of his hand against her face, the sound of her own screams echoing in her ears, the way her mouth filled with the metallic taste of her own blood.

In reality she flinched, the force of the flashback enough to physically move her. Then the moment passed and she stood straight again, back aboard the TARDIS, alone in the middle of the gym.

Clearing her throat and ignoring the stinging of her eyes, Hartley walked over to the far wall. She moved slowly, taking the time to methodically tape up her knuckles before turning to the speakers built into the wall.

After so long with nothing but silence, she needed noise to keep herself sane.

She fiddled with the keyboard – sort of a futuristic jukebox – until something hard, loud and violent was playing. She didn't know it, but it served its purpose. Then she laid waste to the red punching bag hanging from the sloping ceiling.

For a long time the only sound filling her head was the music. So loud she could barely even hear her own grunts of exertion, let alone her thoughts – it was exactly what she needed. The feeling of the bag under her fists was good. Being the one to punch, instead of _being_ punched, it was therapeutic in the best way. The longer she went at it, however, the angrier she got.

Angry at the Master. Angry at the Doctor. Angry at herself. She was just so _angry._

It must have been hours she stood there, in her violent stupor. She was exhausted and her hands were bruised, body coated in a thick layer of sweat from her workout. But despite her fatigue, she refused to stop, pounding away at the bag like it was at fault for all the horrible, horrible things that had happened to her in this past year. With each smack of her fist into the bag, she let out a tiny scream, like it were actually something she could hurt. She wanted it to hurt. Wanted some _thing_ , some _body_ that wasn't _her_ , to hurt.

It was the Doctor who eventually found her. She knew he was there, felt the weight of his eyes on her back, but she didn't turn to look, too consumed by her emotions.

The numbness was gone, replaced by sharp emotion that threatened to destroy her. It was nice to feel something after so long of just feeling a void where her heart should have been. She had to keep hitting the bag, had to keep moving. Because if she stopped, she knew might never be able to start again.

The music cut off abruptly, and finally she could hear her own cries of frustration as she took out her pain and fury on the punching bag. “Hartley,” the Doctor spoke after a long few minutes of nothing but grunts and screams of suffering. “Hartley,” he said again when she didn't stop, and the mat must have muffled his footsteps because next thing she knew he was touching her exposed shoulders.

Acting out of some new, dreadful instinct she whirled around, trying to hit him, desperate to keep herself from being hurt again. She managed to stop her fist before it met the Doctor's face, jerking herself back against the heavy punching bag. “Don't _touch_ me!” she hissed at him, skin crawling from the split second of contact.

Holding his hands up as though in surrender, the Doctor's eyes were sadder than she had ever seen them, dark and haunted. But she couldn't bring herself to care.

“You never came,” the words spilled unbidden from her lips, tears gathering in her eyes.

“What?” he asked, confused by the sudden accusation.

“ _You_ _never_ _came_ ,” she repeated, harsh and full of blame. “I cried for you. So often. I thought you would come save me. I thought the _Doctor_ would come save me, but you _never_ _did_!”

The tears finally began to slide down her cheeks and the Doctor looked as though she _had_ hit him. Brazenly, she thought that maybe that might have hurt less.

“I'm so sorry,” he said, heavy with sincerity. He hated himself. Good, because she hated him too.

“The things he did––” she cut herself off, reaching up with a bruised, bleeding hand to push away her hair. She could still feel the Master's presence in her mind, the weight of it dragging her down beneath the waves of a stormy sea. “I'm – he _ruined_ me, and you _weren't there_!” she screamed at the Doctor. But he did nothing, taking her words like they were hits.

She turned and slammed her fist into the punching bag again, desperate to expel her all-consuming rage. Trying to beat out her pain, the agony building in her gut like the growing flames of an inferno. She wondered if it would burn her alive. Part of her hoped it would.

He grabbed at her wrists, forcefully dragging her hands away from the bag. She flinched again under the touch, but as soon as he was sure she was done, he let go, hands held up again, as if to show a wounded animal that he wasn't a threat.

“I'm so sorry, Hartley,” he said again, voice breaking over the words. She looked up, meeting his stare to find tears in his eyes. “I'm so sorry,” he repeated, agonised and blaming himself. “What happened to you is unforgivable––”

“And yet you forgave him.”

The Doctor met her stare again, tormented by the events of the last day – of the last _year_. “Hartley...” he trailed off, searching for the right words, but not able to find them. Instead he slowly edged closer, hands still held up in surrender. She watched him cautiously, feeling her heart race with every step he took in her direction. Finally he was right in front of her, and rather than say anything, he simply reached out, taking her face in his hands.

She flinched under the touch, but he held firm, bringing her face to his so he could press his forehead to hers in a move that cut her to the core, too intimate against all else she had endured.

She was instantly flooded with feeling of pain, regret, sorrow and misery. It was like her empathic abilities were switching back on, like a key sliding into place, unlocking that part of her she'd thought was gone. Her empathy never been shut off, exactly, but she'd certainly buried it deep down, turning herself numb in a move of pure self-preservation.

The negative emotions swirled in her head, making her dizzy and ill, and she wondered why he was doing such a torturous thing, and – _oh, that's why._ It was so she knew how sincere he was. How guilty and responsible he felt.

She flinched away from the feelings of remorse, only serving to make her in turn feel guilty, but he sensed this and changed tactics immediately. Instead of harsh regret and pain, her head was swimming with relief and affection and _love_ and it very nearly choked her with its burning hot intensity.

He eventually pulled away, slow like he didn't want to startle her, and she stepped back, feeling a rush of relief now that their skin wasn't touching. It was a lot to take, sometime over the past year, it had become nearly impossible to distinguish between a good touch and a bad one.

“Go rest,” the Doctor told her, not an order, but a gentle request. Swallowing around the lump in her throat, Hartley nodded. She didn't say anything more, because what _could_ she say?

She showered again, once more taking too long under the spray, revelling in the heat against her skin. She didn't get out until her skin had pruned, but there was no way she could bring herself to sleep so she pulled a book off her shelf and sat down atop her covers, curling in on herself and beginning to read.

She worked her way through one book, then another. It was hard to take in the words, hard to understand them all put together, but she persevered, reading until her eyes began to ache.

She was brought from the world in the pages by a knocking at her door. She flinched at the sound, but quickly berated herself for such a reaction, calling out a stilted, “come in!”

The handle turned and she found herself relieved to see it was just Jack, poking his head through the door with a gentle smile on his pale lips. “Hey there, Pretty Lady,” he said softly, as though he were afraid of spooking her.

She set aside her book and attempted a smile. “Hey, Captain,” she said, but the playful words felt foreign and unfamiliar in her mouth. With a wave of her hand, she gestured for him to enter.

Her door clicked shut behind him and he sauntered towards her for no other reason than it was the only way he knew how to move. The thought made a real grin flicker at the edges of her mouth. It had been so long since she'd smiled – she'd forgotten that warm, pleasant feeling in the pit of her stomach that moved in conjunction with her lips.

Jack didn't speak immediately, wandering closer to her and shedding his vintage jacket before taking a seat on the edge of her bed. Gently he picked up her feet, lifting them so they sat in his lap.

She felt the urge to flinch away at the touch, but she wanted to be stronger than that. Besides, it was only Jack. There wasn't a more harmless person in the whole universe.

“Your dad wanted to come see you, but the Doctor dropped him home,” he began quietly. “Said you'd drop in within an hour. But we both know how long that could be on TARDIS time.”

Hartley didn't respond, staring at the far wall, processing his words. She considered how scared her dad must have been. She wondered what had happened to him in all that time aboard the Valiant. It was her fault he'd been subjected to that, she could only pray he'd forgive her.

She wondered suddenly what had happened to Lucy, but she didn't have the words to be able to ask.

“How are you?” Jack's question broke her from her thoughts, his voice low and gentle, like she were a piece of spun, fragile glass.

The query caused a groan to fall from her lips, and she mustered a sharp look that had him raising his hands in surrender. “Why do I get the feeling that that's all anyone's going to be asking me from now on?” she asked, unimpressed and scowling. “ _How are you? Are you okay? How're you feeling, sweetheart?_ ” she muttered sardonically, snatching her feet back from Jack's lap and curling them underneath herself, wrapping her arms around her middle in an unnecessary defence mechanism.

Jack shot her a look that wasn't quite disapproval, but certainly wasn't condoning her attitude either. With it came a flash of normalcy, and she practically wilted under the force of it. “People are just reacting in the only way they know how, Hart,” he told her simply.

Knowing he was right, she wilted further, melting back into the pillows positioned behind her, trying very hard not to sulk even though she felt very much entitled to. She allowed them to drift into an easy, comfortable silence, closing her eyes and listening to the gentle sound of his breaths.

“I wasn't planning on staying,” he said suddenly. Her lids fluttered open, eyes going wide in surprise. She said nothing, watching him. He had a look of consternation on his handsome face, and her insides twisted with guilt for putting it there. “But I can, for awhile, if you need me to,” he finished quietly, and she felt a rush of affection for him.

She considered his offer. “Do you _want_ to?” she asked, her voice soft, lacking its usual confidence.

Jack winced like he'd been hoping she wouldn't ask. “It isn't that I don't _want_ to,” he began, reaching up to adjust the collar of his shirt, “it's just that, well, I have Torchwood to run. I have this amazing team, and we're doing really important work, protecting London. Guarding the rift, it gives me a sense of…”

“Purpose,” she finished knowingly, nodding her head in acceptance.

“Yeah,” he agreed, still wincing as though he half expected his words to cause her pain.

“Jack, if going back to this team of yours is what you feel you need to do, then I support you – wholeheartedly,” she promised him, gaining volume with her conviction.

He smiled but the expression was still off, tinged with unmistakeable concern. “But will you be okay without me?” he asked, worried in the way only an older brother could be.

She averted her gaze as she considered the question. Would she be okay without him? Probably. Did she want to _try_ to be okay without him? No, she did not.

“I could come with you,” she suggested before she'd even taken the time to fully consider what she was saying. “I'm sure I could be of some use. It'll be like a holiday. A holiday full of Earth-things and rift activity. And we'll be together,” she rambled in a strained voice, but it sounded an awful lot like she were trying to convince herself.

“You want to leave the TARDIS?” Jack asked, his tone ringing with disbelief. “You want to leave the Doctor?”

“I think it might be good for me to...to get some space from it all, y'know?” she replied with her stare focused on the quilt beneath her legs, too scared to meet his eyes and have him change her mind.

Jack was silent for a few long moments, the extended quiet unsettling. When Jack wasn't talking, it meant he was thinking, and that never boded well for anyone sitting opposite him. She felt the weight of his stare on her face but stubbornly refused to look up, focusing on tugging at a loose thread in the purple quilt the TARDIS had provided back when she'd first arrived.

All of a sudden Jack stood to his feet, but instead of doing anything important he merely wandered casually over to one of the many shelves that covered her walls. Confused and wary, Hartley followed him with her eyes.

“What's this?” he asked her, sounding far too curious to be genuine, but when she saw what he was holding up, her thoughts changed.

“It's just a rock from Mars,” she told him automatically, eyeing the little red lump of rock he held in his hand, frowning against the influx of memories that assaulted her mind. “Swiped it off the ground the first time the Doctor took me. He was rather unimpressed, but I wanted a keepsake.”

“And this?” Jack barrelled ahead, barely waiting for her to finish before he moved on to the next item on her shelf, a small glass figurine of a stereotypical green alien. It was lit from the bottom, casting a green glow over the wall behind it.

“From the planet Jacovain on the edge of the Milky Way,” she told him, unable to stem the tiny smile growing on her lips. “I complained once to the Doctor about how none of the aliens we'd met looked like that. He took me to the planet where the stereotypical alien image came from. They had a little gift shop, and you know how the Doctor _loves_ a little shop.”

“Typical,” Jack was grinning now, wide and unrestrained. “What about this?” he continued, a man on a mission. “Looks important.”

He was stopped beside a single book laying on the shelf, its battered, faded blue cover glowing in the soft lights of her room. Despite his comment he still picked it up, and before she could so much as think Hartley was out of her bed and across the room, prying the fragile book from his hands and putting it back in its place with a reverence usually reserved for fossils or priceless jewels.

“It's a first edition of _Alice in Wonderland,_ signed by Lewis Carroll himself, and the last thing its fragile binding needs are your meaty hands pressed against it,” she snapped, very nearly reaching out a stroke a hand down the cover but stopping herself just in time.

“Signed by Lewis Carroll, huh?” Jack was quite obviously baiting her, but this was a story she could tell a billion times over and never get tired of.

“The Doctor found out it was one of my favourites and took me back to meet him,” she said with a happy sigh, thinking back to meeting the man himself. “This was before Martha, when we were travelling, just the two of us. It was amazing. Saved the guy's life, actually. There were these aliens, you see, kind of a psychic warrior race, and they'd trapped him in his own book. We had to defeat the jabberwocky to escape and––”

Hartley cut off as she saw the bright, unbridled grin on Jack's face; much like that of the cat that ate the canary. She understood, then, what he was doing. She also had to admit that it had totally and completely worked.

“I'm not actually going to leave, am I?” she sighed, folding her arms across her chest and turning away, heading back for the bed, finding herself exhuasted.

“I think if you did, you'd end up even more miserable than you already are,” he told her with unflinching honesty, and she knew this to be the truth.

“How are you so right all the time?” she muttered as she sat back down in her little nest of pillows and blankets, curling into it like it were an old friend.

“Natural talent,” he sent her his most winning smile and she threw a small pillow at his face. He laughed loudly, catching it in deft hands and walking back over to her, taking a seat at her side and gently putting it back into place. “You're coming to visit me, right?” he asked, but it really wasn't much of a question, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

“So much you'll get sick of me,” she promised. He grinned, the expression bright and blinding, and she wondered how she'd gone without it for so long.

“I shouldn't keep the Doctor waiting,” he told her after a few beats of easy quiet. “You know how impatient he gets.” He stood to his feet, picking up his discarded coat and pulling it back on. He looked perfect now, exactly as he'd looked in her mind's eye all this time. “Coming to see me off?” he asked, holding out a hand.

She smiled, finding the expression came easier now than it had before. She took his proffered hand, letting him pull her to her feet. She shoved her feet into a pair of shoes by the door then let him drag her back through the labyrinth of hallways that made up the TARDIS.

“Cardiff, only an hour after you first took the TARDIS for a joy ride,” the Doctor proclaimed the moment they appeared in the doorway, beginning to saunter towards the doors, pulling on his coat while he moved.

“This team of mine, they'd love to meet you,” Jack said casually, still holding tight to Hartley's hand, for which she was grateful.

“Got places to be,” the Doctor lied as if they all couldn't see through him like glass. The Doctor didn't do domestics, let alone meet and greets.

They stepped out into Roald Dahl Plass. The sky was a hazy white, thick clouds coating the city like a blanket. The air was warm – humid, like it were about to rain – and Hartley tipped her face up to the sky, breathing in the wet air, feeling it fill up her lungs and bring calm to her tumultuous insides.

They came to a stop along the railing at the edge of the Plass, leaning against it, watching the people stroll by, all of them blissfully unaware of the horror that was the Year That Never Was.

“Time was, every single one of these people knew your name,” Martha began, breaking the silence in a gentle, introspective voice. “Now they've all forgotten you,” she said, turning to look at the Doctor who had the tiniest hint of a smile on his lips.

“Good,” he said through that tiny lift of his mouth.

Jack tapped his fingers against the railing. “Back to work,” he said in the kind of voice that made her think he was sort of happy to be saying them. He must have really missed his team, she realised, and the thought that he'd found himself a small family of his own made her happy beyond words.

He leaned down, smacking his lips to her cheek in an obnoxious move that nearly made her smile before ducking down under the railing.

“I really don't mind, though,” said the Doctor in a move that surprised no one more than Hartley. “Come with me,” he offered, making her realise they'd discussed this before, probably while she was recovering in her room. It surprised her that the Doctor wouldn't mind Jack coming with them, but it warmed her from the inside, knowing the man who was her family and her … and the _Doctor_ , were getting along.

“I had plenty of time to think that past year – the Year That Never Was – and I kept thinking about that team of mine,” Jack told him, even and wistful. “Like you said, Doctor, responsibility.”

A ghost of a smile appeared on the Doctor's face. “Defending the Earth. Can't argue with that,” he said with a nod. Then he reached over, grasping Jack's arm and pulling it to him, already fishing the sonic from his pocket.

“Hey, I need that!” cried Jack, but the Doctor remained unfazed.

“I can't have you walking around with a time travelling teleport,” he said dryly. “You could go anywhere, _twice,_ ” he added, turning his head just slightly towards Hartley, “the second time to apologise.”

Despite herself, despite everything that had happened and the unbearable weight now at home in her chest, Hartley gave the tiniest huff of a laugh. It was quiet and barely there, but a pleased smile curved at the Doctor's lips at the sound, like to make her laugh had been his goal all along. The sonic buzzed as he finally disabled Jack's vortex manipulator.

“And what about me? And Hartley?” Jack asked abruptly, and she looked up in surprise. “Can you fix that? Will we ever be able to die?” he questioned, unmistakeable hope in his voice, the kind that Hartley wasn't totally sure she shared.

“Nothing I can do,” the Doctor replied, matter-of-fact. “You're an _impossible_ thing, Jack.”

Jack laughed, and even Hartley smiled. “Been called that before,” he chuckled, turning away before suddenly spinning back around, lifting a respectful hand to his head in salute. “Sir,” he said to the Doctor, who gave a halfhearted salute in return. “Ma'am,” he winked at Martha, who stifled a charmed giggle. “Harts,” he finished with a warm smile at his sister, who smiled back gently, reaching up to press a meaningful hand over her chest. He turned away, only to spin back around. “But I keep wondering. What about aging? Because I can't die but I keep getting older. The odd little grey hair, you know?” he murmured with a grimace, the very thought distasteful at best. “What happens if I live for a million years?”

“I really don't know,” the Doctor replied, and Jack grinned, self-conscious.

“Okay, _vanity._ Sorry. Yeah, can't help it,” he murmured with a stroke of his chin. “Used to be a poster boy when I was a kid living on the Boeshane Peninsula. Tiny little place. I was the first one ever to be signed up for the Time Agency. They were so proud of me,” he recalled wistfully. “The Face of Boe, they called me.”

Shock hit Hartley like a tidal wave, but in the back of her mind she supposed it really did all fit. Every strange, meaningful, enigmatic thing that the Face of Boe had ever said, it all suddenly made complete and total sense.

“I'll see you,” Jack smiled at them widely, oblivious to their shock. He blew a kiss to Hartley, who was staring back with wide eyes full of shock. But Jack didn't seem to think anything was amiss, smiling sweetly before turning and beginning to jog in the direction of the Torchwood headquarters.

“No,” muttered the Doctor, struggling to come to terms with it.

“You're kidding,” Hartley added in shock, the small smile on her face growing into the most genuine thing she'd felt in, well, about a year.

“It _can't_ be,” breathed Martha.

“No. Definitely not,” the Doctor repeated in his stunned denial. “No. _No._ ”

“Is it really such a surprise?” Hartley asked with a wryly.

The Doctor reached up to run a hand through his harried hair, making it even more wild than usual. “That's gonna be hard to swallow,” he breathed, staring after Jack, thoroughly stupefied.

“Come on,” chuckled Martha, getting over it far quicker than their Time Lord companion. “We've gotta go back home. I need to check on my family, just make sure they're okay, after everything,” she said gently and the Doctor nodded, agreeing without any arguments, which was a borderline miracle.

Reluctantly the Doctor turned and headed back towards where he'd parked the TARDIS. Hartley cast a final glance in the direction Jack had disappeared in, then nodded, telling herself that everything would be okay, and that she was strong enough to go on without him. She did, after all, still have the Doctor.

Stepping into the big blue box was a relief, its welcoming hum like a balm to her frayed nerves. The doors creaked shut behind her and she shed her coat, placing it gently over the spire of coral just off the ramp. The Doctor was already working away at the console, moving too fast to see any logical rhythm to his actions.

Still, the TARDIS shuddered from beneath them and then tilted sideways, the console room filling with a familiar wheezing groan that meant they'd materialised.

“Your mum's house, as requested,” the Doctor said, gesturing invitingly to the doors. “Only a half hour or so after we dropped them off,” he added, and Martha gave a grateful smile to the pair of them.

“I'll be back soon,” she promised them.

“Take your time,” the Doctor replied. “Give them my best.”

“And mine,” Hartley added.

Martha smiled again before stepping out into the misted rain falling from the perpetually cloudy London sky. The doors creaked shut after her, leaving Hartley and the Doctor in a silence that quickly began to grow uncomfortable.

Hartley knew it was because of things left unsaid. She was hurt, bruised almost beyond recognition, but she was going to try her damned hardest not to let that make things awkward between her and the Doctor. He was far too important to her to let something like a crippling sense of inadequacy, or harsh words spoken out of grief, come between them.

“I'm sorry about before,” she tried to say, but it came out as little more than a whisper. She cleared her throat, leaning back against the console, trying to drop her pride enough to look him in the eye. Once she finally did she found confusion, as though he genuinely didn't know what she was apologising for. “For kind of exploding, earlier,” she said, struggling to keep the awkwardness from her voice, “I said some rather cruel things, things I didn't actually mean…I guess I just needed someone to blame.”

“I am to blame, though,” he said with a conviction that felt like a punch in the gut. “It was my fault. It never should have happened in the first place, Hartley, and I couldn't be more sorry,” he told her, voice cracking over the last few words, betraying his buried emotion.

Hartley swallowed thickly around the lump that had appeared in her throat. “I could have gone with Martha,” she said without really meaning to, but the Doctor only looked confused. “That first day aboard the Valiant. I could have gone with Martha, used the vortex manipulator and gotten out of there,” she elaborated, feeling her skin prickle as she actively tried not to let her mind wander to the endless days that had followed. “But I didn't. I made the choice to stay by your side. That's on _me._ ”

They stood in silence for a long few moments, letting her words sink in. “Do you wish you hadn't?” the Doctor finally asked, but she could hear in his voice that he already knew the answer, so she didn't bother replying. “Your loyalty to me did this to you,” he said, sounding absolutely disgusted in himself.

“My loyalty to you kept me _going_ ,” she argued, turning around to face him, bold but truthful.

“But I never came,” he repeated her words from earlier, the reminder stinging more than she'd have cared to admit. The pain in his eyes was almost too much to take, and she'd never regretted saying anything more.

“But you did,” she said, crossing the space between them without a second thought, like they were two opposing forces, dragged together by nature. “Maybe not in the way I expected you to. You didn't burst through the door like the protagonist in one of my adventure novels, but you _still saved me_. You saved us _all_ , in the end. The whole human race.”

“Martha saved you,” he corrected her quickly.

She considered this, her head tilted upwards, looking deep into his bottomless eyes as she thought over his words. “You're right,” she agreed, the smallest hint of a smile appearing on her lips. “You were actually pretty useless when it was all said and done, weren't you?” she teased, reaching up to grasp at his tie, gently straightening it in an affectionate move that transcended words.

“Oi,” he said indignantly, smiling down at her, relieved to see something of her normal self shining through the haze of pain that the long Year That Never Was had brought.

She smiled again, wondering what it was about this alien that gave her the ability to smile even after everything. Overwhelmed by a wave of affection, Hartley stood up onto her toes to throw her arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug.

He made a small sound of surprise but quickly caught on, lanky arms coming up to wrap around her waist, pulling her against him and squeezing, revelling in the contact.

She was going to have to relearn how to enjoy touch again, she realised. It was only the Doctor, the person in the entire known universe that she trusted without any reservations, and yet still the feeling of skin against hers made her feel ill, made her wonder when the pain would follow, because _surely_ it would follow.

“If I told you I was broken, would you help me heal?” she whispered into his ear.

“You're not broken, and so you don't need my help,” he whispered back strongly.

“Well, maybe I just _want_ it,” she replied, and he tightened his grip on her, a silent promise that she took to heart. He bowed his head until his face was buried in the crook of her neck, nose pressed to the skin exposed by her sweater, subtly breathing her in.

She smiled at the simple action, clutching him tighter and thanking the universe that she'd found her way back to him, and hoping beyond all hope that she always would.

They didn't move from that position for a long time, just enjoying each other's closeness, revelling in their newly regained freedom. It was strange to suddenly be set free of her cage, like a bird released back into the wild. Once again the whole of time and space lay at her fingertips. It was a dizzying thought.

Finally, Hartley pulled away from the Doctor, stepping back but keeping her hands on his arms. Her thumbs brushed against the material of his sleeves, feeling his cool skin through the clothes.

“So, Spacewalker,” she began with a smile that built in sincerity the longer she wore it. It was still thin, lacking most of its usual spark, but it was a start. “Where to next?”

He grinned, already excited by the prospect of a new adventure, beginning to list off possible destinations for their next escapade. He'd said something to her once, something that came to mind suddenly as she watched him spin away towards the controls, practically vibrating with anticipation.

“ _That's life with me, Hartley. It moves and changes and evolves and doesn't stop for anyone.”_

It really did keep moving, and while that had been hard to accept at first, she was beginning to wonder if there was any other way to live, any other way to _cope_ , after all the things they'd seen and done.

The doors suddenly creaked open and Hartley turned to see Martha stepping inside.“Finally!” the Doctor crowed, already working away at the console. “Right then, off we go. The open road. There is a burst of star-fire right now over the coast of Meta Sigmafolio. Oh, the sky is like oil on water,” the Doctor gushed, and Hartley perked up at the suggestion.

Martha, however, didn't seem to react, a solemn look casting a shadow across her pretty face.

The Doctor noted the expression and mistakenly took it to mean she was unimpressed. Hartley, on the other hand, understood with a with a sudden, sinking feeling. Terror swooped in her gut, fear of the unknown gripping her. What would they be without Martha? Where could they go from here?

“Or back in time!” the Doctor continued to blithely, bouncing energetically around the console. “We could meet, I don't know, Charles the Second? Henry the Eighth? I know. What about Agatha Christie? I'd _love_ to meet Agatha Christie. I bet she's brilliant––” he cut himself off abruptly, the childlike glee fading from his face, replaced by a calm, sad acceptance. Now he understood, and he accepted. “Okay,” he said, carefully measured.

“I just can't,” Martha told him, quiet but full of a strong conviction that Hartley felt like a second pulse.

“Yeah,” he murmured, unable to completely mask his disappointment.

Martha could tell he was upset and she looked up at him with a shiny sympathy. “Spent all these years training to be a doctor,” she explained softly. “Now I've got people to look after. They saw half the planet slaughtered and they're _devastated._ I can't leave them.”

“Of course not,” he agreed, understanding. Hartley walked around the console, coming to a stop beside the Doctor, watching Martha sadly, a stinging sense of loss in her gut. “Thank you,” he said with absolute sincerity, stepping forwards and sweeping Martha up in a tight hug. She squeezed him back, and Hartley watched with a sad smile on her lips. “Martha Jones, you saved the world,” he added earnestly, pulling back and beaming down at her.

“Yes, I did,” Martha agreed without so much as a second of hesitation. “I spent a lot of time with you thinking I was second best, but you know what?” she asked, poking him playfully in the stomach. “I _am_ good.”

The Doctor grinned, giving a huffing laugh, and Hartley smiled at her friend in gentle amusement. Martha turned to look at her, eyes still glistening with sadness. Hartley couldn't imagine how difficult it was to give it all up, couldn't imagine having to – but she supposed she didn't even really have a family to give it all up for. She had her mum and dad, but really, when it came down to it, her family was already aboard the TARDIS. And Martha knew it too.

“I'm gonna miss you,” Hartley was the first to speak, her words layered with a heartfelt sincerity.

“Me too,” Martha replied with a tight smile. “Don't take a moment of this for granted,” she murmured, just loud enough for them both to hear.

Hartley nodded fervently, making a silent oath that she wouldn't. This life was wonderful and unique and precious, and she truly was blessed to be where she was. Martha smiled, shifting back and glancing back over at the Doctor.

“You going to be all right?” she asked him, concern colouring her tone.

Hartley didn't miss the way the Doctor glanced her way before answering. Judging by her knowing expression, neither did Martha. “Always. Yeah,” he nodded surely, giving a weak sort of smile.

“Right then,” said Martha with a sharp nod of her head. “Bye,” she said, turning and striding away. The parting felt lacking somehow, and as the door shut after her Hartley was left frowning, feeling like there was still just so much left unsaid. She felt left without closure.

She wasn't feeling this way long, because barely a full five seconds had passed before the door was opening with another creak and Martha was ploughing back into the console room, already talking a mile a minute.

“Because the thing is, it's like my friend Vicky. She lived with this bloke, student housing, there were five of them all packed in, and this bloke was called Sean. And she _loved_ him. She did. She completely adored him. Spent all day long talking about him,” she was saying, and it didn't take a genius to figure out what was happening. Hartley frowned, watching Martha warily, wondering if this was going to have a happy ending.

“Is this going anywhere?” the Doctor asked, apparently not quite as up with it as Hartley was.

“Yes,” Martha bit back, and the Doctor's expression slackened, properly chastised. “Because he never looked at her twice.”

And suddenly the Doctor understood, averting his eyes as he gathered what she was talking about.

“I mean, he liked her, but that was it. And she wasted _years_ pining after him. Years of her life,” Martha said. “Because while he was around, she never looked at anyone else. And I told her, I always said to her, time and time again, I said: _get out_ ,” she said through gritted teeth, full of a genuine conviction. She took a deep, steadying breath. “So this is me, getting out.”

Her gaze flickered over to Hartley, who was watching on with happy eyes, so proud of this woman, who had grown so _much_ since the day they'd first met. She thought back to that hospital on the moon, thinking that back then she'd had _no_ idea how big of a role Martha was going to play in the year that followed. She'd saved their lives; more than once, and in more than one way.

“Besides, you've already got your very own Heart,” Martha said with a small smile, nothing bitter about it. It was full of just a simple, peaceful acceptance. “And don't _you_ take _that_ for granted, mister,” she told him, and though the Doctor looked uncomfortable at the blatant callout, he still nodded, much like a child being told the rules of the household.

Martha grinned, totally at ease now that she'd said what had needed to be said. Hartley understood the need for closure, and was proud of Martha for fighting for it.

She turned suddenly, meeting Hartley's eyes with a smile. “I'm sorry we weren't closer,” she said with a glowing sincerity, surprising nobody more than her. “If I could go back and change one thing, it would be that I wouldn't let something as silly as a _man_ come between us. Especially one like him,” she added with an impish grin, jerking her thumb towards the Doctor, who exclaimed out in playful indignation.

The two women shared another smile before Hartley could take no more, stepping closer and sweeping her friend up into a tight embrace. They were about the same height, and Hartley squeezed her affectionately, attempting to push her love and respect for the girl across their connected skin. It wasn't something she had very much practise doing, especially not recently, but when Martha pulled away her eyes had a bit more of a shine to them than before.

“You're fantastic, Martha Jones,” Hartley said, clearing her throat when she realised how choked up she sounded. She tapped the girl affectionately on the nose, smiling and stepping away, retaking her place beside the Doctor, who was fiddling with the zigzag plotter on the console for lack of anything better to do with his hands.

Martha cleared her throat too, running her hands down her front before her expression brightened with an idea. She fished her mobile phone from the depths of her pocket, tossing it to the Doctor who caught it in nimble fingers.

“Keep that, because I'm not having you disappear,” Martha ordered them with a small, fond smile sitting on her lips, and Hartley thought, not for the first time, that she really was quite beautiful. “If that rings – _when_ that rings, you two'd better come running,” she said sternly. “Got it?”

“Got it,” the Doctor assured her.

“Wouldn't miss it,” Hartley agreed, and Martha gave a wide smile, suddenly full of hope for the future.

“I'll see you again,” she vowed, before turning around, squaring her shoulders and stepping from the TARDIS, out into the light of a brand new day.

The doors closed after her with a note of finality, but Hartley finally felt the closure she'd been lacking. Martha may have been gone now – having left because she felt like she had to, for her own good – but Hartley almost felt like it was a new beginning for her and the Doctor. It was a fresh start for them both. They had nothing but time in front of them, and despite the seed of darkness she felt the Master had left within her heart, Hartley was suddenly very excited about the future and what it might hold.

“So!” the Doctor began loudly, pocketing the phone Martha had tossed him and returning to the controls. “Where d'you wanna go?”

She considered the question for a moment, letting her mind roll through her options, but she knew there was one thing she _had_ to do. “Home,” she said evenly. “I've gotta go see my dad.”

To his credit the Doctor didn't so much as blink, nodding his head as he began to plot their course. “Daniels' residence it is,” he crowed with all the excitement of someone setting off for a great adventure. She appreciated the effort, managing a small, barely-there smile. “Only an hour after I dropped Jacob off, too.”

“You're on a first name basis with my dad, now?” she asked, attempting a teasing tone despite the absence of feeling in her gut. He grinned back, but there was an edge to his expression that told her she hadn't quite pulled it off.

“I'm on a first name basis with everyone,” he told her primly, giving a self-important sniff.

“Except Queen Elizabeth the First,” she said dryly.

“One day I'll find out what happened with her,” he muttered, more of a promise to himself than a comment to her. The TARDIS landed with a loud groan, and Hartley pulled her jacket back on.

“How did my dad feel about being back aboard the TARDIS?” she asked as they stepped out into the chilly, late autumn air.

“Asked where the loo was, first thing,” the Doctor replied cheerfully, his ability to bounce back from anything shining through. Hartley wished desperately that it were a trait she shared. She still felt like somebody had scooped out her insides and hidden them in a faraway galaxy, never to be seen again. A piece of her was missing, something important and vital – she wasn't sure what it was, exactly, or how to go on without it, but she knew she had no choice but to try.

Stepping out onto her family's sprawling, well-kept back lawn almost didn't feel real, as if she were existing in some kind of dreamscape, memories from a distant life flooding her head. No emotion came with them, no scrap of feeling to prove they were real.

“Feel good to be home?” asked the Doctor in a jolly voice, stepping out after her, the TARDIS doors closing with a soft click.

“Not really,” she answered him honestly. Not knowing what else to say, the Doctor fell silent.

Hartley took a deep, steadying breath, then began the journey up the path to her parent's back door. She wasn't sure what she was going to find inside. Would her dad have told her mother? If he had, she would surely be committed on sight. Her mother had no patience for daydreams, and even less for the mentally ill. Hartley would be shipped off to the nearest asylum before she could so much as say a word.

With fear scratching away at her gut, Hartley tried the door handle to the back of the house. It was locked – strange, because her dad never used to lock the back door. Her mum always said he a too-trusting of a fool, but he'd just smile and say he liked to believe the best in people. To this day Hartley wasn't sure who was right.

Frowning, she could only knock on the polished wood, stepping back and waiting with a tapping foot until a voice called out from within, “Hartley? Is that you?”

“It's me,” she confirmed, another frown pulling at her mouth.

The sound of the deadbolt unlocking met her ears and a moment later the door was being pulled open. Her dad immediately brought her in for a hug, and she hid her wince over the contact in the material of his jumper, squeezing him back before extracting herself from his grip as quickly as she could.

“Come in,” he said, stepping back and waving both her and the Doctor inside. The interior of her childhood home smelt both of smooth hot chocolate and the sweet, sugary scent of marshmallows. “You want a cup?” her dad asked, knowing she loved his special brew more than anything.

“Thanks,” she said, attempting a smile. Judging by the frown that graced his face, once again she hadn't quite managed it.

“You want one, Doctor?” he continued on, thankfully not bringing attention to her sullen aura.

“One what?” the Doctor asked seriously.

“My world-famous hot chocolate,” said her dad cheerfully.

“World-famous. Is that so?” he hummed.

“With marshmallows,” her dad added enticingly.

“How can I say no?” the Doctor smiled, sinking onto a barstool at the counter and threading his hands together on top. Her dad turned back to the cupboards, digging in them for some extra mugs while the Doctor glanced over at her.

She met his stare, watching as his eyes flickered towards the barstool beside him, and as if on autopilot Hartley obediently sank down onto it. She watched her dad carefully as he moved slowly around their unnecessarily spacious kitchen.

He didn't _appear_ traumatised by the Year That Never Was – but that was her dad. He was the strongest person she knew. It really shouldn't have surprised her that he was so unaffected. Then again, _he_ wasn't the one the Master had spent every moment of his free time torturing for the pleasure of it.

“How long's it been, then?” asked her dad in a pleasant voice. Hartley and the Doctor glanced at one another in wary confusion, and he gave a low chuckle. “You have a time machine,” he said, as though they needed reminding. “I'm well aware it could have been years between visits and I'd never even know the difference,” he told them with another wry chuckle.

“It's only been about a day, on our end,” the Doctor assured him, a gentleness about him that Hartley had forgotten existed in _anyone._ All she'd known for so long was hunger and hate and mania, it stunned her to witness such kindness. She wondered whether everyone was capable of such a depth of warm emotion, of whether it was just the Doctor.

“That handsome boy get home okay?” her dad asked after a few moments of easy silence, sliding two mugs across the bench to them both. Hartley grabbed ahold of hers, a cliché gag gift she'd gotten for her dad one Christmas, proclaiming him to be the _World's #1 Dad._

She took a deep sip of the contents within. The brew was scolding hot, burning her tongue as she drank, but she didn't care. Pain was familiar by now, more familiar than anything else, at least.

“Handsome boy?” echoed the Doctor in confusion.

“He means Jack,” Hartley told him once she'd swallowed her mouthful, peeking at him from over the lip of her mug. The Doctor pulled a disgruntled face that was enough to make her smile, just a tiny little flicker of her lips. “He's with his friends again,” she told him, striving to keep her tone conversational. “Back at work, keeping London safe.”

“As he should be,” the Time Lord added with a nod to himself, taking a sip of his hot chocolate and raising his eyebrows, pleasantly surprised by the taste. “Your recipe?” he asked.

“It was always dad's,” she replied. “I just borrowed it.”

He smiled, the expression gentle and warm, and she turned back to her dad before the sweetness of it could overwhelm her.

“So you met Jack, then?” she asked him, fighting to keep her voice level.

Her dad gave a soft smile, the kind that always made her feel inexplicably safe. “That I did,” he nodded, cupping his hands around his own mug as he spoke. “He's a strapping young man. Looked awfully saddened to hear I was married.”

“He didn't _hit_ on you?” Hartley gasped in horror. Her dad's smile widened, becoming a proper grin. “Oh God,” she groaned, letting her head drop to the counter with a dull crack. She didn't care about the pain radiating throughout her head, too consumed by embarrassment.

Her dad laughed, the sound lighthearted and jovial. “He seems to care quite a great deal about you, Hartley,” he continued without comment. “Is there anything I should know?” he asked with a slightly wicked smirk.

Hartley rolled her eyes. “He's family,” she answered him dryly. “It'll never go beyond that.”

“Family?” her dad echoed curiously, resting back against the countertop as he sipped his own hot chocolate.

“I consider him my brother in every sense but blood,” Hartley told him, smiling fondly as she thought of the big flirt. She wondered what the Doctor would say if she asked him to take her to Torchwood for a few hours. She may have only just said goodbye to him, but she missed Jack already, almost like a missing limb.

“How'd you meet him, anyhow?” asked her dad, and yet another frown pulled at Hartley's brow. As nice as it would have been to reminisce about old times, tell her dad stories about World War II and a young, hardly-innocent Captain Jack Harkness, she could feel the weight of the elephant in the room as though it were sitting smack-bang on her chest.

“Dad,” she began, pressing her palms against the scolding heat of the ceramic mug she held in her grip. She knew what she had to ask, what she had to know, but the words got stuck in her throat.

But her dad knew, instinctively, what she was trying to say. “You want to know about your sister,” he said, quiet and understanding.

Hartley gripped her mug even tighter, surprised it didn't shatter in her hands. “Where is she?” she asked in a whisper.

Jacob looked up at the Doctor, the pair communicating with a long gaze. Confused, Hartley looked over at the Doctor too, brow furrowed, almost scared of what he would say next. “As far as the world knows, Lucy Saxon killed her husband – Prime Minister, Harold Saxon,” the Doctor told her quietly.

Hartley swallowed around the lump in her throat. “So, that means...?” she trailed off, hoping the conclusion she was drawing was wrong.

“She's been arrested,” he confirmed with a grim nod of his head. “She's going to prison.”

Hartley fell silent, slumping against the marble countertop of her childhood home's kitchen. She wanted to feel concern, maybe shock or sadness or even horror, but instead all she felt was that pit of nothing. It grew, like a gaping hole in her chest where her heart used to be.

“Your mother's down at the jail now,” her dad told her, just as grave. “She's trying to sort it out, but the whole world knows she murdered a man. Not even the best lawyers in England could get her off.”

“Right,” Hartley said, swallowing thickly as she processed this information. “And how's mum?” she asked, because talking about her sister's betrayal would only serve to break her further.

“Shocked. Confused,” Jacob said with a tired twist of his lips. “She's struggling to come to terms with it all.”

“As she would be,” she agreed gently, staring down into the murky depths of her dad's world-famous hot chocolate. They lapsed back into silence for a few minutes, all quietly sipping their drinks, lost in their own swirls of thought. “Dad,” she finally began, leaning forwards to catch her dad's gaze. “Are you okay?” she asked him gently, eyes scanning him for any sign of an injury. “Did he hurt you?”

“Me?” Jacob sounded incredulous, staring at her with wide, disbelieving eyes. “ _Me_?”

“Dad––” she tried again, but he wouldn't hear it.

“Hartley, when he brought you out onto the flight deck that final day – you looked––,” he cut himself off before he could say whatever it was he was thinking, his voice full of a pain she could only wish she hadn't caused. “What did he do to you?” he asked, sounding very much afraid of the answer.

Hartley lifted her shoulders in a weak shrug. “Nothing I couldn't handle,” she told him, hiding the pain she felt deep down inside, locked away where nobody would ever be able to find it. Maybe if she ignored it, it might eventually fade away. Time healed all wounds, didn't it? And she had more time than most.

“I don't believe you,” her dad said, but she really wasn't surprised.

She couldn't bring herself to meet his eyes, too afraid of what she might find. She took another sip of her drink, keeping silent and trying not to fall into a hole of her own making.

“Did he talk to you at all?” asked the Doctor suddenly, and Hartley let out a silent sigh of relief. She wasn't confident she could carry any more of the conversation. “The Master? What did he have you doing?”

“Laundry,” her dad said, frowning down at his cup. “I've always hated doing laundry.” Hartley wished she could find it within herself to laugh. “He never spoke to me much,” he continued, voice thoughtful and quiet. “He did a bit at first. Mostly he asked me questions about Hartley – what she liked, and didn't like, her greatest fears––”

“Did you tell him?” the Doctor asked stonily.

“ _No_ ,” Jacob replied, voice sharper than the Time Lord had ever heard it. “Of _course_ I didn't. Told him to go to hell, didn't I?” The Doctor looked away, properly chastised for thinking Jacob would ever betray his own daughter. “Who was he?” Jacob asked, desperate for answers. “Even after all this time, I still don't know what happened. Not really.”

“He was a Time Lord,” said the Doctor softly.

“Like you?” Jacob frowned. “I thought you were the last.”

The Doctor winced, and when he spoke again his words were saturated with pain. “Now I am.”

Hartley couldn't feel remorse, couldn't feel sympathy or even pity that the Master was dead. She was glad he was gone, unable to ever hurt anyone ever again. But if she was made sad in any way at all, it was by the lost, grieved look in the Doctor's big, sad eyes. With trembling fingers Hartley reached out and slipped her hand over his.

His skin was warm to the touch, heated by his mug of hot chocolate. He surprised her by instantly shifting his hand so their fingers could interlace. She gave him a shaky smile that he saw through with ease, but it only made him appreciate the attempt at support all the more. He smiled back, a little grim but still wholly sincere.

Her dad watched on with keen eyes, but his stare went ignored. Hartley used her free hand to take another sip of hot chocolate, timidly rubbing at the smooth skin below the Doctor's thumb, the motion familiar and soothing in a way she couldn't explain.

“What was he trying to do, then?” her dad finally asked, unable to stand the prolonged silence any longer. Hartley looked over at him in mild surprise, having almost forgotten he was there. “This 'Master' bloke,” he said skeptically, “what was his grand plan?”

“Absolute power, world domination – the usual,” the Doctor answered nonchalantly.

“The usual,” echoed Jacob in a sarcastic grunt, and even Hartley had to smile at the reaction. “Right.”

“Jacob, I have to ask, why aren't you more, I don't know … traumatised?” asked the Doctor slowly, leaning forwards in his usual way, curiosity brimming. “You were the slave to a madman on a flying ship for an entire year of your life. You watched as over half the Earth's population was violently slaughtered. Forgive me for saying it, but you're taking it almost _alarmingly_ well. Do you feel any symptoms of shock?”

Her dad gave a grim smile in response. “Before I was a firefighter, I was in the military,” he began evenly. It was a story Hartley had only heard a small handful of times, but every time made her sad, upset at the world they called home, angry at the gall society had to breed war. She would say it was a fault of humans, but she'd met enough species throughout this galaxy, and the next and the next, to know that it wasn't a trait exclusive to humans at all.

“Did you see combat?” asked the Doctor in the hollow voice of a fellow soldier.

“I was only intelligence,” he replied without feeling, simply a conveyance of the facts. “I knew men like him; warlords and kingpins drunk on power.” The look on her dad's face was dark, echoing with an old pain. “The Master didn't scare me. I don't bend to bullies, and neither does my daughter. I knew we'd make it out okay. And look at us now,” he finished with a flourish at the three of them, huddled around the counter, mugs of steaming cocoa in their hands, “sitting around, drinking my world-famous hot chocolate like it were any other Saturday.”

A creaking sound echoed through the large, extravagant house; a door opening and closing. “Jacob?!” her mother's voice called out.

The look on her dad's face surprised her. It radiated happiness, relief and joy. “You must have missed your wife,” said the Doctor, voice soft.

“More than I think anyone could have imagined,” her dad replied with that same dopey smile still in place. “Including me,” he added jovially, and both Hartley and the Doctor gave tiny chuckles in response, Hartley's a little more on the wooden side.

“Jacob? Are you home?!” her mother yelled again.

“In the kitchen, love!” he called back to her, voice crackling with old age. He turned to the Doctor, suddenly worried. “And as far as she knows, it's only been––”

“A matter of hours,” he assured Jacob with a nod. Hartley realised she was still gripping his hand, but the thought of letting go was hard to stomach so she held on tight, his smooth, calloused skin held against hers like an anchor to the earth beneath them. “And it's probably for the best that it stays that way,” the Doctor added cautiously, but her dad was already nodding his agreement.

Before either could say any more, the sound of heels clicking against the polished wood flooring met their ears and a moment later Penelope Daniels was turning the corner. She was halfway through unhooking her large, heavy earrings when she froze at the sight of her daughter and the Doctor sitting at the counter.

“You didn't say we were having company,” she said thinly, keen eyes flickering over the pair thoughtfully. Hartley knew their linked hands wouldn't go unnoticed.

“I hardly think our daughter can be put into the mere category of 'company', dear,” said her dad dryly even as he stood, dusting his hands off on his pants as he came to a stop by his wife's side, pulling her into a chaste, reluctant kiss on the lips. Her mum never really had been one for public displays of affection.

Hartley and her mother might not have seen eye to eye on really…anything, but she was still her mum, and at the end of the Year That Never Was, Hartley suddenly wanted nothing more than to curl up in her mother's arms and cry.

But that certainly wouldn't be happening any time soon. Instead, Hartley found a nice middle ground. She disentangled her hand from the Doctor's, climbing to her feet and crossing the space between them and her parents.

Her mother watched with a bemused frown as Hartley approached, then once she'd reached them she pushed herself up onto her toes and forced her into a tight, heartfelt embrace. Penelope let out a small sound of surprise, awkwardly bringing her arms up to respond, patting her delicately on the back.

“I suppose you heard about Lucy, then,” said Penelope with a troubled frown.

“I'm sorry, mum,” Hartley said, feeling her mum pressed against her, a sure, comforting presence.

“Hartley?” Penelope asked when Hartley didn't immediately pull away, clinging to her mother with a desperation that, quite honestly, scared her a little.

“I just missed you, is all,” whispered her daughter, inhaling her mother's perfume – the same one she'd worn ever since Hartley had been a baby – before finally forcing herself to let go and step back. “We should be going, however,” she said, rubbing tiredly at her eyes.

“You're welcome to stay a few nights, you know?” her dad told her suddenly, concern in his eyes.

She smiled, gentle but exhausted. “Thanks, but I think I'd rather go back to our box,” she replied, the words coming out easily, a familiarity to them that warmed her.

Her mother's eyes flickered between her and the Doctor suspiciously. “Is that some kind of euphemism?” she demanded sharply.

The Doctor made a choking sound from behind her while Hartley only rolled her eyes. She didn't bother to elaborate, and her mother knew by now when to just let things go.

“I love you both,” Hartley told them sincerely. Her dad's eyes shone, and she tacked on a quick, “I'll be back before you know it, dad, and we can talk more about that book we both just finished reading.”

He understood the hidden meaning, nodding to her gratefully. Hartley gave them a final, waning smile before turning back to the Doctor, who was now stood in the middle of the room, hands tucked deep into his trouser pockets.

“Time to go home,” she said softly, and he nodded, dropping his head in the direction of her parents.

“It was nice to see you both again,” he said politely.

“You know, now that I look at you closely, Doctor, I can't help but see a strange sort of familiarity about you,” said her mother primly, eyeing him thoughtfully.

If the Doctor was surprised, he didn't show it, taking it in his stride. “I get that a lot,” he shrugged, and Penelope was forced to let it go.

“I'll see you both soon,” Hartley promised them, and they both sent her smiles – one coming far easier than the other – before she stepped out into the cool autumn wind after the Doctor, letting the door to her parent's kitchen creak shut with a note of foreboding.


	46. To Be Pure

“ _Recovery begins from the darkest moment.”_

John Major

* * *

The Doctor was treating her like she were made of glass, and it was _beyond_ frustrating. It had been over a week and a half since the Year That Never Was, and the most they'd done was split their time between the kitchen and the library, either cooking or reading, passing the time like they were stuck in a perpetually lazy Sunday afternoon. And she was _sick_ of it.

She knew that she wasn't the only one dealing with the trauma the Master had left in his wake. The Doctor was working through it too, but she knew that if he were by himself he would sure as hell have been back to his usual pattern of behaviour by now. Instead he was spending time re-reading books and asking her if she was feeling okay.

And it was driving her _bonkers._

She did her best to keep it all inside, telling herself that it might be for the best to spend their time relaxing, getting back on their feet. But all that went out the window the window the day the Doctor asked if she wanted to play _Scrabble._

“That's it. I'm done.”

“Huh?” he asked dumbly, bewildered by the sharp response she'd given him. He froze where he was trying to lift the lid from the Scrabble box. “Done with what?”

“With _this_ ,” she said fervently. “I don't want you treating me like I'm some patient in a hospital. I don't want to skulk around the TARDIS anymore like some kind of broken, traumatised child. I want to go _do_ something.”

The Doctor put the box of Scrabble back underneath the table, then folded his hands together on the tabletop, eyeing her carefully.

“Would you stop staring at me like I'm going to blow up?!” she hissed, shoving out of her chair and beginning to pace the length of the room like a tiger in a cage. “I don't want to be handled with care, Doctor. I just want to get on with my life. So please, just _help_ me do that _._ ”

The Doctor stared at her, saying nothing. He was silent for a long time, long enough that Hartley's heart began to race, panic seizing her. Was he angry with her behaviour? Was she being too demanding? Was she out of line? She should probably apologise, right? Or would that only anger him more?

“Say something,” she finally begged, pressing her hands down onto the tabletop, staring at him pleadingly. Her eyes were big and wide and holding just enough desperation to be concerning.

“Okay,” he eventually spoke, nodding as he climbed steadily to his feet. “Let's go somewhere.”

He didn't sound particularly enthusiastic, but she wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Thank you!” she said gratefully, already shoving her feet into the shoes she'd left by the couch. “Where to?” she asked eagerly, growing jittery with excitement as she followed him down the long hallway, back towards the console room.

“You pick,” he offered, just a little bit duller than usual, beginning to pilot the ship without looking her way. “Future? Past? You name it,” he said, and his voice sounded normal, but there was a sliver of ice that remained lodged in his chest, one Hartley desperately wished she couldn't sense. But she could, and that was her curse.

“Future,” she decided without hesitation. “Somewhere magnificent.”

“Magnificent,” he echoed, nodding in agreement. She patted her pockets, making sure she had her phone on her. Then she reached up and grasped the key around her neck, just to be safe. The TARDIS juddered beneath them, landing so violently they were thrown to the side, but neither of them smiled as they once would have.

He made his way to the door, yanking on his usual coat as he did. Hartley followed, soles of her shoes squeaking just slightly against the grating below.

He opened the doors and a wall of noise hit them. Sunlight streamed in, and Hartley lifted a hand to shield her eyes. It took a moment to adjust, and when she did Hartley was met with a sea of colour. From every angle there were electric blues and sizzling reds and acid greens, all strewn across what looked like a town centre.

“Where are we?” she asked, voice raised over the racket the parade of colour was making.

“The planet Lunaria,” he told her in the kind of voice that sounded cheerful without actually being happy.

They were still healing from the Year That Never Was, its disastrous ripple effects shuddering through the both of them. She wished she could see the light at the end of the tunnel, but so far, she couldn't.

“We're still in the Milky Way, only a couple hundred lightyears away from Earth. And we're roughly twenty-thousand years in your future,” he explained, the both of them still hovering in the doorway of the TARDIS.

The Doctor seemed to realise this in the same moment as her and stepped forwards, waving Hartley out before locking the doors behind them. As one, they began to move towards the lively celebrations happening before them.

Kids were running by, long strips of multicoloured cloth attached to their heads like wreaths, fluttering out behind them as they ran in playful circles around one another. There was some kind of music playing from somewhere nearby, all heavy drumbeats and piercing violin, and the sea of people before them were dancing wildly, a rainbow of colours clinging to their skin, reminding her briefly of the Colour Festival in India.

“Why all the colours?” she asked the Doctor over the noise.

“I dunno,” he replied, voice raised to be heard. “Haven't been here this late in their history. Must be some kind of new tradition.”

Hartley was surprised. “How long since you've been here?” she asked, dodging a pair of bright blue toddlers as they darted after one another through her legs.

“I'd say I last visited about two-thousand years ago in their particular linear timeline. I don't remember there being any sort of festival like this when I was here last,” he told her with a shrug, brown eyes scanning the parade before them, full of curiosity and intrigue. “Mind you, a lot can change in two-thousand years.”

Looking harder at the people filling the square, Hartley began to notice something odd. All the women were tall and skinny, with platinum-blonde hair that glinted like silver in the sunlight. They were beautiful in a freaky, unnatural sort of a way. Like statues carved from marble, too perfect to be real.

“Hungry?” asked the Doctor, distracting her from her observations.

“Starved,” she nodded.

He held out an arm and Hartley curled hers through his, letting him lead her onwards through the lively, thickened crowd.

Off of the town centre they'd landed in sprung dozens of tiny streets, still overflowing with colour and people but lined with little cafés and pastry shops, mouthwatering smells drifting from their depths.

They settled into a table that had a great view of the festivities, colour bursting from everywhere as they took their seats and browsed the menu. Hartley decided on something the Doctor assured her was the equivalent of spaghetti while he chose a more outlandish dish, something bright pink and smelling of sardines.

Music floated on the air, the crooning of something that wasn't _quite_ a violin, and the hum of a thousand voices chattering over one another, the occasional scream of a playing child rising over the general, lively buzz.

Hartley was content, chewing on her delicious lunch and letting her eyes roam over the colours and the hum of celebration filling the alien streets. “Any idea what they're celebrating?” she eventually asked, twisting her fork in her dish.

“With all the rainbows? Has to be Pride,” he told her simply.

“Pride? You mean LGBTQ rights?” she asked, eyebrows raised high.

“Why're you so surprised?”

“I guess I just figured, twenty-thousand years in the future, _surely_ there would be equality by then,” she said with a lift of her shoulders.

The Doctor grimaced. “The human race,” he stated with an air of importance, making Hartley roll her eyes out of a playful reflex. “You'll evolve as a species, sure, but there'll always be some degree of inequality in your corrupt systems,” he sniffed.

“Oh, and I suppose the Time Lords were _far_ more evolved than we'll ever be,” she scoffed.

“They were!” the Doctor insisted. “Look at humans. You've got homophobia, racism, sexism – Time Lords are billions of years beyond those sort of petty prejudices.”

“What, sexism wasn't a thing on Gallifrey?” she asked skeptically. It was hard to imagine a society of people without the prejudices he was talking about. What must it be like to live in a place where women were treated as utterly equal to men?

“Nope. Not even a little,” he told her, plopping a forkful of his fishy dish into his mouth, then speaking around it. “Of course, there's no place for it in a society of people who could switch sexes unexpectedly at any moment.”

Hartley choked on her mouthful. “What?” she asked once she'd taken a deep sip of lemony water.

The Doctor was unfazed by her shock. “Regeneration,” he said plainly, “it's something of a gamble.”

Hartley took a few moments to gather her thoughts. “You're saying that, were you to regenerate again, there's a chance you could become a woman?”

The Doctor lifted his glass of water to his lips. “It's not all that common – switching sexes in regeneration – but it's been known to happen.” Hartley wasn't sure what her expression was showing, but the Doctor suddenly looked amused. “Having trouble wrapping your mind round the idea?” he asked around a smirk.

“Just trying to imagine you as a woman, actually,” she replied, tilting her head to stare at him just a little harder.

“How do I look?” he asked playfully.

“I dunno,” she replied, “guess we'll have to wait and see, won't we?”

They shared a wide grin, then just as she began to admit to herself that she was having fun, a wave of despair crashed over her. It had barely been a full week since the Year That Never Was. Since the Master had stripped her away to nothing and left her in a cage to rot. The smile on her face dropped, replaced by a stoic sort of frown as she turned her attention back to her meal, struggling to swallow around the sudden lump in her throat.

Pain settled low in her gut, turning the food in her stomach to ash. She heard the Doctor give a quiet sigh, one she wasn't meant to hear, and slid her eyes over to the festival happening before them. This time, however, she struggled to find its beauty.

“Are you done?” the Doctor asked shortly after, and she nodded, watching as he stood and went back inside to pay.

Looking back at the celebrations before her, she was surprised when a woman stood on the pavement, only a few short feet away, smiling at her blindingly. “You're not from around here,” said the woman simply, and Hartley blinked in befuddlement.

“No, I'm not,” she replied once she'd found her voice.

The woman laughed, and Hartley was struck with the sudden knowledge that this woman was _perfect_ , and not in the poetical sense.

Towering high without heels, her hair was that same, sleek blonde as all the other women, long and impossibly silky. Her skin was pale, but fashionably so, and utterly unblemished. Her eyes were large and blue and when she smiled her teeth were perfectly straight, all her features perfectly symmetrical.

“Is there something in the water?” Hartley joked wryly, running her deep blue eyes over the street, filled with women almost identical to this one. “You're all so gorgeous.”

The woman's eyes sparkled happily. “I'm Edna,” she said, holding out a smooth hand empty of jewellery.

“Hartley,” she replied, shaking the woman's hand.

“That's a lovely name,” Edna told her with the kind of glittering smile that caused car accidents. Hartley smiled back, feeling a little inadequate with the way her cheeks dimpled as she grinned. “Are you interested in joining the Pure?” the gorgeous woman continued pleasantly.

“The Pure?” Hartley asked curiously. “What's that?”

“It's us,” said Edna simply. “All of us women on Lunaria. We are the Pure.”

Confused, Hartley frowned. “But what do you mean, Pure?”

Uninvited, although not quite unwelcome, Edna took a seat in the Doctor's vacated chair. Hartley spun in her seat, peering through the glass at the inside of the café. The Doctor was in an animated conversation with the man behind the counter, large hand gestures punctuating his words. She turned back to the woman sitting in his seat, curiosity burning in her eyes.

“The Pure are restored in every way. Relieved of toxins and disease, created in perfect human image,” Edna told Hartley, and even her voice was perfect, lilting and beautiful, like music. “Are you interested in becoming one of us?”

Hartley's eyes went wide in surprise. “Oh, thank you, but no thank you,” she said, a little awkward.

Edna gave a sad, sympathetic sort of smile. “All the damage that has been done to you will be undone,” she said in a sweet, enticing voice.

“How do you know I've been damaged?” Hartley countered, but her voice was stale and unconvincing even to her own ears.

“I see it in your eyes,” said Edna gently. “That pain, that broken defeat,” she whispered, leaning closer and sliding her hand over Hartley's, “it will all go away. You'll be whole again.”

Her skin was perfectly smooth and warm, and when she spoke her voice was like honey. Hartley glanced into her eyes. They were the colour of the Caribbean sea, endless and soothing, and she found herself lost in them, like one might be caught in the current of the ocean.

“Don't you want that?” Edna asked, leaning closer, holding her hands gently, thumb soothing over her palm. “Don't you want to be Pure?”

“I do,” Hartley found herself agreeing, swaying into the beautiful woman, unable to resist her pull.

“You want to be Pure?” Edna pressed, eyes glittering in the sunlight, like the glow of the sun off those Caribbean waters. Her peachy lips pulled up, revealing perfect teeth, and Hartley swallowed, leaning in closer.

“I do,” she whispered again, feeling short of breath. Her eyes were tempted to flutter shut but she stubbornly held them open, staring back at Edna attentively.

“You want to be Pure?” asked Edna once more, leaning even closer. Her breath smelt like flowers.

And then Hartley opened her mouth, finally speaking out the only words that would seal her fate. “I want to be Pure.”

Edna leaned in to press their lips together, and Hartley's mouth began to burn, but not in a good way. She didn't move, however. She couldn't. Her eyes fell shut and she pressed into it, like Edna held the cure to the painful burn and if she just held on for a little longer, she'd find it.

The heat spread from her mouth down through her oesophagus, into her stomach and lungs. Her internal organs began to burn, sizzling like they were on a hot plate, but Hartley still didn't move a muscle.

“Hartley?”

Everything had faded away, but at the sound of the Doctor's voice she was dragged back to consciousness as though pulled to the surface of the water. Breaking away from Edna, Hartley took in a deep breath, the air soothing the burn in her throat.

She glanced to her left where the Doctor stood with his hands in his pockets and his eyebrows raised right to the top of his forehead. His eyes darted between his friend and the lovely Edna, whose expression was gentle and sweet, if not slightly triumphant.

“What's going on?” asked the Doctor, his voice and shoulders tense.

Edna smiled, standing gracefully out of her chair. “She has joined the Pure,” she said with a bright, happy beam secured in place.

“The Pure?” the Doctor repeated in confusion. “What's the Pure?”

Edna's expression became pinched, the first time Hartley could remember seeing so they'd met. “It is not for a man to know,” said Edna clearly, glancing at Hartley once more before turning away and all but floating into the crowd, disappearing amongst the bright flags of colour and dancing, laughing people.

The Doctor appeared in her eye line, interrupting her stare in the direction Edna had disappeared. “You all right?” he asked, concern spread across his handsome face.

“Yeah,” she said, surprised to find her voice just slightly different – higher, almost – but she put that down to the shock.

“What happened there?” he pressed, brown eyes flickering up and down her form, as though checking for injury.

“What do you mean?”

The Doctor suddenly looked incredulous. “You were just kissing that strange woman,” he reminded her curtly.

“Was I?” Hartley asked, blinking in surprise. Her gaze flickered back to the rainbow parade happening before them. “Well, it's Pride, isn't it?” she said, thinking it as good an explanation as any. “And I always love a chance to prove I go both ways,” she added, injecting just a little more playfulness into her tone.

The Doctor seemed to accept it, tossing his head back and rolling his eyes in sheer annoyance. “You've been spending too much time with Jack,” he huffed, and she laughed. The Doctor was shocked by the sound, going so far as to take a step back so he could properly assess her.

“What?” she asked, confused by the reaction.

“You just laughed,” he said slowly.

“I know,” she replied, and this time it was she who rolled her eyes.

The Doctor looked troubled, and so she tilted her head, watching him curiously. “I think we should head back to the TARDIS,” he finally said, brow furrowed in thought, brown hair gleaming almost reddish in the golden sunshine.

“All right,” she agreed, and he held out a hand that she took without thought, letting him pull her gently to her feet.

They walked back through the crowd and Hartley took time to smile at all the children running by, their rainbow flags worn like little capes, fluttering out behind them in the breeze.

The TARDIS stood tall and proud, its solid, rustic blue like a beacon amongst all the other colours. The Doctor nodded for her to unlock it and she pulled the chain with her key on it out of her shirt, sliding it into the lock and stepping inside the Doctor's beautiful machine.

“Where to now?” the Doctor asked, shedding his coat and tossing it carelessly over a column of wiry coral. “Second moon of Honovaosh? Their pigs have wings – you will _literally_ see pigs fly! Or how about Earth, say...seventeenth century? I've always wanted to meet King James I, I'll bet he's brilliant!”

“Actually, I think I wanna get some sleep,” Hartley told him, lifting a hand to her chest where she could feel an annoying case of heartburn beginning. “We'll go somewhere new in the morning?” she added hopefully.

The Doctor looked a little disheartened, but he knew she was only human, and humans needed sleep. “All right,” he said, playfully disgruntled as he jerked a thumb in the direction of the door. “Go on, then. And when you wake up, I'm taking you somewhere spectacular!”

“First magnificent, now spectacular?” she smiled. “Big promises.”

“Promises I can absolutely deliver on, though, wouldn't you say?” he countered, and she had to admit he had a point. If there was one thing the Doctor could do beyond all else, it was show her something spectacular. “Go. Rest up,” he said with another nod at the door.

“Night,” she waved, making her way down the hall and disappearing into her bedroom. She showered to get rid of the sheen of rainbow dust that clung to her skin, then changed into some old but comfortable pyjamas, turned the heating up just enough to be cosy, and tucked herself into bed.

Her dreams were full of hellfire and screams, but even despite this she slept soundly, never once stirring.

When Hartley finally awoke, it was to the Doctor knocking impatiently on her bedroom door. Yawning as she climbed to her feet, she slipped her dressing gown on over her flannel pyjamas and yanked open the door.

“Doc?” she asked, bleary-eyed and croaky. “Woke me up,” she muttered, smothering yet another yawn.

The Doctor dropped his hand from where he'd been about to knock again. “You've been asleep for just over fifteen hours,” he told her, but his eyes weren't focused on hers, instead he'd zeroed in on her head.

“What?” she asked self-consciously, reaching up to run a hand through her hair, trying to tame it out of the bird's nest she was sure it had gotten into while she slept.

“Come with me,” he said rather than answer, holding out a hand for her to take. Bewildered and just a tiny bit frightened, Hartley slipped her hand into his, letting him drag her down the hall – in the direction, she realised, of the med-bay.

“What?” she asked, going obediently albeit reluctantly. “Doctor, what does it _matter_ if I overslept by a few hours?” she complained. “I'm fine.”

“Then why is your hair turning white?” he countered as he pushed open the door to the med-bay.

“It's _what_?!” Hartley squawked, ripping her hand from the Doctor's and all but throwing herself at the sink in the corner, where a mirror was set within the wall.

She looked different, she saw now. Her skin was pale, but not sickly. It seemed almost dewey, as though she'd spent the evening getting a facial. Her eyes were the clearest blue they'd ever been, eyelashes long and flawless. That was all well and good. But her _hair_.

A great deal of it was still strawberry-blonde, falling down over her shoulders in weeping tresses, but as though she'd gotten an overnight makeover streaks of white-blonde ran from her scalp down to the tips of her hair, which was shinier and healthier than ever before.

“Doctor,” she said, quite proud of the composure she held in her voice. “What the hell is going on?”

“Sit down, let me run some tests and find out,” he told her, gently gripping her elbow and delicately pulling her away from the mirror. He plopped her down on the bed in the centre of the room, pulling out a stethoscope and setting to work checking her heart and lungs.

Hartley didn't talk, letting him do his thing and just focused on breathing in and out, keeping her cool. But by the time the Doctor had gotten out his little torch to check her pupils, she found she couldn't keep quiet any longer.

“What could you possibly find in my eye that would explain this?” she demanded.

He shot her a look that managed to be both amused and scolding in the same instant, before he sobered, returning to his frowned concern.

“How are you feeling?” he asked in the intent tone of a medical doctor. “Any pain, discomfort?”

“I had some heartburn last night. And my throat does hurt a bit now,” she admitted. He quickly told her to open up, pointing his torch down her throat. He was silent as he assessed her, then he reached over to a large machine attached to the wall, moving it out and positioning it in front of her like it were a giant camera and he was going to take a picture.

It made a noise and she felt nothing, then he put it back and moved over to the large screen sitting on the wall across from them. As he assessed whatever the results of this test were, his expression grew grim.

“What's the prognosis, Doc?” she asked, forcing something of a smile onto her mouth. “Am I gonna live?” she added playfully – because of course she was going to live. She was the woman who could never die. There wasn't _anything_ she couldn't survive. (Except maybe being catapulted into an angry sun, but even then she wouldn't really die, just burn alive for all eternity.)

But the Doctor didn't smile – he never found her or Jack's immortality jokes to be particularly funny, so no surprises there, but there seemed to be more to it this time.

“Doctor,” she forcefully, demanding to be acknowledged.

“You have a virus,” he told her, like ripping off a bandaid.

“But I'm immortal,” she reminded him in something of a reflex.

“You can't _die_ ,” he argued reasonably. “Nothing about that says you can't get _sick_.”

“Okay,” she said, patient and slow, “so I have a virus. Now, on a scale of chicken-pox to the Black Death, how bad are we talking? What's it doing to me?”

The Doctor turned to the screen, assessing the data before him. “At this stage it's still in its incubation process, so it's hard to say. By the change in your hair, I'd say _maybe_ some sort of rapid-ageing – although there's certainly no other physical evidence to support that theory,” he began to ramble as he scowled down at his findings.

“I'm gonna get old?” Hartley asked, unable to hide the glimmer of dread in her voice.

“I don't know,” the Doctor told her, still staring at the screen like if he frowned hard enough, it might give him the answers he sought. “I just – I don't know.”

She frowned, feeling something of a headache slowly beginning to build behind her eyes. “So, what do we do?” she asked, the next logical question.

“We go back to Lunaria,” he said, finally turning to look at her. He reached out with one long hand and gently ran a finger down a streak of unnatural, silvery hair. “Something tells me they know exactly what's happening to you.”

“Why don't we just wait for me to die? Hopefully when I reanimate, it'll kill the virus in me and we can move on with our lives,” she suggested.

The Doctor looked like she'd punched him in the gut, frowning at her in displeasure. “We're not just going to wait for you to _die_ , Hartley,” he said, stern and uncompromising. To him, it wasn't even an option. And she loved him all the more for it, even if she did think it was a stupid hang-up to have.

“Worse comes to worst, though...” she trailed off, but he still got the picture. He held out a hand to help her off the table and Hartley slipped her small, pale hand into his, letting him pull her to her feet.

“That woman,” he said suddenly as together they wound their way through the labyrinthine corridors of the TARDIS, heading by unspoken agreement for Hartley's room. No matter how sick she may have been, she wasn't about to just go wandering about an alien planet in a pair of flannel pyjama pants and an old teeshirt that read _I put the LIT in Literature,_ with an image of William Shakespeare wearing shades just below it.

“What woman?” she asked, taking a sharp right and coming to a stop at her bedroom door, the rose-gold plaque reading her name in beautiful, flowing calligraphy. She pushed it open and the Doctor didn't hesitate to follow her inside. She got the feeling he wasn't going to let her out of his sight until this whole virus had been dealt with.

“The woman you _kissed_ ,” he reminded her, exasperated.

“Oh, that woman,” Hartley nodded, opening the doors to her wardrobe and beginning to thumb through her options.

“Yes, _that_ woman,” he echoed, frustrated by her indifference. “Why did you kiss her again, exactly?” he pressed stubbornly.

“Dunno,” she replied vaguely, tone distracted as she picked out a pair of jeans, before moving onto tops, absentmindedly looking for something that would make her eyes pop.

“Think, Hartley,” the Doctor persisted from where he remained stood at the foot of her bed. “There has to be a reason.”

“Does there?” she asked distantly, preoccupied.

“The fact that you can't remember means that it's likely vital to why you're even _sick_ in the first place,” he informed, spitting the word like it offended him. She pulled free a large, comfortable but stylish sweater, mustard in colour, and smiled as she wandered over to her changing screen, beginning to undress. “Come on, Hart,” he said from the other side of the divider, voice softer but no less intense. “Try to remember what happened.”

Hartley paused, pulling on the sweater and sinking into its warmth as she thought. “She was talking about...something,” she murmured, shedding her pants and beginning to shimmy into the skinny jeans she'd picked out. “I don't know, but her voice was so beautiful, like a song lulling me to sleep. Then she kissed me and...” she trailed off, the memory making her frown.

“And what?” the Doctor pressed urgently.

Making sure the zip was done up, Hartley reappeared, moving over to her drawers to grab a pair of socks and sitting on the bed to slip them onto her feet. “And there was this...burning,” she said, trying not to shudder at the memory of it. “Like she'd poured fire into my mouth, and then it seeped down into lungs.”

“And then?”

“And then it was over. You arrived and I was fine,” she said with a shrug, as though this settled the matter.

“Except you're _not_ fine,” he reminded her curtly. “You're dying.”

“What's new?” she asked in a tongue-in-cheek sort of a way that the Doctor most certainly didn't appreciate.

“Come on,” he said as she finished dressing by shoving her feet into a pair of worn old sneakers, grabbing her wrist in his hand and dragging her towards the door. He paused in the arch, seeming to consider something. “Actually, just to be safe...” he murmured, letting go of her to swipe something small and knitted off the top of the chair to his right. “Put your hair up under this,” he said, handing over the green beanie.

Hartley reluctantly did as she was told. Stepping over to her vanity, she piled her long, strawberry-blonde hair up onto the top of her head, securing it in place with a bobby-pin, then tucked the beanie on over it to cover the evidence of her illness.

Satisfied, the Doctor gave a nod and led the way back through the labyrinthine halls of the TARDIS, heading for the control room.

Hartley leant against the railing as she usually did while he piloted the ship back to Lunaria. The journey wasn't quite as rough as usual and she wondered if that was deliberate – then whether or not that was something the Doctor could at all control.

Vaguely she recalled what the woman from the café had told her: _you'll be Pure; you'll be healed._

She realised now that that gaping hole in her chest was gone, filled with something almost like peace. The emotional and mental scars from her encounter with the Master were all but erased. She really did feel healed; she felt _whole_ again.

The realisation made her smile, feeling more like herself than she had in a little over a year. Before she could mention it to the Doctor he was pulling open the doors and waving her out into the day.

It looked like about the same amount of time had passed on Lunaria as it had on the TARDIS. It was dawn on the beautiful planet, the sky a mixture of soft, peachy oranges and sharp, fresh blues. They'd parked the same place as yesterday – but now the streets, once brimming with life and celebration, were empty and still. The only sign that anyone had been there at all was the smears of bright, vivid colour on the ground.

Royal purple and sizzling red and sunshine yellow and acid green all blended together, some of it paint but most of it powder that smelt strongly of chalk. So many colours thrashed together shouldn't have worked, but it looked breathtakingly beautiful, and so very _human._

“Where are we meant to go, exactly?” she asked, turning her head left then right, but finding no one in sight. With the early hour, she assumed they were all still in bed, sleeping off the festivities of the night before.

“There's a hospital down this way,” said the Doctor, turning and heading down the main street off to the right. “If anyone's going to have answers, it's going to be them.”

Hartley could only trail after him, arms tucked around her waist to combat the slight frost of the early alien morning.

The building was marked with a large green moon on its side, which the Doctor explained was the universal symbol for hospitals. Stepping inside, they encountered the first hint of life since arriving.

The lobby held a small handful of people in uncomfortable looking chairs. Some of them were coughing, but all of them were tired and sickly.

The Doctor made a beeline for the front desk and Hartley stuck close to his side, shoving her hands deep into her pockets. The nurse, a short woman with dark skin and wearing a pink uniform, looked up and nodded in vague greeting. Her eyes flickered between the pair curiously, as if something about them was suspicious.

“We're not taking in any more of the infected,” she told them with a stern note to what Hartley knew was a usually-kind voice. “I'm sorry. Try St. Barnes', over the river, I hear they're still doing intakes,” she said with unmistakeable pity in her eyes before lowering them and pretending to get distracted by the file in her hands.

The Doctor glanced over at Hartley and a moment of understanding passed between them. They weren't going to be getting any answers simply by telling the truth. Without hesitation the Doctor produced the psychic paper from his jacket pocket, holding it up for the nurse to see.

“Actually, I'm the Doctor, and this is my colleague, Hartley Daniels,” he said with the kind of confidence someone should really figure out how to bottle. “We're here investigating the virus, and we heard this was the place to come for a consultation.”

“Oh,” said the nurse in surprise. She nodded and picked up the phone. “Who is it you're here to meet with?”

“Chief of Infectious Diseases,” said the Doctor without hesitation, the answer smooth and confident.

“Dr. Lynch?” the nurse pressed.

“That's the one.”

With a final frown the nurse made the call, then sent Hartley and the Doctor in the direction of the lifts with instructions to take it up three floors to the Infectious Disease ward, where Dr. Lynch's office was located. “That was easy,” Hartley murmured as they got in the lift, luckily the only two inside.

“I've just got a face people can trust,” shrugged the Doctor.

“And a slip of slightly psychic paper,” she added with a small smirk.

The Doctor tried not to pout. “That too.”

The lift dinged and the doors opened, revealing a stark, empty hallway. On the far wall was a sign, telling them that the Infectious Disease Ward was to the right, and they followed it down the corridor.

“So what's the plan?” Hartley asked him as they walked, voice hushed as she peeked in every doorway for signs of life. The rooms were filled with beds of people, coughing and holding the hands of the people at their bedsides. None of them had white hair, however, so Hartley knew they weren't sick in the same way she was.

“The usual,” the Doctor replied confidently. “Act like we belong and get him to tell us everything.”

Hartley could hardly argue with that – it had worked well enough in the past, of that much she was certain. The Doctor pushed his way into the room at the end of the hall, and the sight they were left with was enough to leave Hartley speechless.

They were stood in a large, white room, the walls lined with beds and all occupied by women with silvery blonde hair, pallid skin and peaceful smiles on their faces. At the edge of the room was a tall man in a white lab coat, and when they stepped through the doors he glanced up, hand freezing where he'd been scribbling something down on his clipboard.

His green eyes narrowed as he murmured something to the woman beside him, before moving towards them. Hartley made sure to fix something of a smile onto her face as he approached, and found it wasn't as difficult to conjure as she'd expected.

“This ward is closed off to the public, I'm afraid,” said the tall physician, politely apologetic while at the same time firm.

“No, no,” said the Doctor breezily, holding up the psychic paper. “We're specialists from the CGDC,” he told him, and he narrowed his eyes at the paper showing their false credentials. “You're Dr. Lynch?” he asked evenly.

“Gideon, please,” said the man, holding out a hand. The Doctor took it politely, shaking firmly, then Gideon held out a hand to her. She gripped it, smiling up at him kindly.

“Hartley Daniels,” she told him. “And this is the Doctor.”

“Doctor _who,_ exactly?”

“Just the Doctor,” her companion replied smoothly.

Gideon seemed skeptical, but he probably knew there were more important things to be talking about than a name. “I didn't realise anyone from the CGDC would be visiting today,” he said, tucking his hands into the pockets of his coat.

“Things aren't looking good, and we've been assigned to monitor the spread in this district,” said the Doctor with an abundance of confidence. “We heard you were the man to see to get some answers.”

“Really?” Gideon asked in surprise. “Me?”

“Chief of Infectious Disease at such a prestigious hospital? Why wouldn't you be the man to come to?” the Doctor asked smoothly.

Gideon seemed flustered, for a moment there not knowing how to react. “Well, yes. I suppose so,” he finally murmured, adjusting his coat and tucking his clipboard under his arm. “What would you like to know?” he asked, all-business with a hint of a need to please.

“Everything,” said the Doctor plainly. “How this began; _when_ this began; how is spreads; the order of its various stages… Start at the very beginning.”

“You don't already know all the answers to those questions yourself?” Gideon asked, confusion on his face.

“Yes, but we want to hear them from you,” said Hartley with a (somewhat manipulative) flutter of her eyelashes, shooting him her sweetest smile – the one the Doctor said could sell ice cubes to eskimos.

Gideon's expression flushed, and he nodded, taking a step backwards as if to regain his bearings, then shot the ward a long glance, gathering his thoughts to speak.

“We're calling it the White Fever,” he began, voice low but carrying to them in the large room. Most of the patients in their beds seemed to barely notice them, all preoccupied by the magazines in their hands or the people beside them, chatting quietly, content smiles on their faces. “The first case appeared roughly a fortnight ago, over in the Industrial District. Lunaria General, the hospital on that side of town, was the first to get an influx. Since then, it's been spreading faster than we can contain it.”

“How does it transfer?” the Doctor asked without pause.

“From what we can tell? Saliva,” Gideon told him grimly.

“And why women?” he asked firmly, and for a moment Hartley was confused. She glanced to the room, only to realise for the first time that the only people she'd seen affected so far were women. The whole ward was full of them and _only_ them, heads of long white hair and faces of pale, chalky skin.

“We've found through intensive study that those with the Y chromosome are, essentially, immune,” said Gideon matter-of-factly.

“Meaning males can't contract the disease,” Hartley finished, nodding her head as she pieced it all together.

“Fascinating,” hummed the Doctor. Hartley could sense his internalised wonderment. She felt a brief flash of adoration for the Time Lord beside her – he held such a giddiness for knowledge. Learning or observing something new that he didn't quite understand was just about the same amount of thrill to him as reading the great literature of Earth held for her.

She supposed, in their own unique ways, they were both massive, incurable nerds. He for science, and she for the written word.

“It's fascinating, really,” gushed Gideon. Hartley felt his excitement too, tangy and sharp. He was excited to learn more. The mystery this virus presented was tempting. Maybe this planet had some kind of Nobel Prize award, and this doctor was eager to win it through experimentation with White Fever? Either that or he just got really jazzed about science.

“So have you spoken to the first woman to get the virus? Tried to find out how she contracted it?” asked the Doctor eagerly.

Gideon's face suddenly dulled. “She, uh, she passed away.”

Hartley's insides swooped, and not in the good way. “From the virus?” she asked, mouth going dry.

Gideon's brow furrowed. “From the virus's symptoms, yes,” he said evenly.

“Symptoms?” asked the Doctor, and Gideon nodded, expression grim. “And what are they, besides the change in hair colour?”

The physician before them frowned, glancing over his shoulder at the white-haired women lining the room before he turned back to them, gently herding the pair of foreigners out of the ward. They stepped through a door on the far side of the room, into what looked like some kind of lab. It held a long table covered in various expensive-looking equipment, with computers and tablets on every other surface.

There were two doctors already in there, both wearing safety goggles and going about their work. Neither bothered to look up as the trio stepped into the room.

Gideon moved over to the screen that was set into the plaster of the wall, tapping his fingers against its surface until an image appeared. It was a human body, and coming from various points of their figure were little dot-points of information. The Doctor fished out his glasses, slipping them onto his nose. Hartley reached up to press a hand against the beanie on her head, concealing the true nature of her hair.

“The virus seems to effect brain chemistry,” began Gideon in a clear, informative voice. It reminded Hartley of a professor giving a lecture. “It somehow convinces the brain – and subsequently the body – that it's no longer in need of the basic human requirements for life.”

The Doctor's eyes flickered over the screen, taking everything in at a pace Hartley would never in a million years be able to match. “So the virus stops them from feeling hungry or thirsty?” he summarised.

“It does more than that,” said Gideon ominously. “It changes the brain's chemistry, manipulates the body's basic functions. Their bodies literally _reject_ food.”

“It's starving them to death?” whispered Hartley, the words echoing with horror.

“Have you tried nutrition bags? Straight into the bloodstream?” the Doctor asked without waiting for her question to be answered.

Gideon was offended by the Doctor's words. “Of course we have,” he said tersely. “It was the first thing we tried. The body rejects any form of nutrition at all. Any sort of sustenance – any at all – only kills them faster.”

The Doctor's expression was grim, more so than Hartley could remember seeing before. She was sure he'd realised exactly what she just had – her life wasn't the only one on the line. All these women – these _humans_ – were going to die; and unlike her, none of them were going to be able to wake back up.

“But, as I'm sure you realise, it won't be starvation to kill them first,” said Gideon quietly.

“Dehydration,” said the Doctor with an understanding nod. He frowned, leaning around Gideon to peek out the glass door separating the lab from the ward. “But none of them look scared,” he said, confused but eager for the mystery to unravel. “Hartley?” he added in question.

“They aren't,” she confirmed, expression pinched. “None of them are scared at all.”

Gideon was confused by their exchange, but the Doctor barrelled on before he could question it. “Haven't you told them what's happening?” he asked, the words somewhat of an accusation.

“Of course I have,” Gideon replied sharply, offended again by the Doctor's suggestion. “And that's the strange thing of it. They all know they're dying – and none of them seem to care,” he said, dismay in his voice.

“You said it effects their brain chemistry,” the Doctor recalled. “Have they been acting odd? Saying strange things?”

“They keep repeating the same thing, over and over,” said Gideon grimly. “That they just want to be _Pure_.”

“Pure…” Hartley echoed the word in something of a daze, her gaze fixed on the far wall, staring at nothing.

“Hart?” the Doctor gently nudged her. Her head snapped around to look at him, blinking back to herself in surprise. “You all right?” he asked, brow furrowed in concern.

“Yeah,” she said, unsure why she wouldn't be perfectly fine. Gideon was staring, suspicion in his eyes as they flickered up to the beanie keeping her true hair colour hidden. But when she met his eyes he looked away, schooling his expression into something more polite.

“You said the first woman to appear with the virus was dead,” said the Doctor, tugging Gideon's attention back to him. “How many since then?”

“In the last two weeks, we've lost roughly four hundred,” Gideon informed him gravely. Hartley felt the flare of the Doctor's shock, but she herself struggled to locate her usual sense of compassion. It was as though something had locked it away. She wanted to think on it more, but Gideon was still talking. “It's hard to keep track when so many aren't seeking medical attention,” he added quietly, casting a look through the glass door to the ward beyond, holding the horde of infected women.

“Why not?” pressed the Doctor keenly.

“It's an aspect of the virus. Most are refusing to acknowledge that they're even ill. The only reason these women are in here now is because their family members have brought them in, fearing for their lives,” the physician told them.

The Doctor didn't appear to be listening, brow furrowed as he stared at the information still showing on the screen above them. His eyes flickered back and forth with near impossible speed as he read the words, soaking them in like a sponge. “If the White Fever is transferred through saliva, then to contract it these women would have to be kissing one another,” the Doctor finally said, a dark look in his eyes as they darted to Hartley, then away again.

“That's the strangest part,” said Gideon lowly. “We've issued a statement through the media. By now every woman on this planet knows how the virus is transferred – they know to kiss an infected woman is, essentially, suicide. And yet...” he trailed off, gesturing helplessly to the dozens of white-haired women in the ward beyond.

“Do you think it's some sort of hypnosis?” suggested the Doctor, hands tucked into his pockets, brown eyes gleaming behind the glass of his spectacles.

“Hypnosis?” echoed Gideon in confusion.

“Some kind of a hypnotic symptom, or quality of the virus. Something built into its very makeup – its bacteria?” he continued confidently, head tilted in something like curious innocence.

“I've never heard of such a thing,” scoffed Gideon importantly, as though the Doctor were a crackpot talking rubbish.

“Well something's making women all over this city willingly kiss one another despite the spread of this virus,” said the Doctor, unruffled by Gideon's ire. “I'd say finding out how will get us one step closer to a cure.”

“What do you think we've been doing? My team's working day and night to find a cure for this disease,” hissed Gideon as he bristled, like the Doctor had implied he'd been simply sitting around on his hands all day. The Doctor's eyebrows hiked up, and Hartley shifted between the two men before things could get out of hand.

“All we want to do is help, Gideon,” she said, a calm voice of reason. Gideon was glaring at the Doctor and the Doctor was frowning back at him, both drawn up to their full height. Hartley could practically smell the testosterone. “We're not the enemy,” she said, pushing herself up higher so the tall physician had no choice but to meet her eyes. “Why don't you tell us about your current theories? What are you working on today?” she pressed, and finally Gideon stepped back, shoulders dropping from where they'd been hunched.

“We're experimenting with serotonin,” said Gideon, turning to the other doctors in the room, both still hunched over their equipment, tirelessly working on the cure. “It's a neurotransmitter, and I've theorised that it might act as a sort of combatant against the virus. Or at the very least slow its effects,” he told them, leaning over his colleague's shoulder, eyeing his work critically.

“Brilliant,” said the Doctor approvingly. Gideon was briefly surprised by the praise, but otherwise didn't react. “What have you been using as a test subject?” the Doctor added curiously.

“Just blood samples of the infected, for now.”

“But that's hardly useful,” the Doctor said around a deep frown. “You need a human subject. At the rate this thing is spreading, the entire female population of this planet could be wiped out within little over a month.”

“It's not exactly ethical to experiment on living human beings,” said Gideon shortly. “It's only a theory, and at this point we still have no idea what kind of effects it could have on the brain. For all we know, it could cause the effects of the virus speed up – only serving to kill them more quickly.”

Inspiration slapped Hartley in the face, and she turned to Gideon before the Doctor could reply. “So what you're saying is that you need a test subject whom you would have no possible chance of killing,” she summarised clearly. “That would be the only ethical way to conduct the tests.”

“Hartley,” the Doctor hissed disapprovingly from behind her, but he went ignored.

Gideon was bewildered by her words. “Well, in a perfect world, yes,” he said, frown crinkling his face. “But that's not possible. There's no subject in the universe that would be without risk.”

“Don't be so sure about that,” Hartley very nearly smirked.

“Hartley, _no_ ,” said the Doctor firmly, but again, he was simply ignored.

“Experiment on me,” she said, chin tilted upwards with a proud sort of confidence.

“Why don't they ever listen?” the Doctor muttered bitterly from behind her.

“ _You_?” scoffed Gideon, balking at the suggestion.

“Did I stutter?” she asked, head tilted in impish innocence.

Gideon looked uncomfortable. “Noble as your sentiments are, Ms. Daniels, I'm afraid I can't use you as a guinea pig. It wouldn't be––”

“Ethical?” she interjected cooly. Gideon looked uncomfortable. “But I'm volunteering,” she said, like it settled the matter.

“I'm sorry, I really can't make an exception – which you should know, being from the Centre for Galactic Disease Control––”

Growing bored of his excuses, Hartley reached out for a scalpel that sat on a tray to her left. She picked it up and in one smooth movement stabbed the deathly sharp end into her palm. The blade cut through her skin like it were butter, seeming to almost light her hand on fire, pain crackling up her arm and making her eyes sting with tears.

Gideon and the Doctor cried out in the same instant, and the local physician ripped the scalpel out of her hand, tossing it from her reach. “Hartley, for Rassilon sake!” exclaimed the Doctor in a mix of exasperation and horror, gripping her arm and trying to wrench her hand towards him.

She held firm, however, keeping her hand held open in Gideon's face. Thick, ruby red blood coated her skin, dripping onto the white tiled floor, where it gathered in a grotesque puddle by their feet.

“What are you playing at?” demanded Gideon, staring at her like she belonged in the psych ward. His colleagues hovered over at their desks, gawking at her in horror.

“Just watch,” Hartley demanded, pushing her wounded palm closer to Gideon's face. It took a long few moments, the humans' shock and disgust only growing with every passing heartbeat, until _finally_ her immortality kicked in and slowly but surely, her skin began to knit itself back together.

Gideon's jaw went slack as he watched her hand repair itself. Hartley felt a flush of warmth travel along her nerve endings and knew she'd healed. She carelessly wiped her hand on her mustard jumper, her blood staining the yellow a gruesome red, then held up the hand for him to get a better look at the smooth, unblemished skin.

“How – how did you...?” mumbled Gideon in sheer shock.

“Doesn't matter how,” she told him flippantly. “The only thing that matters is that I _can_ heal myself – no matter what happens to me. Do your tests on me.”

Gideon took a few moments to gather his wits and find his tongue to be able to speak. “Well, as useful as this ability surely is, I'm afraid you aren't infected, so any tests we conducted would be pointless––”

Hartley merely cut him off by pulling yet another shocking move. She ripped the beanie from her head, letting her long hair fall free. Gideon only looked more blown away, and she felt rather than heard the Doctor sigh heavily from behind her.

Glancing down at her hair, Hartley found it was almost completely white, the red now harder to spot amongst the silvery tresses.

“Now, will you stop arguing and just do the tests already?” she asked, voice hard. She wasn't taking no for an answer, and Gideon could see it in her deep blue eyes, glittering like little shards of ice.

He swallowed, glancing unsurely from her to the patients in the ward to his right. Hartley could sense his shock, his reluctance, and could tell that despite everything he was going to keep arguing. Huffing, she opened her mouth to debate the issue some more, only for the Doctor's hand to appear in her vision, holding out his familiar slip of slightly-psychic paper.

“As you can see, we have the full approval and authorisation of the CGDC for you to use Ms. Daniels as a test subject,” said the Doctor, the words firm, layered with authority that nobody would ever be able to guess was fake.

Skeptical and still a little pale, Gideon took the psychic paper from him, holding it up to the light. Whatever he was seeing, it seemed to be convincing. His eyes widened as they flickered across the paper, taking it in with a gulp.

Slowly he handed it back to the Doctor, finally convinced. “This is your team?” the Doctor asked him, nodding to the two men in the lab. Gideon nodded his head, in something of a daze. “And they're all you'll need to conduct these tests?” he pressed.

Gideon looked over at the men, both of whom looked as pale and stunned as he did. “Yes,” he finally said, swallowing again, the sound loud in the soundproofed lab.

“Good,” said the Doctor briskly. “Then there's no need for any of this to leave this lab.” That same authority leaked back into his voice, and the sound of it had all three men nodding their heads obediently. “Get ready whatever you need. We begin as soon as you're ready.”

The three scientists hurried off to complete their tasks, and seeing them all distracted, the Doctor gripped Hartley's elbow and dragged her to the opposite side of the room. They stood in silence for a moment while they waited for the scientists on the other end of the room to become absorbed in their task. Once he was sure they were properly distracted, the Doctor turned to look at her, a storm in his eyes.

“What are you _doing_?” he hissed, the words coated with disapproval.

“What do you mean?” Hartley asked innocently.

“This isn't like you – none of this is. You're being reckless.”

“I'm being responsible,” she countered tightly. The Doctor opened his mouth to argue, but she cut him off before he could get going. “Hundreds of women have died, and thousands more _will_ if I don't do this.”

“There are better ways of helping than butchering your own hand to prove a point, Hartley,” he said sternly.

“It got the message across, didn't it?” she replied flatly.

The Doctor stared at her, eyes wide and concerned. He was looking at her as if trying to read her thoughts, as if trying to figure out where Hartley Daniels had gone, and who exactly it was that had replaced her.

“You're hurting, and so you're acting out,” he said in a slow, patronising sort of a voice. Hartley bristled, her hackles rising at the sound of it. “Hartley, you can't be so rash – so careless. You need to _think..._ ” he trailed off with a sigh. “Look, I know you're still healing after what happened aboard the Valiant,” he began quietly, a big mistake.

“This has _nothing_ to do with _him_ ,” Hartley spat the words like they tasted of acid. She couldn't say his name, couldn't even think it. It still held power over her. He still had her prisoner, even now.

“It has everything to do with him, Hartley,” whispered the Doctor, eyes big and compassionate and only hurting her more. “You're not acting like yourself. You're lashing out––”

“Oh, so you're a psychologist now, too?” she hissed, eyebrows raised mockingly.

He sighed heavily. “Hartley,” he said, reproachful.

She swallowed, drawing her shoulders back, trying to exude a confidence she didn't actually have. “I'm doing this to help those women,” she told him firmly, getting back to the matter at hand. Anything was better than talking about _that._ “You can't tell me you wouldn't do the same,” she added quickly, and he sighed again, shoulders slumping in defeat. And she knew she had won – the battle, at least, but not the war. “Worst case scenario: the test kills me,” she said, keeping them on track. She'd like to have the possibilities mapped out before her instead of going into these tests blind.

“Then you reanimate, most likely disease free, and we get to explain your little talent to these scientists,” said the Doctor, a scowl marring his face. “They'll want to keep you here, you know,” he added in something of a goading voice, “study you – learn how you do what you do.”

“Well then, you'll just have to break me out,” she said, simple and assured. The Doctor suddenly looked like he was contemplating beating his head against the metal table beside them, if only to escape the situation they were in. Hartley's lips twitched up in dark amusement, recognising the urge as one she'd felt countless times before.

It was nice to be the frustrating one for a change, rather than the one getting frustrated.

“Ms. Daniels?” said Gideon from across the room and Hartley turned to look.

He was standing by a simple office chair – probably the best they could do on such short notice – and his colleagues stood beside him, lumps of important looking wires and vials in their hands, wariness in their hearts.

“You're about to inject me with a potentially deadly, untested drug,” the immortal reminded him dryly, leaving the Doctor's side, wandering over to the trio of strangers, “the least you can do is call me by my first name.”

Gideon looked uncomfortable. “Right,” he said stiltedly, gesturing to the chair. It was made of a peeling leather and its hinges squeaked under her weight. Moving as a team, the three scientists began to circle around her, attaching wires and bands and patches to her body.

She let them work in silence, watching distractedly as the Doctor and Gideon talked in medical technobabble from beside his computer. “Thank you for doing this,” whispered one of the other scientists, voice hushed so it wouldn't carry. Hartley looked up at him, eyebrows raised in surprise. “My wife,” he explained, pain flickering in his heart, “she's infected.”

His eyes shifted to the door leading to the ward and Hartley gathered that she must have been amongst the other women out there, utterly unbothered by their looming death sentence. “I'm sorry,” she said quietly. “What's her name?”

“Isabella.”

“And you are?”

“Cyrus,” he said, securing a metal headband around her head. His hands were warm and gentle against her skin, and she could tell he was taking great care to make sure she wasn't uncomfortable.

“Nice to meet you, Cyrus,” she told him quietly. “I'm Hartley.”

“It's a beautiful name,” he said sincerely, and she tilted her head as he smiled, revealing an endearing set of crooked teeth.

“Cyrus,” snapped Gideon from where he stood. “Where's Wes?”

Cyrus scanned the room, looking for the remaining third of their scientific trio. “Fetching the serum,” said Cyrus with a nod at a glass door that led to some kind of storage fridge. Wes was inside, sorting through a selection of small vials.

Gideon jerked his head towards the computer in silent command and Cyrus left Hartley's side to help his boss with whatever it was they had to work on. The Doctor left them to their calculations, moving over to Hartley and crouching to the floor in front of her, staring up into her eyes so she didn't have to move her head and disturb the wires now attached to her.

She could sense his disapproval with this plan, could tell he didn't want her to be the one to do this. But the Doctor wasn't stupid and he knew that, despite his misgivings, Hartley was without a doubt the best person – the _only_ person – on the whole planet for the job.

“So, what's the plan, Doc?” she asked, voice deceptively light, but she was sure he was hardly fooled. “They gonna shoot me up with serotonin and hope something magical happens?”

“Something like that,” he said, but there was no glimmer of lightheartedness in his deep brown eyes. She gazed back, a question in her stare, and with great reluctance he began to explain in more detail. “Serotonin is a neurotransmitter. It relays signals between nerve cells – neurons – to regulate their intensity.”

“Okay,” said Hartley slowly. “So why do they think injecting me with it will help?”

“Because the virus seems to feed on the serotonin already in your body,” he told her, hands folded in front of him, eyes focused on hers.

“Then why give it to me? Won't that only make it stronger?” she pressed, brow furrowing to the point where it began to give her a headache.

“At this stage it's only a treatment, not a cure,” he said, eyes flickering over to Gideon, who was typing away furiously at his computer, narrowed eyes focused on the information on the screen. “They're hoping if they give you enough of it, the virus will feed off of the serotonin they give it, leaving your body with enough to use like it should.”

Hartley nodded, beginning to understand. “Will it hurt?” she asked, voice smaller than she would have liked.

“I don't know,” he told her honestly. “Ordinarily, no, but we have no idea how this virus works. It could do any number of things. It could speed up the process. It could be agony. It could...” he trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

“It could kill me,” she said, stony faced but fighting to be brave. “Relax, Doc,” she told him, forcing her voice to sound flippant, but the Time Lord was hardly convinced. “It's not like I haven't died before,” she scoffed.

In her mind's eye she saw drab, white walls that had no end, and she remembered telling herself over and over, every single time she died, that this was the one time she wasn't going to reanimate. This was the one time she would finally find peace…

“Are you _sure_ you want to do this?” the Doctor asked, bringing her from her dark memories. She blinked back to herself, looking down into his worried face, a small smile on her lips. It was there to comfort him, even though she knew it wouldn't work.

“I'm going to be fine either way, Doctor,” she reminded him gently. “You don't need to look so scared.”

“I'm not _scared_ ,” he sniffed.

She smirked, finding it came even easier now. “Okay,” she said, voice layered with patronising amusement.

“I'm not,” he insisted.

“All right,” she said, goading him playfully. “I believe you.”

“Hartley. I'm not scared.”

“Uh-huh.”

The Doctor rolled his eyes, but there was a reluctant smile on his lips. Hartley smiled back proudly, and the expression on his own face widened. Gideon's deep voice interrupted their stare, and both companions turned their heads to look up at him as he spoke.

“Ready, Ms. Daniels?” he asked carefully.

“Gideon,” she said, reproachful.

He looked reluctant, but didn't seem the type to argue the point. “Hartley,” he amended himself, shoulders tensing like he were holding back a large sigh.

She smiled back and the Doctor stood to his feet. He reached out as if to squeeze her hand, but both her hands were hooked up to wires and machines, so he dropped it back to his side and stepped away.

“It's a fairly simple process,” Gideon told her confidently. The other scientist, Wes, had returned from the storeroom. Now all three physicians stood before her, their stares ranging from hopeful to intense. “We're simply going to inject you with this blend. It's mostly undiluted serotonin, but also holds trace amounts of––”

“Don't bother with the scientific technobabble, Gideon,” she interjected, just a little stale. She really, really hoped this wasn't going to hurt. “Just shoot me up, already.”

Her phrasing made the scientists uncomfortable, but Gideon still stepped forwards, a very large needle held in his hand. Hartley tried not to visibly bristle at the sight of it, but the men still noticed. “Not afraid of needles, are you?” asked Cyrus from beside her, a hint of playfulness in his voice that helped soothe her nerves.

“Needles? No,” she replied. “But that's no needle. That's a bloody javelin.”

A small titter of laughter rumbled through the group of scientists, but when her eyes met the Doctor's she found no trace of amusement on his face. His gaze was hard and full of concern. She could practically hear the hum of his thoughts, whirring away in his head at a million miles an hour.

So distracted was she by his frown, she flinched in surprise when the large, sharp end of the needle pierced through her skin. It pinched, stinging like a bitch, but compared to slicing her own hand open with a scalpel it was really nothing.

Hartley felt a surge of cold travel up through her veins, and she shivered at the unfamiliar sensation. Gideon withdrew the needle with another stinging pinch before stepping away, moving immediately over to his monitors to check the data.

Nobody said anything for a few long moments and the silence strangely awkward to Hartley, who wasn't sure exactly where to look. She focused her eyes on a small gouge in the ceiling, absentmindedly wondering how it got there.

“Do you feel anything?” asked the Doctor, once he could no longer bear the quiet.

“I'm a little cold,” she admitted with a lift of her shoulders. “But apart from that––”

She cut herself off with a gasp, a stab of pain ricocheting through her skull. The scientists all surged forwards but the Doctor reached her first, hands braced on the armrests of her chair. “Hartley?” he asked, anxiety ringing in his voice. “Hart, what's happening?”

Hartley couldn't locate her mouth to speak, the pain aching in her temples. Her vision blurred, and her eyes began to roll up inside her skull. Vaguely she could hear the Doctor shouting furiously at Gideon, but she was too caught up in her swirl of pain to listen to the individual words coming from his mouth.

She could feel her awareness slipping away like water through her fingers, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

But she didn't lose her grip on consciousness completely. Rather it was moved, retreating in on itself, withdrawing into the recesses of her mind where she found, to her great surprise, that she wasn't alone.

There was something in there with her, something pulsing and alive and feeding from her like a leech would suck her blood. It was dark and hungry, and it made her feel sick to brush minds with it. Then it surprised her – it overtook her, slipping out of the cracks she'd just come through. She shouted into the void, calling after it, begging it to return, but it didn't.

Time seemed to pass differently inside the cavern of her consciousness. It wasn't completely unlike death, in that regard. It was both seconds and hours before she felt that dark parasite return, seeping through the fractures in her mind, bleeding back into her space, making her feel sore and compressed.

Then, like being sucked through a straw, Hartley felt her consciousness yanked through those tiny cracks. It felt rather like a waterslide. A great rush of frictionless speed, then a landing in the pool of water that was her reality.

With a cough to clear her sore throat, Hartley blinked open her eyes, wincing against the harsh lights of the lab. There was an awful taste in her mouth, like ash mixed with rotten fruit. “Ugh,” she grumbled, the sound thick with her disgust. “What happened?”

It took an extra moment to focus, but once she did it was to see all three scientists and the Doctor staring at her, eyes wide and stunned. When none of them answered, she began to grow uncomfortable.

“Doctor?” she asked, hesitant and, admittedly, just a little bit afraid. “What happened?”

The Doctor didn't seem to know how to word his answer. “Hart, the virus...” he began slowly, “...it's _alive._ ”

Hartley said nothing, weighing his words, trying to make them make sense. But no matter which way she spun the words, she couldn't understand their meaning. “What do you mean?” she asked critically, frown pulling the corners of her lips downwards. “It's a _virus_ ,” she added as though they might have forgotten.

“So was the virus on that spaceship, with Martha and Captain McDonnell and that living sun,” he reminded her, and she had to admit he had a point.

She could feel Wes, Cyrus and Gideon's confusion, but she didn't feel like reliving that particular adventure any time soon. Besides, they all looked far too shellshocked to be able to handle yet another statistical improbability. Enough was enough for one day.

“So, how do you know it's alive, then?” she asked the Doctor, noticing that Cyrus held a pad of paper and a pen in his hands, both of which were trembling just slightly.

The Doctor took a deep breath. “Because we just spoke to it,” he confessed, and Hartley shuddered at what that must have meant.

“You mean it spoke _through_ me?” she asked shrilly. “Using my voice?”

The Doctor nodded grimly. “Your eyes went white. You weren't yourself.”

Hartley swallowed the information, considering what it meant. “How long was I out?” she questioned tentatively.

“About five minutes,” said Wes faintly, staring at her, his caramel skin bloodless and damp.

“Did you, um, learn anything useful, then?” she asked the Doctor slowly, stumbling over the words a little. It was surreal – something living was inside of her, it had been using her _voice_ , and she'd had no idea it was even happening.

“A bit,” he told her, taking off his glasses and slipping them into his breast pocket. There was a beat, and the Doctor glanced at the other three humans in the room. Wes and Cyrus scurried off, moving to a far corner of the room and talking in low voices. It took Gideon a long few moments to follow, that same suspicion from before glowing in his dark eyes.

Once all three were huddled in the corner, discussing what they'd learned in hushed whispers, the Doctor leaning against the table to Hartley's right, arms crossed over his chest, expression grave.

“Just tell me, please,” she begged when the Doctor said nothing.

“I don't know for certain if what the virus said is true,” he began, and Hartley knew it had to be bad if he was prefacing it like that. “It could have been lying, making something up to throw us off our game...”

“Doctor,” she said, bordering on desperate. She needed to know. She didn't want to be treated like a child. Whatever it was, she could handle it. Hadn't she proved that already?

“Apparently the virus – life form, whatever it is – can only infect a person who consents,” he told her quickly, like ripping off a bandaid.

Hartley stared back at him in surprise. That hadn't been what she'd been expecting. “Are you saying all those women out there _consented_ to have this thing inside them?” she asked, voice dripping with incredulity. She found it difficult to believe so many women would hold such a similar death wish.

“Yes,” the Doctor said grimly. “And so did you.”

Hartley frowned. “No, I didn't,” she said firmly.

“Hartley,” the Doctor said her name slowly, with care, like if he spoke too loud she might break. It only made her frown deepen. She wasn't made of glass. “You've been through a lot. I know I called you reckless before, but it's okay – it's all just a symptom of PTSD––”

“I _don't_ have PTSD––” she tried to argue, an immediate instinct that she couldn't control, her tone dripping with frustration. But the Doctor's voice overlapped hers, drowning her out.

“Fine, okay,” he was saying with a heavy sigh, as though she was exhausting him. “We can talk about your mental health later. What's important now is that I was right,” he added keenly.

“ _That's_ what's important?” she asked skeptically. “Really?” He cocked an eyebrow at her, and she huffed. “Right about what?” she asked in an utterly flat voice, aware that she was playing straight into his hand.

“It uses a weak form of hypnosis,” he told her. “Creates a small psychic link. Feeds on your fears, your insecurities. It works like a Venus flytrap. Sweet smelling and innocuous looking to its prey, drawing them in to be devoured.”

“So I was psychically manipulated into kissing a strange woman in order for this disease to infect me,” she summarised flatly.

The Doctor winced. “In a sense,” he hedged around the answer. “Hartley, it could only feed on fears that were already there. It promised to fix what you already felt was broken. It preys on the emotionally damaged, because they're the only ones susceptible to its spell.”

She blinked. “You're saying I'm emotionally damaged?”

“At the moment? After everything you've just been through? Yes, I am.”

Hartley frowned, the words cutting to her heart. Before everything that had happened over the past year aboard the Valiant, she would have been able to say, with absolute confidence, that she was emotionally strong; secure in herself and her psyche.

Since escaping the Year That Never Was, she hadn't yet stopped to assess herself. But looking inward now, she could see the Doctor's point.

She was so damaged, so broken and insecure that she'd willingly agreed to let a virus inside of her. She'd all but _invited_ it to kill her from the inside out. What was the matter with her? How could she so voluntarily step forwards to die. Again?

But she didn't want to talk about that. Didn't want to watch as disappointment bloomed in the Doctor's deep, brown eyes. So she cleared her throat and changed the subject.

“The serotonin,” she said, glad her voice didn't waver. It was all she could do to hold onto the illusion of strength. “Did it have any effect at all?”

The Doctor sighed, and she could sense his disappointment, dull and sad. “It only made it stronger – allowed it to override your consciousness and speak through you. We can't administer it, not again. Who knows what it might achieve if it gets another chance?”

Hartley swallowed thickly, considering his words. “Was that all you got from it? Before it went under again?” she asked, aware of how hollow her voice sounded.

“Yeah, pretty much,” the Doctor frowned. “It didn't spill all the details of its great, evil plan, if that's what you mean.”

Hartley rolled her eyes, but the action was lacking her usual enthusiasm. “So, what you're saying is that, really, we know nothing,” she said flatly.

“We know how it spreads, and we know what it feeds on,” he countered sharply. “That should be enough to go on, at least to get started on a cure.”

“Doctor, that's nothing to go on,” she argued. She may not have been a scientist by any stretch of the imagination, but she knew things like planet-wide inoculations and cures to living viruses weren't so easy to come by. The Doctor ignored her, pretending to be focused on whatever was on the screen that sat on the wall above them.

The last thing Hartley wanted was to retreat back inside herself like that – let that _thing_ take her over, use her voice and her body to do whatever it may. But she was struggling to see any other option.

“Put me under again,” she said before she could talk herself out of it.

The Doctor's gaze snapped back to her, alarm in his deep chocolate eyes. He seemed to sense without words what Hartley was thinking, and his eyes narrowed into slits. “No,” he said, that same authority in his voice that had everyone else bowing to his whim. But not her, not this time.

“You need to learn more about this thing. If you just go by study and observation alone, it'll take too long. Who knows how many more women will die in the time it takes for you to learn what's necessary to stop it? If you use me, bring it out again and convince it to talk to you, you stand a better chance at saving more lives,” Hartley insisted, staring up at the Doctor imploringly. She wasn't saying anything he didn't already know, but his eyes were hard like steel.

“I'm not just going to use you like some kind of lab rat, Hartley,” he said, firm and utterly uncompromising.

“It's the best plan we have, and you know it,” she replied, equally as obstinate. “I'm not just going to sit around and let hundreds of women _die_. Not when I can actively do something to stop it from happening.”

The Doctor sighed, dragging his hands down the length of his face, as though this whole thing was awfully tiring. “Hart, there's no guarantee you'll be able to come back a second time,” he told her quietly, shifting closer so she could hear his lowered voice. “This life form – this _consciousness_ – could take you over permanently.”

She lifted her shoulders and dropped them in a shrug. “Then just kill me and let the thing die,” she said like it were the most simple solution in the world. To her, it was a no-brainer. What did her life matter? Any of her deaths were – and always would be – inconsequential. How could something matter if it was only temporary?

“I'm not going to _kill_ you, Hartley,” the Doctor's voice was hard, edged with iron, refusing to give. “It's not an option.”

Hartley's eyebrows shot upwards at the same same as her eyes narrowed, displeasure coiling in her gut like a snake. “It's not actually your decision to make, _Doctor_ ,” she replied. The sound of his name on her lips was cold, the syllables sharp and coated with irritation. Her Time Lord companion was stunned by the venom with which she spoke, staring back at her in wordless surprise. Hartley turned to the other doctors in the room, all of them doing an awful job of pretending they weren't listening in. “Shoot me up again,” she ordered them. “Get everything you can out of this thing, even if you have to torture it to do so.”

The others looked bewildered and more than a little bit hesitant, like they weren't sure they were comfortable doing what Hartley was asking.

Cyrus was the first to agree, and Hartley knew his thoughts were on his wife, and exactly how far he'd go to save her. “Alright,” he said, a hint of trepidation clinging to his voice, but his eyes were steely and determined. “We'll give you a larger dose this time,” he said, and Gideon's eyes went wide.

“Last I checked, you weren't the one in charge, Cyrus,” he said sharply.

“Last _I_ checked, your wife wasn't the one with her life on the line,” Cyrus argued without so much as a blink of hesitation. “Hartley is volunteering of her own volition, and she's the wisest person to try it on, considering her apparent regenerative abilities.”

“If the CGDC found out––” countered Gideon in a move of desperation.

“We _are_ the CGDC,” snapped Hartley, voice cold and dominating, leaving no room for argument as she held out her arm impatiently.

Gideon's eyes widened and flickered over to the Doctor, as though expecting him to step in and put a stop to it all, as though he were in _charge_ of her. But he wasn't. The Doctor could only stare at her with a deep sadness and a wracking guilt. Hartley looked away, uninterested in his self-blame or that bottomless expanse of pity he held in his chest.

She leant against the backrest and waited for the scientists to gather their things, the gleam to her eyes hard and stubborn. She was blind to her own righteousness, blind to the truth of the matter. Her judgement was clouded by her pain, the echoes of it still reverberating along her nerves, like little pinpricks of self-loathing.

Unable to do anything but comply, Gideon reluctantly nodded his head. He could see the logic, could see that despite her steadfast, self-destructive death wish, she had a point. She was physically indestructible, it made _sense_ to use her as a conduit for a cure. She knew the risks, but she didn't care.

Hartley waited as the doctors all hurried around the room, fetching what they needed and going over the results from the last experiment. The Doctor stood opposite her, his old eyes big and sad. Hartley met them, stern and unfeeling, and the Doctor looked away, guilt thrumming through his system before her window into his heart shuttered, leaving him nothing but an empty wall.

He snapped into action suddenly and Hartley tracked his movement with her eyes. “Gideon, how many CC's of serotonin are you using this time?” he asked shortly, sliding into place at the computer beside the human, glasses sitting low on his nose.

“Ten,” said Gideon carefully.

“Bump it to fifteen,” the Doctor replied, his voice flat and unemotional. Hartley was surprised, but she didn't let it show on her face.

“Fifteen?” Gideon parroted, eyes wide and full of shock. “Are you sure that's wise––?”

“I'm a doctor as well, Gideon,” he reminded him, voice hard enough to cut diamond. “And I'm more familiar with Hartley's unique biology than you are. I know what I'm doing.”

And Gideon certainly couldn't argue with that. He turned back to his computer, tapping away at the keys with a little more force than necessary. The Doctor darted over to Cyrus, where he was slowly measuring out the requested amount of liquified serotonin.

Hartley hadn't noticed before, but the chemical filling the syringe was almost clear, just the slightest tint of yellow to it. She looked away from the large needle, the sight of it sending an unpleasant shiver down the length of her spine. She could do this. She _had_ to do this.

The one called Wes approached, making sure the little sticky squares were properly attached to her head. “I think you're very brave,” he whispered to her, as if the words were somehow taboo. Hartley didn't meet his eyes, staring past him without emotion. She could practically taste his disappointment at her lack of acknowledgement but still said nothing, listening distractedly as Cyrus and the Doctor discussed the science of it all from behind her.

The words all went over her head, and she contented herself with appreciating the cadence of the Doctor's familiar voice. She didn't know what she was heading into – this thing could take her over, make her do things she'd never do in a million years, and she would be all but powerless to stop it. All she could do was hope the Doctor had it in him to end this life of hers when it was necessary.

Finally Cyrus and the Doctor approached, Gideon close on their heels. “Wes, go tend to the patients out in the ward. It's been too long between check-ins,” said the head physician sternly. Wes nodded obediently, turning and leaving the room with the suctioning sound of the airtight door.

Once he was gone Gideon approached her, needle in hand. Cyrus moved over to the computers, watching what she presumed were her vital signs, and monitoring her brain activity. The Doctor leaned over his shoulder, but every few moments his eyes darted to her, unmistakeably concerned.

“Ready?” Gideon asked bracingly.

“Don't bother,” she replied, eyes hard as she thrust out her arm for him to inject.

Gideon shifted uncomfortably but moved in to do as he was told anyway. The needle piercing her skin stung like an absolute bitch, but she kept her face void of reaction. Again, the liquid through her veins was cold and she bit down on her tongue against the sensation.

This time the process of slipping away was almost instantaneous. One moment she was in the laboratory with the others and in the next she was gone, swept beneath the current of her own mind while the virus inside of her took the reins.

It was almost relaxing. Hartley couldn't deny it was a relief not to be in control, not to have to focus on the real world around her – all hard edges and cruel, harsh reality. Instead she was safe, cushioned inside her brain, where nothing physical could harm her. It was quieter there, and she was able to float listlessly, as though submerged in a pool, completely and utterly at peace.

It was a shock to come back to herself. She wasn't sure of exactly how much time had passed, but she knew it hadn't been enough. She blinked open her eyes, disappointed to find herself back in reality. The Doctor was hovering over her, thunder in his gaze. The expression softened when her eyes cleared and she took a deep breath to steady herself.

“Hartley?” he asked, wary and unsure.

“Yeah,” she said, voice just as croaky as it had been when she'd come from her last stupor. “It's me.” He was relieved, she could see it clear as day across his face. “What'd you learn?” she asked, words slurring together a little as she readjusted to the physical world.

A glass full of liquid appeared in her vision, and she grasped it with a shaking hand, taking a deep sip of the cool water within.

“Recover first,” said the Doctor slowly. “Then I'll tell you.”

“How'm I recovering at all?” she pressed, feeling a sharp ache between her eyes and wincing when the overhead lights only made it worse. “Shouldn't the virus be in control?”

The Doctor was already shaking his head. “It was just a possibility, but you're stronger than I thought,” he said, but she couldn't find it in herself to be offended. She was too tired. Apparently while her consciousness had been floating peacefully, another part of her had been fighting against the virus. Her muscles felt inexplicably sore, as though she'd just run a marathon.

“Okay,” she said, reaching up to tug at the little pads still attached to her face. She half expected the human doctors to argue, but neither of them did. The sticky squares stung when she yanked them off, tugging painfully at her skin, but she didn't care. “I'm recovered now, tell me everything,” she said, reaching for the water again, taking another gulp.

The Doctor looked like he desperately wanted to argue, but by the glint to his eyes he probably knew better than to start with her at a time like this. At the same time, he didn't seem to know how to begin, frowning with trepidation.

“The virus is a parasite,” said Gideon when the Doctor took too long to answer. “But, as we found before, it's in your body consensually.”

“Tell me something I _don't_ already know,” Hartley interjected sternly.

The Doctor stepped forwards, apparently ready to talk. “Hartley, it can only stay with your _consent_ ,” he said, eyes bright with meaning and just a hint of hope.

Her brain was still foggy from the whole experience, so she still didn't understand. “So?” she pressed impatiently, reaching up to rub at her forehead where the headache had yet to abate.

“ _So,_ that means you should be able to repel the virus simply by casting it out,” he told her eagerly.

Hartley's eyebrows rose, dubious. “You're telling me all I have to do is say the magic words and this thing will leave my body?” she asked, suspicious. “It can't be that easy.”

The Doctor looked grim, lips pulling down at the corners. “It isn't,” he told her seriously. He glanced over his shoulder, where Cyrus was frantically writing something down on a piece of paper, probably notes on their recent findings. Gideon stood, still and grave, staring back at the Doctor without faltering. Her companion sighed, turning back to her. “The virus effects brain chemistry,” he began, and Hartley bristled.

“I though I asked you to tell me something I _don't_ already know?” she asked, voice low with irritation.

The Doctor sighed in exasperation, like he were dealing with a petulant child. “It's like the virus is a puppet master, and you're the marionette,” he explained carefully. Hartley didn't reply, the hard set of her jaw telling him she was listening. “The chemicals in your brain are the strings.”

Hartley took a deep, calming breath. “But it hasn't made me do anything yet,” she said, slow and thoughtful. “Has it?” she pressed, running her thoughts over the last twenty or so hours, trying to find something out of place, some kind of action she made that hadn't been her own.

The Doctor shook his head. “It's not strong enough,” he told her. “It's more like a whisper in your head. It _suggests_ things, sways your thinking patterns. It can't control you completely.”

But things still weren't adding up. “What's its goal?” she asked. “Why do this at all? Why _kill_ all these people at all?”

“Why does a bird fly? Why does a lion hunt?” the Doctor mused, but his eyes were hard. “It's what it's designed to do.”

“But if the host dies, doesn't this thing die with them?” The Doctor paused, then nodded his head. “So it's like a suicide bomber,” she said, matter-of-fact. “It goes into this knowing it's going to die when it achieves its end.”

“Essentially, yes,” he confirmed. “The virus spawns in the mouth, and when the transfer to a new host is made it makes them tired, then incubates while they sleep. That's why you slept so long last night,” he told her.

Hartley wasn't interested in how it spread. She was only interested in getting it out of her. She made to stand up but Gideon moved closer, beginning to detach the rest of his equipment from her body.

“So all I have to do is _will_ it out then, right?” she asked the Doctor clearly. He didn't look particularly confident, but he nodded all the same. “But what about the rest of the infected?” she questioned, eyes sliding over to the glass door separating them from the women in the ward. Their shiny white hair gleamed in the lights, but their pale faces were gaunt and drawn.

“Let's worry about one thing at a time, eh?” the Doctor said, and Hartley looked away from the other women, focusing back on him. He held out a hand that she took, letting him pull her delicately to her feet.

“When do we do this, then?” she asked once she was upright.

“No time like the present,” he replied, playing cheerful despite being anything but. “Cyrus, Gideon, mind giving us the room?” he added over his shoulder.

“Uh, I'd really prefer to stay, Doctor,” said Gideon, but his voice wavered, torn between his scientific curiosity and his obedience to the Doctor's natural authority. “I need to see how the virus is expelled, then I should collect samples for further study––”

“I have a feeling this isn't going to be pleasant, Gideon,” said the Doctor sternly, but his eyes never left Hartley's face, which was growing more and more pale by the minute. By now her hair was completely white, falling in limp tresses down her back. “Go and spread the word about what we've learned from Hartley,” he added with a touch more care. “The other hospitals around the city will need to know. Share the data you've collected, too.”

Gideon still looked reluctant, but he knew the Doctor had a point there. With a sigh, he relented, gathering his things and leading Cyrus from the room.

Hartley waited until they were alone to speak, peering at the Doctor warily. “What did you mean, this won't be pleasant?” she finally asked, fingers twisting together with an anxiety she was loath to admit. The Doctor's expression was hard as stone, like he was making a conscious effort not to grimace. “All I've gotta do is verbally cast it out, right?” she pressed when he didn't answer.

The Doctor's expression twisted. “It's going to fight you, Hartley,” he told her quietly.

She smothered a snort. “Let it try,” she replied, unafraid. His expression didn't thaw and slowly but surely she began to grasp the severity of the situation. “Fight me how?” she asked warily.

“It's going to use your own fears, your own weaknesses, against you,” he said.

Hartley tried not to roll her eyes. “I'm a big girl, Doctor,” she reminded him dryly. “I'm sure I can handle it.”

His eyes hardened, irritated by her nonchalant attitude. “All right then,” he said, the words tight and clipped. “Cast it out now. Go on, try it,” he pressed, a challenge. “Tell it that it doesn't have your consent.”

Meeting his eyes, Hartley lifted her chin and said in a clear, strong voice, “I don't give my consent.”

Nothing happened, and the silence quickly turned uncomfortable. She didn't feel any different, and she gripped a lock of hair, glancing down to find it was still the colour of moonlight. She wasn't sure if that was something that would immediately change, but she got the feeling it hadn't worked.

“Did you hear me?” she said as firmly as she could manage. “I want you gone!”

Again, nothing happened. There wasn't so much as a tingle to prove that anything had changed.

“Am I doing it wrong?” she asked the Doctor in confusion.

His eyes remained hard. “It's not working because you have to _mean_ it,” he told her like the words were some kind of sentence.

“You're saying I don't mean it?” she asked, brow furrowed. She didn't understand why he looked so grave, so defeated.

“I'm saying that you need to acknowledge why it chose you in the first place, Hartley,” he said. She said nothing, staring back at him, understanding slowly beginning to trickle into the edges of her thoughts. The Doctor pressed forwards despite the haunted look in her deep blue eyes. “It sought you out because it could sense how you were hurting. That's the only reason you're infected now. Because you're in pain, and it promised to fix you.”

Hartley grit her teeth against the unsavoury truth. She looked away so he wouldn't see the ache that hid behind her eyes. She tried to rein it in, gripping all her hurt, all her pain, and tried to stuff it deep into herself where it could hide away and gather dust. But it didn't work, it just remained, simmering like something set on the stove to boil.

“You have to acknowledge it, Hart,” the Doctor said quietly. “It's the only way.”

She swallowed, hating herself that little bit more as her eyes began to sting traitorously. “What if I can't?” she asked, her voice rough with emotion.

“The alternative is dying.”

She looked up sharply. “Then let me die.”

Pain flickered in the Doctor's heart before he shuttered his emotions from view. “Don't,” he said, pleading. “You're stronger than that,” he told her, his whisky eyes shining with sincerity.

“I'm really not,” she argued. _Not anymore,_ she wanted to add, but it was too close to the hidden truth, bordering too close to a confession.

“Why won't you fight it?” he asked, staring at her like he didn't understand what he was looking at. Like she were as big of a question to him as she was to herself. “Why, Hartley?” he pressed when she didn't answer.

She swallowed, looking away, unable to bear the questions in his eyes. “It's not worth it,” she finally said.

“You mean _you're_ not worth it,” he replied, stabbing at the heart of the issue.

Her eyes snapped up to meet his. “You're not my shrink,” she bit back.

“You're lashing out,” he said evenly.

Hartley spun away, reaching up to grip at her silvery hair, tugging hard at the roots, enjoying the sting that radiated down from her scalp. It was a nice distraction from the hollow pain in her chest where her heart used to be.

She knew she couldn't run forever, but she wouldn't be human if she didn't at least try.

“If you can't push past this, if you can't beat this thing, then how can you expect all those women out there to do the same?” the Doctor pressed, pointing a finger at the glass door separating the lab from the ward. It was a valid point – and a harsh one.

“You're telling me to do this like it's so easy,” she said, whipping back around to glare at him.

“I know it isn't _easy_ , Hartley,” he said gently, taking half a step closer with his hand outstretched, but he seemed to change his mind, dropping his arm with something of a pained frown. “But it's _necessary,_ ” he said. There was a grim sincerity to him. He knew this was going to be hard – painful, even – but he couldn't just stand by and watch her die. Not again.

Hartley felt something inside of her agree, she felt herself give in, accepting that she was going to have to fight it.

And with that decision came a wave of pain, and a voice in her head that sounded suspiciously like the Master's.

_You deserve this,_ it whispered to her in a demonic hiss. _Little girl lost, finally getting what she deserves. You're nothing. Because I broke you down to nothing. I_ made _you._

Hartley flinched like she'd been struck, and thunder flickered across the Doctor's expression. “It's fighting back,” he said knowingly. Hartley winced, reaching her hands up to her head, gripping her skull and squeezing her eyes tight against the pain. “Talk to me, Hart,” he begged her. “Tell me about the pain. Work through it with me. Please. Let me help.”

It sounded suspiciously close to a plea, and she swallowed around the uncomfortable lump of emotion stuck in her throat. She didn't know where to begin, and as she searched for a place to start, that hauntingly familiar voice whispered again, the sound brushing against the deep recesses of her mind, places where nothing should have ever been able to reach.

_You don't want to let go,_ the voice hissed at her, raw and goading. _You deserve this. You know you do. Broken little Hartley Daniels – I'm the only thing that'll fix you. I'm what you_ need.

“Hartley,” said the Doctor again, perhaps bordering on desperate. “Talk to me. Please.”

_He broke you. He broke you. He_ broke _you!_

“I'm not worth it,” she told the Doctor, voice trembling with emotion. Her eyesight had begun to blur from the tears. She sniffled pathetically.

“You are,” he replied, but how could he know what she meant? He couldn't know. He was just saying what he thought she needed to hear.

“Please kill me,” she said, rubbing at her eyes until her sight began to clear. The Doctor's expression was tortured, like her words caused him agony. “Please, just kill me and end this,” she begged him.

“You can't give up,” he argued valiantly. “Not now. You're strong enough to beat this, Hartley.”

“I'm really not,” she whispered, throat raw with emotion. “I'm nothing.”

The Doctor reached out, pressing his cool, calloused hands against her cheeks, angling her face back up so he could look deep into her eyes. “That isn't you speaking, Hart. It's the thing inside of you.”

“You're wrong,” she said, meeting his stare. “It's not the parasite. It's _him_.”

The Doctor looked confused for a moment, not knowing who she meant, but then understanding bloomed in his eyes and he dropped her face, taking a physical step backwards, like he needed space between them to breathe.

There was only one person she could refer to with such venom – with such _hatred_ – in her voice.

“The Master,” he said the name aloud, and Hartley flinched at the sound of it. “Hartley, he's gone,” he whispered, imploring. “He's _dead_ and he's _gone_.”

“No, he's not,” she argued, reaching a hand up to her head, jabbing her fingers against her temple. “He's _here,_ still. Even now. Whispering.”

“It's the parasite,” he insisted, and maybe he was right. Maybe it was just the parasite whispering into her mind, using the Master's voice as a way into her psyche. But there was one thing working against that theory.

“I've heard it before now, though,” she told him shakily. “Every day. Every waking minute since the Valiant,” she confessed tearfully, “he's _there_.”

The Doctor looked anguished. “I'm sorry,” he said, placing his hands on her shoulders, like a weight tethering her to the floor. “Hartley, I'm so, so sorry. If I could take it back, if I could change what happened––”

“Even if it broke the laws of your people?” she asked around a sad little laugh.

But the Doctor didn't smile, instead he stared back with a steadfast conviction and told her, “yes.”

Taken aback by the certainty – the _truth_ – in his eyes, Hartley blinked back at him slowly. “Tell me why,” she said in a flare of boldness.

“Why what?”

“Why I should fight,” she whispered. “What's the point in fighting if we know me dying would just kill it stone dead? Why bother putting me through the trauma?”

The Doctor was quiet, considering her question carefully. He stared deep into her eyes, his chocolate gaze strong and unwavering. She tried to draw from his strength, tried to let him help her.

She knew the power of words more than anyone and in that moment, so did the Doctor. If he said the right words – the exact right words to inspire hope and bravery in Hartley's heart, he could save her. They both knew it, felt it like a tangible thing in the air between them.

“Because you're _stronger_ than this thing,” he finally said, leaning closer, beseeching and desperate. “Because if you can't do it, why should anyone else?”

But it wasn't enough and they both knew it. The parasite within her reared its ugly head, and she slammed her eyes shut tight against its influence.

“Because your life _means_ something, Hartley,” the Doctor hurried ahead. “Because you're _worth_ _saving._ ” She wanted to argue, but he barrelled on before she could form the words. “Whatever the Master said to you – whatever he said _about_ you … it was all lies, Hartley.”

Whimpering, Hartley felt the disease within her roar.

“You're worth saving. Maybe not to the whole world, maybe not in the grand scheme of things. But Hartley, to me? Saving you is the only thing I could do that would be worth a damn. And if anything happens to you – regardless of whether or not you'll wake back up … Hartley, I don't want to be part of a world you're not in.”

And that was it, those magic words.

He let down his wall, just enough for her to feel the storm of emotion inside, and Hartley knew then that he meant it with every fibre of his being. The force of his truth made her cry harder.

She didn't have many people – Jack and her dad, and that was about it – but as much as she adored them both with everything she had, the _Doctor_ was her _person._ He was just everything to her, her best friend in the world, even if she wasn't his. And she loved him with everything she had.

And if her dying now would break him, if he wanted her to be strong enough – _believed_ her to be strong enough – then, by the stars, she would be. Because if he thought she was worth saving, then she must have been.

She heard herself cry out, heard the scream as it left her lips, loud and full of desperation.

_I am worth saving_ , she told herself over and over, like a chant within her head, like a war cry during a battle. She wouldn't let this beat her. She was stronger than it. _I am worth saving._

The world faded from around her, colours seeming to drain out of her eyes, dripping away until only black and white remained. Everything tilted and she saw the Doctor's eyes, wide and alarmed, before the world dissolved into a dark, comforting silence.

* * *

Hartley awoke slowly, coming to gently rather than violently – which was strange. She was so used to the sharp reboot of her respiratory system, it was rather jarring to awaken as though coming out of a nap.

She was on a bed, but not a comfortable one. When she opened her eyes, it was to see a blue curtain pulled around her, and a small monitor at her bedside beeping in time with her pulse.

“Hartley,” said the Doctor's voice, and she turned her head to see him sitting in the chair beside her bed. “How do you feel?” he asked, reaching forwards and gently pressing the back of his hand to her head, apparently testing her for a temperature.

“Did it work?” she asked instead of answering. She was fine – or she would be, so long as that _thing_ was out of her system.

“See for yourself,” he said, reaching for a small, handheld mirror that sat off to the side. She plucked it from his hand, peering inside and releasing a sigh of relief when she found her hair to be completely back to its usual, lovely strawberry-blonde.

She had bags under her eyes and her skin was dull and pallid, but she still looked a million times healthier than she had before she'd expelled the virus.

“How long was I out?” she asked, putting the mirror down in her lap and turning to the Doctor, eager for him to fill in the blanks.

“About three hours,” he told her, leaning back in the uncomfortable-looking hospital chair.

“And the other women?”

His mouth twisted downwards into a frown. “Some of them have managed to expel the parasite,” he told her quietly. “Others are … succumbing to its effects.”

“How many?” she asked, barely daring to breathe.

“About one in five are dying,” he revealed sadly.

Her heart sank. “And there's nothing we can do?”

“They're trying to engineer a cure,” he said gently. “But they're running out of time. They won't have one soon enough to save them all.” Hartley looked away, eyes stinging with sorrowful tears. “We can't always save everyone, Hart,” he told her carefully.

She only nodded her head. “Four out of five have expelled it?” she pressed, clinging to the only good news they had.

The Doctor nodded back. “The rate of infection is decreasing faster than we could have hoped. For those remaining, quarantines have been put in place. Soon enough, the virus will find itself starved out of existence.”

It wasn't perfect, but it was better than nothing. And maybe the Doctor was right; they couldn't always save everyone.

“What about Gideon, and Cyrus and Wes?” she asked quickly, panic blooming in her chest. “I showed them what I could do … and what if they––?”

“They're not going to experiment on you,” he promised her gently. Hartley wasn't convinced, and he leant forwards, meeting her stare with an imploring, reassuring one of his own. “Honestly, Hartley, they have enough going on with the quarantines and studying the remains of the virus to worry about a woman with a neat parlour trick.”

Despite herself, her lips quirked upwards at the simplification of her ability.

“Do you feel strong enough to walk?” he continued smoothly, and she was quick to nod her head. The Doctor held out a hand, and she slid hers into his, letting him pull her gently to her feet. She felt physically fine – as if nothing had ever happened.

“Back to the TARDIS?” she asked quietly.

The Doctor smiled, small and kind, but there was a hint of torment to his eyes that didn't completely fade. “Back to the TARDIS,” he agreed, and they walked, leaving the hospital without being stopped by anyone.

Hartley knew things were far from perfect, and she was the furthest thing from healed – but some things didn't fix themselves overnight. She got the feeling that recovering from the Master's year of torture was going to take a lot longer than either of them would have liked.

But her healing had already begun.


	47. Daughter of the TARDIS

“ _Let us always meet each other with a smile,_

_for the smile is the beginning of love.”_

Mother Teresa

* * *

The sun was shining, a rarity for that part of England, Hartley thought as she leant against her favourite blue box, watching the hordes of people flow by her like a never ending school of fish swimming by.

None of them so much as gave her or the TARDIS a second glance. The Doctor was right, in the weirdest way, it really was a great disguise.

The Doctor was off somewhere close by, making Hartley wait by the TARDIS – much to her chagrin.

It was her birthday. Her 31st birthday technically, although she wasn't _physically_ older than 25. She hadn't felt like celebrating, she just wanted to do something normal – maybe indulge a _little_ and visit The Library for a few hours, but that was it.

She wouldn't have even known it was her birthday had the Doctor not greeted her in the kitchen when she'd woken up, presenting her with a hot mug of tea and a sugary smile that nearly made her teeth ache.

“Not everyday you turn 31,” he'd said brightly, but her usual zest for celebrating holidays just wasn't there. She'd like to say she was the same person she'd been before the Year That Never Was, but the fact of the matter was that she wasn't, and she wasn't sure that person would ever make a reappearance.

But the Doctor seemed so intent on acting like everything was fine, and the last thing she wanted was to break the illusion of normalcy he was trying so hard to create. It helped him, and that was what was important.

She was probably standing there for at least twenty minutes, enjoying the sun on her face and people watching, before the Doctor finally reappeared. “Here we are!” he proclaimed, slipping through a hole in the crowd and presenting her with an ice cream cone, the treat covered in sprinkles. “The best Earth can provide,” he said brightly, watching with a grin as she took it from him with careful fingers.

“The best ice cream Earth can provide is sold at a convenience store in the middle of Cambridge in the year 1980?” she asked skeptically.

“I don't know how they do it,” he replied with a wistful sigh, as though it were a secret he'd been trying to discover for years now, but just never could.

Placating him, she took a bite of the strawberry, sprinkle-covered ice cream, and quickly had to concede that, yes, it was amazing. “It's brilliant,” she indulged him, and he grinned back happily. “So, off to The Library?”

“Nah, this is only step _one_ of your birthday plans!” he said enthusiastically.

Hartley frowned warily. “How many steps are there?”

“Forty-seven,” he told her brightly as he produced the key from his pocket, slipping it into the lock of the TARDIS and pushing the door open with a low squeak of its hinges. “Now, there's a nebula on the edge of the Cigar Galaxy that's imploding as we speak – it would be a travesty to miss it.”

“But we have a time machine,” she reminded him slowly as she followed him inside, still licking contentedly at her treat. “Isn't it impossible to miss something in a time machine? Unless we're taking into account your terrible driving skills, in which case I completely understand.”

“No need to be rude,” he muttered, already busying himself with the console. “I just need to calibrate the resonator, and we'll be good to-”

He was interrupted as all the controls went crazy at once. The time rotor pinged and bonged, the floor beneath them trembled with steam seeping from the grating, and sparks shot out from the console, very nearly singing off Hartley's eyebrows in the process.

“Whoa!” cried the Doctor, reaching out to grab the console and steady himself as that familiar wheezing filled the room. Hartley yelped, cone of strawberry ice cream thrown from her hand. She caught herself on the jump seat, eyes wide and stinging from the steam shooting into her face from the controls. “What's wrong?!” the Doctor was asking his ship, struggling to stay flat on his feet as the ship tossed to and fro like a ship caught in the middle of a cyclone.

“Doc?!” Hartley called, gripping onto the jump seat with everything she had, her hip slamming into the railing behind her, leaving behind an ugly bruise. “What's happening?” she demanded as a loud beeping filled the room, the sound a warning, but she didn't know what for.

“We're being pulled through space!” he yelled back shortly, no time to explain as he struggled to regain control of his ship.

“To where?!”

But he didn't answer. They held on for an extra moment, and just when Hartley's teeth began to rattle and she could taste the chemical steam at the back of her throat, the TARDIS came to a blissful stop. She just about slipped from where she was clinging to the jump seat for dear life, stunned by the sudden absence of turmoil.

The Doctor slowly stood from where he was hunched over the console. He straightened his blue suit, running a hand through his hair and sniffing sharply, staring up at the time rotor in pure perplexity.

“Where are we?” Hartley wondered, pushing herself upright and eyeing him in concern as she straightened her canary-yellow shirt.

The Doctor gathered himself, pulling the monitor closer to him and then leaning down to the keyboard, typing away quicker than she could process. “...We're about three miles east,” he said with a glimmer of surprise.

“What, of where we just were?” she blinked, struggling to understand.

“Same city, time period... What? Even the same day,” he told her, swinging the monitor around for her to see.

“Where are we, specifically?” she asked, most of the readings on the monitor absolutely gibberish to her – mostly due to them being in Gallifreyan, the one language the TARDIS wouldn't translate.

He eyed the screen, and again his eyes lit up with surprise. “Cambridge.”

“I know that,” she rolled her eyes. “But _where_ are we?”

“No, I literally mean _Cambridge_ ,” he said, tapping the monitor impatiently. “We're inside the University of Cambridge.”

Hartley frowned. It wasn't that she didn't believe him, it was just confusing. “Do you know _why_?” she asked, a perfectly reasonable question.

“No,” he replied honestly, most of his attention taken up by the screen and its readings. He tapped away at the keyboard, trying to determine exactly what had brought them there. Hartley wandered down towards the door, passing her dropped and now melted ice cream as she went, sending it a forlorn look. It really had been very good. “Wait!” the Doctor cried suddenly, stopping her with her hand just inches from the door handle.

“What?” she asked in alarm, turning back around quickly.

“Don't go out there,” he said, then didn't elaborate.

“Why?”

“It could be…dangerous,” he told her lamely. She stared back at him in sheer bewilderment. “Just – just let me run a scan first … so we know it's safe to leave the TARDIS,” he said, turning his attention back to the controls.

Hartley stared back at him, utterly baffled. Since when did the Doctor scan for danger? The guy's MO was practically to run into danger blindly, and then have the time of his life finding his way out of it again. What had changed?

“Okay, there doesn't seem to be anything amiss,” he murmured from where he stood at the monitor.

“Can I go now?” Hartley asked, irritated that she had to ask for permission – like some kind of _child._

The Doctor moved around the console towards her, pulling his coat down from where it was hung over a pillar of coral and threading his arms through the sleeves. “Let's go,” he said, perfectly cheerful. She scowled at him in blatant annoyance, watching as he not-so subtly edged around her so that he was in the front, then pulled the door open and stepped out into the glaring unknown.

They were in some kind of lecture hall; large and sprawling but utterly empty. Hartley turned to the Doctor thoughtfully. “What time is it?”

“Just a bit before lunch,” he replied without pause, eyeing the room carefully, like he might find something evil hidden within the rows and rows of empty desks and chairs.

“Where is everyone?” Hartley asked, not liking the seed of dread that had appeared in her gut like a stone. Something was very, very wrong – she didn't know how she knew, she just did.

“Dunno,” the Doctor sniffed, rocking back on his heels as he scanned the room with his eyes, searching for some sign, some clue that could tell him what they were doing there.

As if cued, a loud, blaring alarm cut through the still air. It was different to the TARDIS' usual bongs and tings. This was sharp and insistent, familiar in one very specific way.

“That's a fire alarm,” exclaimed the Doctor needlessly. “Come on!”

Then he was moving, bolting towards the doors with his coattails flapping out behind him. Hartley hurried to keep up, following him as he shoved his way through the large double doors and pushed his way out into the hall.

As though the doors themselves had been soundproof, suddenly they were met with a sea of chaos. The alarm was louder in the hallway and dozens of people – students, mostly – were sprinting down the corridor in a panic, gripping their belongings and searching frantically for an exit.

The Doctor didn't hesitate to grasp one of the passing students by the arms, pulling him to a sudden stop.

“What's going on?” he demanded, only just loud enough to be heard over the shriek of the alarm.

“Fire in the West Wing!” shouted the student, a tall, lanky guy with long dark hair and a jacket covered in iron-on patches. “It's like nothing I've ever seen!” he exclaimed, eyes wild with panic. The Doctor didn't immediately let him go and so he began to struggle, desperate to get himself to safety.

The Doctor took his hands from the guy's shoulders and instantly he was bolting back down the hall, following the flow of the rest of the foot-traffic.

“Come on!” the Doctor said again, reaching out for Hartley's hand. Once he had a good grip he began to pull her in the opposite direction to everybody else.

“Wait – we're going _towards_ the fire?!” she shouted back at him in bewilderment.

“We're here for a reason!” he told her, dodging the panicked students. “We're not going to figure out what that reason is by running _away_ from the danger,” he added. Hartley rolled her eyes even as she ran, coming close to tripping over other people's feet as they rushed past.

As they raced towards the fire, Hartley took in the area around her. It was familiar in a distant way. She'd gotten her Masters in Literature from Cambridge – studied in this very building, actually – but that was eight years ago for her now; or, linearly speaking, it wouldn't be for another seventeen.

Time travel could be so confusing.

The Doctor burst through a pair of doors that led into the courtyard that separated the main lecture halls from the west wing. Hartley didn't think things could possibly get any more chaotic, but she was swiftly proved wrong.

The building across from them was on fire, and the moment they were out of the doors Hartley could feel the heat of it as though she were standing in the flames themselves. It was scorching and wild, making a dull, roaring sound that caused her ears to ring.

Dozens of firefighters were spread around the courtyard, most holding large hoses with freezing water gushing from the nozzles. People around them, mere spectators, were wailing about people still being trapped inside, and a small group of firemen were struggling to herd them all towards safety.

But Hartley could barely give it any thought. The fire wasn't just hot or loud, it was so large it nearly held a presence of its own. It was bright in her mind, full of a roaring anger that shouldn't have been possible.   
  
The Doctor's expression was grave as he let go of her hand, tugging free the psychic paper and holding it up for one of the men to see. “Disaster Expert?” the firefighter, a man with a face shiny with sweat and grime, shouted over the thundering sound of the fire behind him, bemused by the strange title.

“Who's in charge?!” the Doctor shouted back, already pocketing the paper.

“Chief Brady!” the man answered obediently. “You'll find him over by the north entrance!” he called as he pointed in the right direction, then went back to his task struggling to corral the terrified crowd.

The Doctor was already moving, weaving his way through the frenzied crowd in search of Fire Chief Brady. “Doctor, what's happening?” Hartley asked, struggling to keep up with his pace. She gripped the back of his coat to keep herself from getting lost in the fray. “The fire...” she trailed off, glancing back at the flames that were encompassing the old building above them. The fire roared like a hungry dragon, and Hartley felt her sweaty skin prickle with a sort of instinctual fear that she didn't entirely understand.

“What?” he prompted her quickly, still searching wildly for the man in charge.

“It feels…angry,” she admitted, voice only just barely loud enough to hear over the chaos.

“Don't be ridiculous, Hartley!” he shouted back, too concerned with saving everybody around them to worry about her _feelings._ Which was fair, she supposed. “Chief Brady?” he asked, coming to a stop beside a stocky fireman decked out in his full gear, a haggard look on his grimy face which was free of his helmet, held in a gloved hand at his side.

“We're doing all we can to get it under control,” snapped Brady, impatient and sharp, like it were something he'd repeated a million times over in the last hour to the frantic bystanders.

“Well, that's certainly good to hear,” the Doctor replied easily, holding up the psychic paper once again, so close to his face that the Fire Chief couldn't avoid looking at it. “The Doctor and Hartley Daniels, Disaster Experts,” he said with such easy confidence that nobody would dare even imagine it were a lie.

“Who sent you?” asked Brady suspiciously.

“Oh, you know...” the Doctor hesitated in his answer, briefly struggling to find a believable falsehood. “The Comity.”

“Which Comity?”

“The disaster one,” he replied fluently. “What's the situation? How did the fire break out?” he continued without pause, giving the Chief no choice but to answer him.

“We don't know much. No idea how it broke out – but I'll tell you one thing, it's spreading quickly. Much more quickly than anything I've ever seen.”

“But you can stop it, right?” Hartley asked anxiously, glancing at the roaring inferno nervously. Cambridge was as much a part of her as the TARDIS – it was where she spent years of her life, learning about the written word, devouring it like if she stopped for even once moment, she might just die.

“We've only been here twenty minutes,” Brady replied tightly, wiping at his grey stubble and wincing as the flames nearby let out a burst of extra heat that slapped them all violently in the face. Hartley flinched away, eyes stinging from the small explosion of burning heat. “At this point it's any man's game!” he told them once the flare disappeared back inside the rest of the fire.

Hartley couldn't help but have the strangest feeling that she knew what was going to happen. Like a story she'd been told once before, this was all frightfully familiar.

“Is everyone out of the building?” the Doctor asked, and Chief Brady's expression went grim.

“No,” he told them, eyes hard with regret. “We tried to send men in to get them all out, but this is hotter than any fire I've ever encountered. So far we've gauged its temperature at over 1,500 degrees Celsius, and it only seems to be rising.”

“Blimey,” muttered the Doctor, turning back to look at the building, which was being eaten away layer by layer by this hot, unnatural fire. “And the water isn't doing _anything_ against it?”

Chief Brady's eyes went hard. “Just stay back and let us do out job, Doctor,” he said stiffly. “I'll come find you if we need your help.”

But before either traveller could argue, a firefighter rushed up to them, covered head to toe in his gear. He paused a moment, then lifted his helmet from his head, revealing a face that nearly made Hartley's knees buckle from beneath her.

“Dad?!” she asked, voice shrill from shock.

Jacob Daniels stood before her, eyes glazed with a panic she'd never before seen on him. He barely acknowledged her, despite the strange way she'd greeted him.

“Chief,” he said, voice not quite as gravelly as she knew it to be. He was younger now, no grey in his hair or laugh lines on his face. He was youthful. “I still can't find her. Nobody's seen her in hours!”

“Sorry, who?” asked the Doctor, staring at her dad with an equal amount of surprise, although he did a better job of hiding it than she did.

“My wife – Penelope,” said her dad in a rush, the panic glinting in his eyes echoing loudly in his heart. “She's here finishing off her Masters – I can't find her anywhere!”

The Doctor was utterly calm in the face of her dad's panic. “I'm sure she'll turn up,” he assured him, keeping composed.

Her dad wasn't convinced. He turned back to the Chief, reaching up to wipe at the sweat on his brow.

“Permission to go inside and look, sir,” he said formally, reminding Hartley of his soldier days. She'd never seen that side of him, but now it wasn't just something she knew to be true. It was something she could see with her own to two eyes. It was _real._

“No,” snapped his Chief sharply, looking to the far right as somebody called out for him. “You are not to go inside that building under any circumstances. Understood?” Jacob looked very much like he was considering punching him clear across the face, but in the end he just nodded, jaw clicking with anger. Chief Brady's hard expression melted, becoming a little softer with compassion. “We'll find her, Jacob. She'll be okay,” he said, but the promise was hollow to all their ears. Jacob didn't react, staring back glassily. “Stay with these two – keep them safe, they were sent by the Comity.”

“What Comity?” her dad asked skeptically.

“Jacob,” snapped Chief Brady firmly and her dad nodded obediently, the perfect soldier. The Chief turned and rushed away, leaving the pair of travelling companions with Hartley's dad.

Hartley spun towards the Doctor, pressing herself up onto her toes so she could speak into his ear without her dad overhearing. “What about my mum?” she asked anxiously.

“She'll be fine,” he promised her, but she felt the emptiness behind the words. They were said to placate her, not as something the Doctor believed.

“But if she dies that'll mean I'll have never even––”

“Hartley,” he said, sharp and demanding her attention. She stared into his eyes from where she was pressed up on her toes, their gazes almost level. His eyes were stern, glinting with a steely resolve that was echoed in his emotions. Her mum would be fine, because the Doctor wouldn't allow anything less. He was full of a hardened determination. Nothing would happen to her. Nothing.

He was asking her to trust him, and it was something she could do without question. Her life in his hands – not something that happened very often these days.

“You're here now – we're part of these events,” he told her in a softer, more reassuring tone.

“Which means mum survives and I'm fine in the end,” she finished slowly, expression pinched. “But time's always in flux, isn't it? You're always saying that nothing's set in stone. What if–?”

“Hart,” he said again, leaning just that little bit closer, pushing so much comfort and sincerity at her that she felt herself relax in response.

“Okay,” she eventually relented, dropping back down to her flat feet and letting go of the tight grip she'd held on his jacket.

“Jacob, was it?” asked the Doctor suddenly, loud and unbothered. Her dad turned his haunted eyes away from the raging inferno before them, looking at the Doctor expectantly. “Your Chief said this fire's different to others. How? It's hotter? More violent?”

Her dad swallowed, glancing back at the flames with hollow eyes. “It's too hot to be a normal fire,” he said, voice raw. “We can't even get our men inside the building.”

“What are your working theories?” the Doctor pressed some more.

“Dunno,” he replied, and Hartley flinched as there was another mini explosion from within the inferno. Her heart was racing in her chest and when she inhaled her lungs got coated in a thick layer of smoke and ash. “Maybe a chemical spill? Apparently the blaze originated from the Archaeological Wing,” he called over the roar of the angry flames. “But then what kind of chemical could do _this_?”

The answer was none – or, none with an earthly origin, at least.

“But don't you _feel_ that?!” Hartley asked the Doctor adamantly. As the flames gave another cry, she felt its anger and its hunger flare within her. The emotions were bigger than any other she'd ever felt. Those of something inhuman, though with a soul. “It's angry. It's _hungry._ ”

Before he'd dismissed her, but just as he'd spoken there was another great roar, and they all looked around in time to see what looked like some kind of face appear in the flames. Hartley gasped, flinching away like a child might at their first 3D movie.

The face was large and the features blurred, but they could clearly see a mouth, which opened up in a roar unlike any they'd heard before.

The Doctor's jaw dropped, but before he could comment the fiery face disappeared back into the flames, becoming one with the rest of the fire.

“Believe me now?!” she asked dryly. There was a crash as one of the beams holding up the building collapsed, and Hartley stopped breathing entirely.

The Doctor turned on her dad, eyes wild with determination. “Jacob, what happened? Tell me _exactly_ what happened! How did this start? Was anybody left alive?”

“Shouldn't they be questions asked _after_ the fire's been dealt with?” her dad shouted back scoldingly.

The Doctor grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him sharply once. “Jacob, people's lives are on the line,” he reminded him briskly, voice heavy with sincerity.

“I – I don't know much, but apparently a group of Archaeology students were working on some artefacts found at a dig site in Egypt,” her dad told him stiltedly. “All I know is that's where the fire came from. Something in that lab.”

“An archaeology lab?” Hartley echoed. “Why would there be open flame in an archaeology lab?”

“There wouldn't be,” answered the Doctor. “But these artefacts, what were they?” he pressed urgently.

“I don't know!” her dad cried back, wincing as the Doctor shook him once more. Then his eyes lit up as he realised something – it was that same expression he always got when she'd been growing up, the one when he remembered something important he'd forgotten, like where he'd put his keys. “Wait – there was a survivor! Someone got out of the lab in time!”

“Take me to them!” barked the Doctor. “Right now.”

The Doctor could certainly be intimidating when he wanted to be, and Hartley had never seen her dad look so scared. He nodded his head, turning and leading them through the crowd towards a small fleet of ambulances all lined up giving oxygen and bandages to the survivors.

“Miss Vazquez!” called her dad, and a woman with a left arm covered in bandages and an oxygen mask sitting over her mouth turned to look. Her eyes were wide but hollow, and Hartley felt the pain she felt like a stab to her own guts. “This is her,” her dad said needlessly, and the Doctor surged forwards, knowing they were on a clock to figure this whole mess out.

“Miss Vazquez,” he greeted the young girl evenly. She couldn't have been more than twenty-one, her hand shaking where she was holding the mask to her mouth. “What can you tell us about what started the fire?”

“Now isn't a good time, sir,” said the medic beside her, a stern look on her rounded features. “She's still recovering–”

“Please,” said the Doctor, ignoring the medic entirely, focusing on the girl. “If you can tell us more about what happened, the more people we'll be able to save.”

Miss Vazquez's eyes were bloodshot and glassy with tears, but Hartley felt her determination to help, to save anyone else from getting hurt. Still she hesitated, struggling with her instincts.

“Please,” Hartley implored her, stepping closer and picking up her uninjured hand. “You're the only one who can help us,” she said gently, “and the only one who can save all those people.” The girl still hesitated. “I'm Hartley,” she tried again, giving a soft smile that was wholly contradictory to her racing pulse and sweaty palms. “What's your name?”

Finally the girl lowered her oxygen mask, ignoring the indignant squawking of the paramedic as she did. “Mariana,” she said in a heavy Spanish accent, and Hartley smiled.

“Nice to meet you,” she said gently. “So, Mariana, what can you tell us about the fire?”

Mariana took an unsteady breath, then lifted the mask back to her mouth for a better one, before pulling it away and beginning to talk.

“We got a box of artefacts from our field team in Giza,” she began to tell them unsteadily. Her hand under Hartley's was trembling, and she gripped it tighter, a silent reassurance that she wasn't alone. “James Yates – the head of our student research group – picked out this small, round container fashioned from marble.”

Mariana swallowed, shaking her head as though to clear the memories, and then pressing the mask against her lips once more. It took another moment for her to gather herself enough to speak again.

“There was a seam, we knew something to be inside of it. We x-rayed it to see, but all the pictures came out fuzzy, like what was inside was some kind of...liquid metal,” she murmured shakily, her lower lip trembling. “We got permission from our aid to crack it open and see inside. So, James took the chisel...and...” she stopped talking, a small sob escaping her.

“And what, Mariana?” Hartley pressed, gentle but persistent. “What happened then?”

A tear trickled from one of the girl's bloodshot eyes. “He only tapped it once – but suddenly there was this explosion of heat, like a bomb,” she stopped to take a ragged, unsteady breath of oxygen. “I was closest to the door – and so I ran … without stopping to help … I am a _coward_!” she sobbed, and Hartley moved closer, gingerly wrapping an arm around her trembling shoulders, offering her comfort.

She wanted to say something, reassure her she'd done the right thing – the _only_ thing – but she knew there was no time. Her mother was almost definitely somewhere within the building. Who knew where she was, or how long she had left? The thought of her, so young and innocent compared to the woman she knew now, stuck in a burning room made her sick. They may not have gotten along at the best of times, but she was still her _mother._

“Did this marble sphere have any markings on it? Any defining characteristics?” asked the Doctor hurriedly.

Sniffling quietly, Mariana nodded her head. The Time Lord quickly produced a small pad and a pencil, holding them both out for the young woman to use. “How will this help?” she asked, meek and confused.

“Please, Mariana,” said Hartley, taking the paper from the Doctor and gently placing the pencil into her one useable hand. “Draw what you saw.”

Giving up her hesitation, Mariana took her free hand and shakily sketched the symbols that had been on this artefact. It took her about thirty seconds, and then she handed the pencil back and grabbed the oxygen mask, slipping it back onto her face.

The Doctor all but snatched the pad from Hartley's hand, slipping his brainy-specs onto his nose and peering down at it with narrowed eyes. He stared for a long few seconds before Hartley could take no more.

“Doc?” she asked, voice low and anxious.

“Thank you, Mariana,” said the Doctor quickly, tossing the girl a small but sincere smile. “You've been a tremendous help.”

Then he turned, darting away before anyone could say anything more. Hartley quickly scrambled to her feet. “Get well soon, Mariana,” she told the girl gently, “you did the right thing.”

Her eyes filled with tears again, but all Hartley could do was squeeze her hand reassuringly before taking off after the Doctor, the younger version of her dad close on her heels.

“Doctor, what's going on?” she asked the moment she found him. He was standing away from everybody else. Instead of answering verbally, he thrust out the pad for her to take. She gripped it, bringing it up to the light to see.

It was a strange little symbol. It was almost like some kind of Asian character – but then, wasn't it found in Egypt? Hartley was confused, one finger tracing down the lines where a triangle shape met with a sort of wavy line.

“What is it?” she asked him, looking back up with wide eyes.

“It's the symbol of the Helvetin,” the Doctor told her grimly, eyes hard and haunted, as though the very name itself carried evil in its syllables.

“Helvetin?” her dad asked from beside her. He'd been silent up until now, she'd nearly forgotten he was there. “What's that?”

But the Doctor didn't acknowledge him, staring at Hartley gravely. “Alien?” she asked tightly, and he nodded in confirmation. “How did it get here? No,” she said suddenly before he could answer her question. “That doesn't matter right now – what matters is how we _stop_ it,” she told him sternly, crossing her arms over her chest and keeping her voice raised over the inferno's loud, hungry roars. The heat was still beating down on them like they were inches from the surface of the sun itself, and Hartley wondered if the intensity of it would leave lasting burns on her skin.

But the Doctor's expression remained grave. “There aren't many ways we can,” he told her regrettably. “And he's not an _it._ ”

“You're saying the fire itself is alive?” Hartley asked him with a gasp. “I was right?”

“Stranger things have happened,” he said, and she took a moment to send him an unimpressed scowl. They'd seen everything from gas-mask zombies to the actual devil himself; was believing a fire could have a consciousness _really_ that earth-shattering? “They're a parasitic race. When they're born they latch onto something with enough energy to feed them and carry them throughout their lives. It can be anything from fire to black holes, but it's always deadly. They just _devour._ ”

“Okay, but how do we _stop it_?” she asked again, feeling her heart race. Her mum was somewhere deep within that building. The Doctor may have promised her she'd be alright – but that still meant they had to _do something._

“We'd have to – we'd have to kill it,” stammered the Doctor, reaching up to tug at his hair.

Hartley understood the conundrum they faced now. This was a life form; it was a real, living _being,_ and the only way to stop it was to murder it. But was it really such an ethical dilemma? This thing – parasitic though it may have been – had _killed_ people. Was _going_ to kill people. Was probably never going to _stop_.

She didn't condone murder – but it came down to this parasite or her _mother._ There wasn't even really a choice to make.

“Doctor,” she began, voice shaking. The ground rocked with another explosion and he reached out to steady her.

“It's reached the East Block!” shouted a firefighter nearby, and her dad gasped from beside her.

“That's where Penelope works!” he exclaimed, already stepping towards the fire. The Doctor caught him by the arm, stopping him from running heedlessly into the danger. “Let me go! I have to save my wife!”

“I can't let you, Jacob!” the Doctor said sternly, gripping him tightly.

“But she's _pregnant_!” called Jacob, and suddenly the pieces fell into place in Hartley's head, and she felt utterly stupid for not realising sooner.

“Doctor, it's my birthday!” she cried, spinning around to stare at him with wide eyes.

“What? Hartley, I know,” he said exasperatedly, still struggling to hold a desperate Jacob still.

“No – I mean it's my _birthday_ ,” she hissed, gripping his arm tightly. “It's March 13, 1980. It's _literally_ the day I was born!”

The Doctor's eyes were wide with a sort of stunned horror. “Which means-” he began, but the ground rocked with another explosion from the raging inferno, but they managed to stay on their feet.

“Dad – what time is it?!” Hartley asked him sharply.

Poor Jacob was more than slightly bewildered by the address. “Dad?” he echoed dubiously.

“It's 1:14,” answered the Doctor without needing to consult a watch.

“I was born at 1:32,” she told him, eyes wide and shocked. The Doctor swallowed as he realised what this meant. “We're running out of time. Can the TARDIS locate her inside the building?”

“No,” he replied, one hand still holding Jacob, who had gone comically slack in his shock, his other hand tugging anxiously at his wild hair. “The Helvetin is, in itself, a life sign. The fire's all over the building, the TARDIS won't be able to lock onto her position.”

“But can it lock onto me?” she asked, brain moving faster than it had in her whole life up to that point. It was like everything was simultaneously happening both lightning fast and tortoise slow.

The Doctor and her had been travelling together for long enough now that he knew what she was thinking without her needing to explain. “Hartley – the heat of that fire will melt off your skin in minutes! It'll be agony!” he argued sharply.

“But I'll survive,” she countered quickly. “Doctor, will the TARDIS be able to lock onto me or not?”

The Doctor's jaw worked up and down, no sound coming out for a long moment. “I – I mean yes, she's familiar enough with your biometric signature to find you even amongst the Helvetin. But Hartley, it's too dangerous––”

“Shut up,” she barked, not in the mood for his righteousness. This was her decision – the only decision she had to make. “Take my dad to the TARDIS, use the controls to lock onto me and then materialise around us both,” she ordered the Time Lord sharply.

He looked like he was frantically trying to come up with a better, less painful or risky plan.

“Doctor,” she said bluntly, “there's no time to be worried about me. Go. Please.”

By now the Doctor had let go of her dad, hands clenched into fists at his sides. She stared up into his eyes, desperate and imploring. She sent him a wave of reassurance mingled with stubbornness. She was doing this, and he couldn't stop her.

Sighing, the Doctor's eyes were locked onto hers with an astonishing intensity. “You'll be fine,” he said, but like he were saying it to reassure himself.

“I will be,” she promised. The inferno across the courtyard have another great, hungry roar, and just as Hartley turned away a hand caught her elbow, gripping her tightly and turning her back to face him.

The Doctor's lips clashed with hers in the most bittersweet kiss she could imagine. It was hard and tinged with desperation. She kissed him back, quick and sharp, taking no time to revel in the feeling. She was the first to pull away, and she didn't realise his hands had moved to her face until they slipped away from her cheeks, dropping uselessly between them.

She didn't stop to say goodbye, just turning and bolting towards the raging inferno that ate away at the building above her. She refused to look back. She just grit her teeth and _ran._

She dodged the firefighters desperately trying to put out the flames, and everybody was so concerned with stopping the fire that nobody thought to watch out for anyone running _into_ it.

The closer she got, the hotter the flames became, and once she finally burst inside the door she was encompassed by a scolding heat. Her nose and throat became thick with smoke but she didn't stop, no time to even cough.

With a muscle she barely even knew how to flex, Hartley searched high and low for terror and pain. Instantly she was flooded with emotion. The most dangerous and pressing was that of the Helvetin, loud, hot and hungry in her head, but she ignored it, running through the flames, eyes on her destination.

Her mum was somewhere in this building, only minutes away from giving birth to her – and she was going to find out where. She knew the woman, knew her beyond anything else. Despite their mutual issues with one another, the pair shared a bond that transcended words.

It was like that part – the part that was bonded with her mother – was leading her. It wasn't even conscious. She wasn't making unconscious decisions on where to turn or where to look, it was like an invisible force was dragging her closer and closer to her mother's direction.

Flames licked dangerously at her arms, some catching her clothes alight. She slapped at the small fires until they disappeared. It was so hot she felt like she was drowning in her own sweat, like her skin was sizzling off her bones.

But the further she ran the less thick the flames became. It was taking its time winding its way through the large building. By the time she reached the place where she _knew_ her mother to be, the flames were few and far between, although the air was still dangerously thick with smoke.

The door was jammed, but like hell would that stop her. Thrusting her weight against it, the door flew open and Hartley realised there had been a towel under the bottom, put there in an attempt to keep the smoke from entering the room.

A loud cry met her ears and Hartley's eyes snapped to the far corner, where a familiar woman was pressed against the wall, hands holding her massively swollen stomach, her face scrunched in agony.

“Oh, thank God,” she breathed as Hartley threw herself to her side. “Are you a doctor? My baby's coming!” Penelope Daniels told her with gasps, tear tracks coating her face.

Hartley had never seen her mother cry before, the reality of it was haunting. “You're going to be okay,” she promised her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and holding tight. She was so young, so innocent and vulnerable now, propped up against the wall, covered in sweat and grime, hands held protectively over the baby in her stomach. “Help's on the way,” Hartley continued, holding her mother tighter. “Focus on breathing with me.”

And for once in her life, Penelope didn't argue with her daughter. She copied Hartley's breaths, in and out, slow and steady.

“Where are they?” sobbed her mother after a long few minutes of breathing and silence. The smoke was getting thicker by the second. Anxiety twisted in Hartley's gut – where was the Doctor? He should have been there by now. “My baby's coming _now._ I need help,” Penelope continued to cry, gripping onto Hartley with everything she had.

“Someone's coming,” she assured her mother, eyes burning from the smoke. “The best Doctor in the world is coming, I swear it,” she promised, gripping her tighter as another contraction ricocheted through her young body. “You're okay,” Hartley said soothingly, sending her as much love and comfort as she could possibly conjure. “You and your baby are going to be just fine, Penelope. Everything's going to be fine. I promise. You're both going to be alright,” she repeated the sentiment over and over again, rubbing a hand up and down her mum's sweat-slick arm, holding her tightly and protectively.

She could already feel her own burns from the fire beginning to heal, but that was the least of her worries in that moment.

“Doctor,” she muttered, squeezing her eyes shut tightly, swallowing around her burning throat, “where are you?”

And as if they were the magic words, that beautiful, perfect, wonderful, _brilliant_ wheezing filled the air. Hartley tipped her head back and gave a loud, hysterical laugh, tears flowing down her cheeks.

The TARDIS materialised around them. One moment there was nothing but smoke-filled air and a battered old office, and the next the TARDIS' wonderful interior was there. The ship gave a warm, comforting hum in Hartley's mind, and she laughed again as the Doctor appeared beside her.

“Hartley?” he asked, eyes flickering down over her body, checking pointlessly for injuries.

“I'm okay,” she assured him, reaching out to grip his hand tightly. “I'm fine.”

“Penny!” yelled her dad, collapsing by his wife's side.

“Jacob,” breathed her mother in relief, even as tears trickled down her sooty face. “Oh, Jacob. The baby's coming! It's coming now! I have to get to a hospital!” she said, struggling to sit up through her pain.

Convinced she was okay, the Doctor left Hartley's side and crouched over her mother. Using the sonic he quickly scanned her whole body, then held the screwdriver up as he assessed the readings. “No time,” he said quickly, pocketing the sonic and running his hands through his hair. “She's already ten centimetres dilated. She's coming now.”

Hartley's eyes were wide, and she leaned back over at her mother's side, gripping her tightly. Penelope continued to sob, the pain growing unbearable, the fear and concern for the wellbeing of her baby mounting.

“No, I need a doctor!” she cried shrilly.

“Then I guess it's a good thing you've got one,” said the Doctor, looking for all the world cheerful, though there was a tightness to him that maybe only Hartley was able to sense. “Hello, I'm the Doctor,” he greeted her mother sweetly, reaching into his pocket and producing a pair of latex gloves, slipping them onto his hands like it were second nature.

“You're a doctor?” Penelope asked just before letting out a cry, gripping her bulging stomach in agony.

“I'm _the_ Doctor,” he replied, coy and lighthearted as he knelt between her mother's legs.

“So, you've done this before?” her dad asked anxiously.

“Uh, well, not for a human baby, but the theory's the same,” the Doctor told him flippantly.

Her dad caught him on the arm, gripping tightly and forcing him to look up. “This is my _child_ , Doctor,” he said gravely, eyes shining form the stress and emotion of the moment. “I need to know you can do this.”

“Jacob,” the Doctor replied, utterly solemn, “nothing will happen to this child. Not now. Not ever. Not while I still breathe.”

Jacob was confounded by the conviction of the response. Hartley's eyes shined as she stared at the Doctor, and he caught her stare, an intimacy between them that took her breath away. Her mother gave another cry, and he broke their stare, quickly ducking back down between Penelope's legs, checking she and the baby were okay.

Her mum kept crying, and acting on instinct, Hartley grabbed her dad's shirt, tugging him towards them. “Here, Jacob,” she said, manoeuvring him behind his wife, so that he held her back against his chest. “Help her breathe,” she told him encouragingly.

He nodded, his wife gripping his hands in a white-knuckled grip, but he didn't for a moment complain, squeezing back and muttering words of comfort and love in her ear.

“Doc?” Hartley asked nervously, kneeling beside her mum, on hand pressed against her leg, trying to send her as much comfort as she could through their connection.

“It's gonna be fine, Hartley,” he assured her, still ducked down. “Okay, Penelope? I need you to push,” he said, addressing her mother, who gave a small sob, pressing back against her husband.

“I can't,” she cried hysterically. “I can't. It hurts!”

“Hart,” the Doctor nodded for her to help.

She reached for her one of mother's hands, gripping tightly and sending through waves of warmth and comfort. “Penelope, you can do this,” she promised her. “Do it for your baby girl. Do it for her. You'll both be fine.”

“We don't – we don't know – that it's a girl,” panted her mum.

“Call it a hunch,” Hartley whispered back with a small, secretive smile.

“Penelope, you've got to push now,” the Doctor told her sternly. “You're running out of time.”

Her dad leaned forwards, whispering something in her mum's ear, and then she nodded, holding onto both of their hands as she opened her mouth in a scream, head tilted back as she pushed.

It was all a bit of a blur. The Doctor was encouraging Penelope to push, and telling her when to stop. Her dad was murmuring words of comfort into her ear over and over. Penelope screamed and cried, using every last morsel of strength she had to birth her baby. Hartley focused on the room's emotions, sending comfort and encouragement and love to her mum, watching on with teary eyes as she herself was birthed into the world.

The TARDIS hummed around them, and Hartley felt the ship's presence like a blanket wrapped around them all, keeping them safe and warm.

Finally there was a cry; a loud, piercing wail. It broke the air of the TARDIS, and her mother slumped down into her dad, sighing loudly with relief. Hartley stared, watching as the Doctor cradled her baby-self in his hands.

“Hartley,” he said after a moment of staring, and she somehow knew what he was asking for. She hurried to strip off her flannel shirt, leaving her in the simple tank top beneath. She handed it over, and the Doctor took great care in wrapping it around the baby. With his other hand he produced a pair of scissors from his bottomless pocket, holding them out for Jacob to take. “Would you like to do the honours?” he asked her dad gently.

Her dad was openly crying as he took the scissors, cutting where the Doctor pointed, and the Doctor pulled out the sonic, quickly giving the baby a checkup before smiling brightly. He shifted so he could hand the little, yellow-wrapped baby off to her mother, who took her with teary eyes and a smile bigger than any Hartley had ever seen on the woman's usually-severe face.

“Congratulations,” said the Doctor gently, voice full of warm affection and happiness, “you have a healthy baby girl.”

The love being passed from father and mother to daughter was overwhelming, Hartley sat back on her heels, staring at the family with wet eyes. So much love was there, it filled up every tiny little crevice in her entire body. She felt like there was enough pure, unadulterated love that it alone could end all wars, past and future, on planet Earth.

“What will you name her?” the Doctor asked them with that gentle smile still in place.

“I – I don't know,” stammered her dad, sniffling as he wiped at his eyes. He met Hartley's gaze, and she could practically see the idea light up in his like a lightbulb being flicked on. “What was your name, again?”

Hartley just about choked on her own tongue. “Hartley,” she whispered, voice breaking over the name. “My name's Hartley,” she said again, with just a little more confidence.

“Hartley,” Penelope repeated gently, stare still focused on the tiny baby in her arms. “Hartley Daniels,” she said thoughtfully. “What do you think, huh?” she asked her daughter in a small voice, like anything louder than a whisper might break the spell of happiness they'd all fallen under. “Do you like the name Hartley Daniels?”

The baby didn't respond, but her little blue eyes blinked slowly up at her parents, tiny little hand wrapping around her dad's index finger.

They all sat in silence for another minute, the Doctor letting the family have their moment, while Hartley herself just stared in stunned appreciation, trying to come to terms with everything that had just happened.

“I'll take you to a proper hospital now, shall I?” the Doctor asked quietly, and the humans all looked up at him in surprise. “Just to get you looked over properly – help you recover.”

“Yes, of course,” said Jacob softly from where he still sat with his wife and newborn daughter propped up against his chest. “Can we go to Addenbrooke's, by any chance? That's where our obstetrician is.”

“Right away,” chirped the Doctor, peeling off the latex gloves and tossing them in the bin under the console before hurrying to quickly pilot the ship to their desired destination.

“Where are we, exactly?” asked Penelope once she'd gotten ahold of herself. She kept a tight grip on baby-Hartley as the ship shuddered beneath them, but the TARDIS was kind, keeping the ride smoother than any Hartley had ever had as she landed with a low dong of her time rotor.

“That doesn't matter,” the Doctor replied flippantly, hurrying back to their side and taking baby-Hartley from her mother, letting the woman stand shakily to her feet. “The nurses will get you all cleaned up,” he assured her, passing the tiny bundle back to Penelope, who took her tenderly, like she were the most precious thing in the entire universe.

“I can't thank you enough,” she whispered, looking between the Doctor and Hartley with wide, teary eyes. Her husband was by her side, keeping her steady and upright. “You saved me – you saved us both,” she said quietly, cradling the baby to the spot over her heart.

“And I always will,” he promised her with a sincere smile. He led her to the door, but stopped her before she stepped out. “You should know – I can't let you remember this,” he said, not exactly easing into it, but Hartley wasn't surprised. _Subtle_ was never one of his specialties.

“What do you mean?” asked Penelope, clutching baby-Hartley just that little bit tighter, eyeing the Doctor with suspicion.

“Darling, it's okay,” said Jacob, and Hartley looked over at her dad in surprise. “I can't explain, but you need to just trust me,” he added quietly. Her mum looked like she desperately wanted to argue, but she was tired and still shaky from giving birth. In the end she didn't quite nod, but simply stared at the Doctor expectantly.

He gave a small smile, pressing his fingertips to her forehead. Her eyes went dazed, and barely a full three seconds had passed before he was pulling back and Penelope turned, walking through the doors and out into the waiting room of the hospital as though in a trance.

“Me next, I suppose,” said her dad. To her surprise he stopped beside her, staring at her with a smile. “Bet it was strange to see yourself being born,” he said jovially. “Not something that happens everyday.”

Hartley's jaw dropped open, but her dad only chuckled, the sound just as warm as ever.

“The Doctor explained everything on the way to get this...machine of his,” he told her, smile fond and affectionate as he stared at her. “I may not be able to remember this in five minutes, but for now, at least, it's everything to me to know that the little baby in Penelope's arms grows up to be someone as beautiful, smart and brave as you,” he said, sincerity pouring from him in buckets, and Hartley felt herself tear up once again.

“Thanks, dad,” she whispered back emotionally.

He smiled widely. “I guess I'll see you in thirty-one years,” he said lightly, amusement curling within him. Hartley laughed, a short burst of a chuckle, and wrapped him up in a warm embrace.

“Nah,” she told him, hugging him tightly for a long, indulgent moment before pulling back and smiling up at him with all the brilliance of a newborn star. “You're going to see me right now.”

The Doctor reached up, pressing his fingertips against her dad's head. His expression went blank, and then he turned and stepped from the TARDIS, following his wife where she stood with a nurse, relaying whatever cover story the Doctor had implanted into her mind.

Hartley stood in the doorway, watching as her dad approached her mum. He slid an arm around her middle, one hand moving to baby-Hartley's head. They were both smiling widely, despite being covered in blood from the birth and soot from the fire, like it were the happiest day of their lives.

“We should go,” the Doctor's voice said softly from beside her, and she reluctantly nodded her head. The doors closed with a low creak and the TARDIS gave a pulsing hum in her mind. “What now, hm?” he asked as he sauntered up to the console like it had been any other, normal day of their lives.

“I just watched myself get born,” she murmured, still stunned by what had just happened. “ _You_ just helped my mum give birth to me. And all of this happened _inside_ of the TARDIS,” she said, struggling to get to grips with the reality she was in. “And I was named after … myself,” she finished dazedly.

She'd seen a lot of strange things in her time travelling with the Doctor. She'd seen Slitheen and living suns and absorbaloffs and statues of living stone … but this? _This_ took the cake.

“Don't you see though, Hartley?” asked the Doctor, appearing in front of her, a wide smile on his handsome face. “It all makes sense now.”

“What does?” she asked when he didn't immediately move to elaborate.

“Why the Bad Wolf chose you,” he said, and realisation washed over her like water. “You were chosen because you were born on the TARDIS. _That's_ why you're here now. It's what was always meant to happen. Like a self-fulfilling prophecy,” he told her giddily.

There were still a million questions on her tongue, but one was more time-sensitive than the others. “Doctor, what about the fire?” she asked hurriedly.

The Doctor's expression dropped as he tutted to himself. “I knew I was forgetting something,” he muttered, spinning on his heel and piloting the TARDIS back to the University of Cambridge. This time they materialised outside the building where the fire was raging, instead of all the way back inside the school. “Go check on it,” the Doctor ordered Hartley promptly.

“And you?” she asked with a furrowed brow.

“I'll be out in a moment to save the day,” he assured her, and with an exasperated huff she turned, pushing her way back out into the chaos of the emergency. It looked exactly the same as it had when she'd run into the inferno, so it could have only been minutes later. She thanked the stars that for once the Doctor had actually been on target with his driving skills.

She found the Chief in the fray, holding his helmet onto his head and shouting something at a nearby firefighter. Rushing to his side, she stepped into his field of view, making her impossible to ignore.

“Chief, how's it going?” she asked loudly to be heard over the roar of the living fire behind her.

“Badly!” he shouted back. “Nothing's working. If anything, it only seems to be getting stronger!” Hartley could tell in the way that only an Empath could that he was completely and utterly defeated. As far as he was concerned, the fight was over, and the University of Cambridge was as good as gone.

Then the Doctor appeared beside them like a ray of sunshine, blinding smile on his face and long, thick blue firehose held in hands. “Hello again, Chief!” he greeted the man cheerfully. “I've found the answer to your problem!” he said brightly.

The Chief stared at him like he genuinely thought him insane.

“This is a special blend of chemicals, developed and tested by the Comity!” he shouted over the roar of the flames. “It'll stop the fire in its tracks!”

However the Chief was anything but reassured. “You want me to spray an unknown chemical agent onto this inferno?” he shouted, simply incredulous.

“I'm telling you, it'll work!” the Doctor insisted.

“What if it makes it worse?” the Chief countered, suspicious and wary.

“Look at it,” the Doctor shouted back, gesturing wildly at the flames. “Could it _really_ make this any worse than it already is?” The man's resolve wavered. “You have to trust me. I know what I'm doing. This is your only shot,” he promised, and the Chief finally cracked.

“Fine,” he called, jerking his head towards the uncontrollable blaze. “But you're going to be the one to do it. If this blows up in our faces, it's going to be on _you_!”

The Doctor nodded solemnly. “Fair,” he agreed, squaring his shoulders and cracking his neck in preparation. His eyes darted over to Hartley. “Wish me luck?” he asked.

“You'll be fine,” she assured him, even with nothing to rely on but hope. She sent him her most convincing smile, and it seemed to do the trick. He grinned, shooting her an overconfident wink and running headfirst into the danger, as per usual.

* * *

The chemicals the Doctor used on the flames did, of course, do exactly as he said it would. The blaze was completely killed within an hour. The structure was reduced to nothing but ash, although thankfully had been contained in the one building. Cambridge was safe, and the parasite was dead.

The Chief said something about wanting to award medals, or something to that effect, but they managed to slink back off to the TARDIS before getting involved in any of that nonsense – flattering as it may have been.

The Doctor recoiled the hose he'd used on the inferno, tucking it back into place under the grating in the console room.

The TARDIS had cleaned herself up while they'd been out fighting fires. All the evidence of Hartley's surreal birth was gone, the control room as sparkling clean as ever it ever was – so a little rusty and grease-stained, but at least lacking the gore from birthing they'd handled.

“What was it like, seeing yourself be born?” the Doctor asked her once they'd (she'd) rested and recovered from the whole ordeal.

They'd found themselves in the kitchen, as they usually did after a big adventure. Hartley was in her pyjamas, a pair of ratty old plaid pants and a tee shirt that was two sizes too big and had a picture of Shakespeare on the front with the words _Prose Before Bros_ written in elegant font across the front. It had been a birthday gift from the Doctor, one she treasured greatly.

The Doctor himself was sat opposite her, dressed in his usual pinstripe suit, hair defying gravity as it always did.

“Strange,” she answered him, clutching her bowl of cereal tightly, chewing on some more as she considered the question. “I don't s'pose it's something many people can say they've done,” she added thoughtfully. Time travel was weirder than anybody could ever imagine. “It was actually beautiful,” she told him in a quiet voice, remembering the sheer love that was being passed through the small family, _her_ family. “The love I felt in that moment...” she trailed off, stunned by the magnificence of it, and although the Doctor couldn't completely comprehend it, he understood enough.

“You were a cute baby,” the Doctor said suddenly, an impish smile on his face.

“Shut up,” Hartley groaned, feeling the insane urge to dunk her face into her cereal, if only to escape the conversation.

“No, you really were,” he insisted stubbornly. “All chubby little cheeks and big blue eyes...” she grinned widely.

“Y'know, thinking about it now, this means _you_ were the first face I ever saw,” Hartley murmured, suddenly thoughtful and introspective. “I was born on the _TARDIS_ ,” she added, in a state of shock, cereal long forgotten in front her.

“Just now sinking in?” the Doctor asked around a smile.

“I guess this means destiny's real,” she said, leaning her chin on her fist. “I mean, this isn't a coincidence. None of this is. It had to all have been predestined...right?”

The Doctor's brow furrowed as he considered her question. “I suppose it depends on your belief system,” he answered her evenly. “For me, it's just simple timeline convergence. But for someone with a more spiritual set of beliefs, I suppose it could be conceived as destiny. Really, in the end, they amount to the same thing,” he sniffed.

They fell back into silence, Hartley considering her cereal before pushing it away, deeming it too soggy to eat now. She turned to her mug of tea instead, bringing it to her lips. It was still piping hot, and she blew on the top to cool it down before taking a healthy sip.

“Were you scared, running into that fire?” the Doctor asked, voice thick with curiosity.

“I'm immortal,” she reminded him without really thinking about it.

The Doctor's expression grew stern. “That's not what I asked,” he told her, and she ducked back into her tea, buying herself more time to answer. Thankfully he spoke before she had to produce such a weighty response. “You can be immortal _and_ scared,” he assured her gently. “They're not mutually exclusive.”

She considered it, rubbing her thumb against the hot of her mug, the burn reminding her of the flames she'd run headfirst into in order to save herself and her mother.

“I guess I was a little scared,” she admitted, staring into the dark depths of her tea as she thought. “More of the pain than anything else.” She paused, swallowing thickly at the memory of the flames licking at her skin. “I maybe not be able to die, but it still hurts,” she murmured softly. “It always hurts.”

The Doctor was quiet from across from her, but she didn't dare look up, too afraid of what she might find. Pity? Disgust? She knew he didn't like what she was, knew he found her _wrong_ in the most blatant of ways. It hurt sometimes, to think of it like that, but that was the truth, wasn't it?

But then why had he kissed her?

They'd kissed before, it wasn't the first time. But there'd been a desperation to this one, a passion that they hadn't held since they'd had their memories erased during their ordeal with The Family. Her skin prickled with the very memory of it.

Half of her wanted to mention it, see what he might say, but mostly she was just too scared. Scared of rejection and the humiliation that would follow. Besides, apparently the Doctor's thoughts had wandered in the complete opposite direction, because a moment later he opened his mouth and asked, “how're you doing?”

She blinked back at him in surprise. “How am I doing?” she parroted in confusion, wondering where that had come from.

“Well, it hasn't been so long since the Year That Never Was...” he trailed off warily, and Hartley's wince was enough to tell him she didn't want to talk about it. He stopped talking, sealing his lips shut and averting his eyes guiltily.

“It's okay,” she assured him, ignoring her own pain at the memories that assaulted her like fists. “I just try not to think about it. It helps, to pretend it never happened.”

“That's barely a temporary fix,” he replied, just a little bit reprimanding. “A bandaid. You should––”

“Find a way to deal with it,” she finished, nodding her head quickly. “I know. I will. For now I'm just...going day by day. It's all I _can_ do, honestly.”

“Anything I can do to help?” he asked, doing nothing to hide the flare of hopefulness he felt with the question.

She looked back up at him, a small smile growing on her face as she gripped her mug of tea. “There is one thing you could do,” she began slowly.

“Anything,” he vowed.

The smile turned into a grin that he couldn't help but mirror, and a spark appeared in her eyes that made his whole day. “You could take me somewhere amazing, and we could run away from some monsters,” she said with that impish look on her face.

The Doctor leaned back and laughed, happy and at ease and perfectly content right where he was in that single moment. “Now _that,_ ” he told her brightly, “I can do.”


	48. Speak Now

“ _Marriage is not a noun; it's a verb. It isn't something you get._

_It's something you do. It's the way you love your partner every day.”_

Barbara De Angelis

* * *

“I've decided to take you somewhere amazing,” said the Doctor halfway through what Hartley had assumed was going to be a lazy day spent kicking around the TARDIS, eating leftovers and reading books by the fireplace in the library.

She looked up from her book – the autobiography of an author she loved, date of publication several years into her own personal timeline (but that was neither here nor there) – eyebrow cocked in question.

“Is that so?” she asked him innocently. “And where might this amazing place be, exactly? We're not going to that bouncy-castle theme-park again, are we?” she added flatly. She'd made the mistake of going there after a big lunch, and had walked out with a lot less dignity than when she'd walked in. “I'll never be able to look Pablo in the eye again,” she muttered with warm cheeks.

“Pablo didn't care,” the Doctor waved off her concern like it were nothing. “Occupational hazard.”

“Go on, then,” she prompted him, setting aside her book and the bowl of warmed-up fried rice she'd been nibbling on as she read. “Where to this time?”

The Doctor was just about vibrating with excitement. “It's a surprise,” he told her giddily.

Suspicious, though not quite enough to press the issue, Hartley climbed to her feet and stretched until her spine popped. “What should I wear, then?” she asked, enjoying the way the warm carpet tickled her bare feet. It was little things like that, tiny sensory things that anyone else would overlook, that made her treasure every moment she had her freedom back.

“Black tie,” the Doctor told her with a grin.

Hartley's eyebrows rose in surprise. “Does that mean you'll be breaking out the old penguin suit again?” she asked playfully.

The Doctor sniffed, reaching up to tug at his ear. “S'pose so,” he replied in a mild, coy sort of a voice. “Although…maybe I should skip it this time. That thing's jinxed, I'm telling you.”

“You don't even believe in jinxes,” she shot back, doing nothing to hide her smile of amusement as she placed her book off to the side to come back to later, before scooping up her nearly-empty bowl and heading in the direction of the door. “You're far too logical for that.”

“I'm telling you – every time I wear that thing, something bad happens.”

“Then throw it out and get a brand new one; jinx-free,” she suggested.

“It's, it's not the _specific suit_ ,” he argued stubbornly, the pair leisurely making their way through the halls of the TARDIS towards the kitchen. “It's what the suit – what the _bowtie_ – represents. I'm telling you, it's bad luck.”

“Well,” Hartley began in a playful voice, “I, for one, happen to be _very_ partial to bowties.”

The Doctor paused, considering. “Really?” he finally asked, reaching up to mindlessly toy with the long maroon tie, fiddling with it as though imagining it were a bowtie. There was an interest in his voice, one of a high pitch that made Hartley grin with more sincerity than she'd had in a very long while.

She dumped her bowl in the sink to deal with later before moving back over to the doorway where the Doctor hovered, eyes cloudy and distracted.

“Black tie, you say?” she murmured as she passed him, making her way down the hall to the left, where her bedroom (usually) resided. “So, fancy, then?”

“As fancy as it gets,” he agreed. “But, go easy on the heels?” he added quickly, a grimace on his lips. Hartley got the feeling he was remembering what had happened that night with Martha, back when they'd only known her a short while.

She hadn't thought of Lazarus in what seemed like an age, but now that she did she recalled the sharp, painful sting that the shards of glass had made as they pierced the soft flesh of her bare feet.

“Kitten heels only,” she promised. The Doctor's expression pinched in adorable confusion and she smothered another smile. “I'll meet you in the control room,” she told him, and he nodded, taking a sharp right and disappearing around the bend.

Hartley took a quick shower before changing into a sleek dress. It was a deep scarlet in colour, hugging her curves up top then melting into a feathery layer of skirts that grazed the floor when she moved. Listening to music, she distractedly went through the motions of doing her hair and makeup, enjoying the familiar actions, ones she didn't get much opportunity to repeat in this lifestyle.

It wasn't until she was slipping a pair of heels – kittens, as promised – that she wondered whether she were overdressed.

The Doctor had said to dress as fancy as possible, but what the TARDIS had supplied was more of a ballgown than a dress. She hesitated, blue eyes assessing herself in the mirror, wondering if she had time to change before the Doctor blew a blood vessel in his impatience.

Before she could decide there was a rhythmic knock at her bedroom door and she knew she was out of time. She gripped her voluminous skirts, making her way over and cracking the door just enough to stick her head out into the hallway. “I'm overdressed,” she said without preamble, and the Doctor blinked in surprise at the sudden exclamation.

“I'm sure you aren't,” he told her, however insincere considering he couldn't actually see her.

Huffing, Hartley stepped back to give herself enough room to creak the door open, revealing the billowing skirts of her deep scarlet gown.

The Doctor was perfectly silent, staring at her with unreadable eyes, his emotions sealed behind a vault wall; impossible to touch, let alone sense. She stood there, anxiously twisting her signet ring around her finger, awkward under his intense stare.

Finally she decided his silence was a bad sign and he was just trying to figure out how to tell her she needed to dress down and oh man what else would she wear and the red was clearly too ostentatious and––

“You look great,” said the Doctor, so suddenly that Hartley's inner despair came to an abrupt halt. His voice was a few notches too high but otherwise he just stared back at her, impassive.

She blinked at him, struggling to understand. “I'm not overdressed?” she asked slowly.

“Not at all,” he assured her, clearing his throat and shoving his hands into the pockets of his slacks. She noted he was wearing his tuxedo, the very one he claimed to be so unlucky. Her eyes flickered down to the bowtie and she bit back a smile. “If anything, you're probably _underdressed,_ ” he added.

“Underdressed?” she echoed dubiously. “The only way I could _possibly_ be any dressier is if I were wearing a corset.” The Doctor clucked his tongue, like he knew something she didn't. “Where're we going, again?” she pressed, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

But the Doctor only smiled, the expression holding an ease that she hadn't seen since before the Master. Since before the Year That Never Was. He held out a hand, wriggling his fingers at her in question.

“Come with me and find out,” he said with an impish little grin playing at the corners of his mouth, and Hartley couldn't find a single reason to argue, taking his hand and letting him tug her from her bedroom, through the twisting halls of the TARDIS.

Apparently they'd already landed wherever it was they were going, because the Doctor led her straight through the control room to the doors.

“Are you ready for a magical evening?” he asked, pausing with his free hand on the latch, his other tangled up with hers.

“Magical, you say?” she asked playfully, tilting her head and feeling her strawberry-blonde curls sweep across her exposed collarbone. “That's an awfully confident promise.”

“I'm an awfully confident man,” he replied. Hartley smiled at the quip.

“Alright then, Spacewalker,” she said, squeezing his hand eagerly. “Show me a magical evening.”

And he grinned, wide and unrestrained, yanking the door open and tugging her fearlessly out into their new destination. Hartley did nothing to smother her gasp of delight as she laid eyes on the room they'd appeared in.

They were inside of a castle of some kind, the ceiling ornate and detailed, yet metres and metres above them. The room looked to be some kind of a cabinet chamber, a large table in the centre with enough space for at least a dozen people on either side. There were no windows, and so the only light came from the lanterns lining the walls, their glow bouncing off the marble floor beneath their feet.

There was nobody else in the room, they seemed utterly alone. Everything was quiet. “Are we in the Middle Ages?” Hartley asked, gripping the Doctor's hand like it were a tether to reality. In many ways, it was.

“Quite the opposite,” said the Doctor cheerfully, gripping her hand just as tight, gently leading her across the room and out into an empty hallway, at the end of which sat a window.

“The opposite?” Hartley parroted dumbly, allowing him to tug her over to the window. At first she thought it was just nighttime outside, but the closer they got to the glass the more she began to understand.

Letting out a thoughtless gasp, Hartley let go of the Doctor's hand and leant out of the open window. It wasn't nighttime – they were actually _in space._

“Where are we?” she breathed, eyes following a large chunk of rock as it slowly sailed through the empty space only a few hundred yards away, like a dandelion in the breeze.

“The United Asteroids of Venkusm,” the Doctor told her with undeniable pride echoing in his voice. “We're in the palace, where the monarchy reside and rule from.”

“United Asteroids?” she asked, still staring out at the hunks of idle rock drifting by like little flakes of snow in the dead of winter. “Like the United States?”

“Same principle,” he replied in that know-it-all voice of his that made her want to smile. “We're in an asteroid belt in the solar system around the sun known as Amnesty-One. Earth colonised the planets in its orbit around 5570. When a natural disaster hit one of the planets, the survivors sought refuge on the chunks of asteroid big enough to hold any kind of sustainable life. They spread out across them all – 91 in total – and eventually, over time, became a nation in their own right.”

“With a Monarchy,” Hartley finished with a nod, beginning to understand. The Doctor was quiet, letting her process what he'd just told her. “If we're on an asteroid in the twenty-sixth century, why does it look like we're in Medieval Europe?” she asked after a few moments of companionable silence.

The Doctor was so close to her that she felt him shrug. “Funny the styles that get repeated by your lot throughout history,” he told her with a sniff. “I think it's a rather nice piece of humanity that they clung to. _Beautiful_ architecture.”

They were quiet another moment, each soaking in the views before them. “Do you hear music?” Hartley suddenly wondered, tilting her head to catch the soft hum of what sounded like a violin drifting in through the open doorway to their left.

“That'll be the ball,” said the Doctor casually.

“Ball?”

His eyebrows raised incredulously. “You're wearing a ballgown,” he reminded her. “What did you think we'd be doing? Playing football?”

Hartley punched him playfully in the shoulder, a smirk growing on her lips. “Does this mean there'll be dancing?” she asked, quietly hopeful.

The Doctor only grinned, wide and impish and _happy_ as he held out an arm for her to take. Threading her arm through his Hartley let him once more lead the way, taking her towards the source of the beautiful music being played live for the palace's guests.

The sounds of music and laughter grew louder and louder, until finally Hartley and the Doctor were surrounded by a sea of people. Lost in a fog of vibrant colours and gaudy sparkles, Hartley could only grip the Doctor tightly, trusting him to lead her as they waded through the thickening crowd.

The guests around them were all human – or, humanoid, she supposed; they could be very different on the inside, of that she was sure.

The women were decked out in jewel-encrusted gowns and the men all wore swords at their hip with pride, most of them dressed in what looked like military uniforms. Those that weren't in uniforms wore the same sort of tuxedo as the Doctor, all crisp and sharp, bowties perfectly straightened.

“Drinks?” the Doctor offered, and Hartley nodded eagerly as they paused beside a man in a grey suit holding a large tray of champagne flutes. The liquid within was bright blue and bubbling, but the Doctor drank without hesitation so Hartley did the same. It tasted much like normal champagne, if not slightly sweeter than she was used to. “It's good, isn't it?” the Doctor grinned.

Hartley nodded her head emphatically. “So, what's the occasion?” she asked pleasantly, holding the flute in dainty fingers and watching the glittering people before her dance in an energetic waltz. The music was light and zestful, and when Hartley glanced towards the stage holding the band it was to find them all in penguin suits like the Doctor, holding golden instruments, smiles gracing their faces like there was nowhere they'd rather have been.

“Do I need an occasion to take you to a party?” he asked, the defensive tone to his voice taking her by surprise.

Hartley had to laugh, just a tiny little huff of amusement. “I meant the ball,” she corrected him. “Why is it being thrown?”

“Oh,” he muttered, and she knew she wasn't imagining the pink flush to his cheeks. “Um, I'm not sure. But they're a very lively bunch, the Venkusms,” he told her in a casual voice. “Any excuse for a party.”

“Ain't that the truth,” came an unfamiliar voice, and the pair turned to see an older gentleman in a crisp military uniform, glistening sword dangling at his hip just like the rest of the majority of men in the room. Beside him was a much younger girl with bright blonde hair, a youthful smile on her face and a blush on her cheeks that paired nicely with the peach colour of her gown. “General Jobe Lowry,” he introduced himself, holding out an arm to the Doctor.

“Pleasure to meet you,” the Doctor grinned, gripping the man's arm in an extended shake that Hartley took to be the local custom. “I'm the Doctor, this is Hartley Daniels,” he said, sweeping a hand towards her.

She made a move to take the General's arm as the Doctor had, but the man surprised her by instead bringing her hand up to brush a polite kiss across her knuckles. Hartley didn't know what to say, but thankfully General Lowry spoke first. “Your sister, I assume?” he said around a smile that was two parts sincere, three parts greasy.

“No, no,” the Doctor said, then didn't elaborate further. General Lowry looked confused, but seemed to care too much for propriety to risk pressing the matter. Sensing the oncoming awkwardness Hartley turned to the young girl by his side to find her staring up at the Doctor with wide, appreciative eyes.

“I love your dress,” she said kindly, drawing the attention back to her.

The girl's cheeks grew red and General Lowry gave her a scolding look. “This is my daughter, Jezebel,” he added, and Jezebel ducked into a quick curtsey that Hartley made a note to replicate during her next introduction.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Jezebel sweetly.

“Which asteroid do you hail from, Doctor?” asked the General curtly.

“Oh, you know, the outer one,” said the Doctor vaguely.

The man before them looked less than impressed by the ambiguous answer. “You mean Aula?” he asked slowly, and the Doctor leapt at the suggestion.

“That's the one, yes. That's us,” he grinned too widely. Hartley had to wonder how he'd survived as long as he had, just barely keeping from rolling her eyes in exasperation. “And you?”

“Bera,” said the General, feeling a wave of pride so strong that when Hartley picked it up, it made her feel outrageously patriotic towards a place she'd never even heard of or seen.

“Good,” sniffed the Doctor. “Yes. Good asteroid, Bera.”

The General was growing suspicious, Hartley realised with a roll of her eyes, quickly swooping in to save the day. Luckily the music had just changed from that bright, lively waltz to something slower and more gentle. “If you don't mind, General, I'd like to snatch my companion away for a dance,” she said in her sweetest voice.

The older man could do nothing but nod, his grey hair gleaming in the sparkling lights from the chandeliers above.

Hartley took hers and the Doctor's drinks, placing them on the side table before grabbing his hand and yanking him towards the dance floor, away from the decorated General before he could do any more damage.

“You're a mess,” she snickered as they came to a stop somewhere near the centre of the floor.

“He caught me off guard,” he argued defensively. Hartley only smiled again. She delicately placed her hand on his shoulder, holding up her other one in invitation.

The Doctor hesitated so briefly that she thought she might have imagined it, before he took it in his own. Cool, calloused skin slid against hers, and his other hand came to rest at her waist. There was something tender about it, and she leant into his touch without giving it much of a thought.

The music started to swell, gaining more traction, and slowly they began to move in time with the rest of the crowd. It was a kind of waltz – but not the energetic one from before. This one was intimate and subdued, and though Hartley wasn't familiar with the steps she picked it up quickly, her years of training as a dancer shining through.

“You're good at this,” the Doctor said a few minutes in, smiling as she twirled effortlessly under his arm.

“Good to know that being an ex-ballerina is finally paying off,” she joked, spinning out of his arms and then twirling back into them. Suddenly their bodies were pressed together, the hard lines of his physique against hers. It very nearly stole the breath from her lungs and she looked away to hide the emotion in her eyes that would surely give her away.

“You know, everyone's looking at you,” the Doctor whispered, and she looked back at him in surprise. His expression was earnest and she blinked, glancing casually over her shoulder.

He was right, people were looking at them. Doing a vague sweep of the emotions of the room, she found it to be full of a shared, inexplicable jealousy.

“They're jealous,” she said quietly, but the unspoken question was loud.

“Because you're beautiful,” he told her with such a conviction that she felt her own cheeks flame.

Gripping his hand tighter, she smiled, just a small quirk of her lips. “What is this, national compliment day?” she teased as she gave another graceful twirl.

“Forgive me for waxing poetic,” he said around an impish smirk. “I know that's usually your area of expertise.”

“I do not _wax poetic_ ,” she insisted around an indignant gasp. The Doctor shot her his most incredulous look, and despite herself she let out a laugh. She dropped her forehead against his shoulder, giggling into his suit.

The Doctor wasn't laughing with her, but when she looked back up at him it was to find him smiling – a soft expression tinged with an affection she was far too scared to put a name to.

“What?” she asked self-consciously, feet moving automatically underneath her. It was as though it were a dance she'd known all her life, but she thought that was just because the Doctor was good at leading. He did a lot of leading in his life, it made sense it would bleed into his dancing, too.

“You're smiling,” he told her, quiet and warm.

Hartley was confused, blinking up at him as the smile slowly drifted from from her lips, replaced by surprise. “Yeah,” she murmured, taken aback by the fact, “I guess I am.”

The Doctor's eyes glittered. “I was wondering whether I'd ever see that smile again,” he quietly confessed.

“I've smiled,” she argued defensively, spinning beneath the Doctor's arm once more. His hand tightened on hers. “I smile all the time.”

But the Doctor's answering smile was tinged with sadness. “Not like this, though,” he said, letting go of her waist long enough to gently tap her mouth with the tip of his finger.

Her lips tingled at just the brief second of contact. She brazenly thought that if her body had that kind of reaction to his finger on her lips, she could barely imagine what it felt like to kiss him properly. The kisses they'd shared thus far had been fleeting; she wanted something that lasted.

Hartley quickly banished those thoughts before they could flush her face, refocusing on what the Doctor was saying, his voice low and melodic, like a song without being sung.

“Before now it's been a reflex, something to keep up appearances,” he said softly, still sad. “You pretend you're okay until one day, hopefully, _magically_ , you might be.”

Hartley glanced away, eyes focusing in on his black bowtie instead of his face. She felt horribly transparent, like the Doctor was looking at her and seeing everything she never wanted him – or anyone – to see.

“But right now, it's genuine,” he murmured, sadness morphing into something more like wonder. “You're smiling because––”

“Because I'm happy,” she finished, giving him that same sincere smile.

And it was true, the Master's year of torture and manipulation still clung to her skin, still gripped her heart like a vice. But when she was with the Doctor – pressed up against him while he stared down at her like she was all that mattered in the cosmos, his scent swimming in her head – she was able to forget it all, if only for a moment. It was intoxicating, the way the Doctor made her feel.

As if she were brand new, and not just a mess of damaged goods.

There was a beat of easy quiet between them, the swelling music of the orchestra filling her heart to the brim. The Doctor opened his mouth to say something but he was interrupted by the loud, obnoxious clearing of a throat. The pair paused their dance, turning to look at the source with surprise.

It was a tall, handsome man with sharp blue eyes, expensive looking clothes, and a bejewelled crown sitting atop his head of curly blonde hair.

“Your Highness,” the Doctor greeted him with respect, pulling away from Hartley so they both stood facing him. Hartley tried not to frown at the sudden absence of his hands. “Hartley, this is his Royal Highness, Prince Balthazar of the United Asteroids of Venkusm,” said the Doctor courteously.

The Prince smiled graciously. “I can't say we've met,” he said with a polite regret, holding out his arm for the Doctor to take in their customary greeting. His voice was low and smooth, but Hartley didn't miss the way his eyes kept drifting towards her, interest sparkling in his heart.

“The Doctor,” her companion introduced himself eagerly. “And this is the lovely Hartley Daniels,” he added, sweeping a hand towards her proudly.

“Hartley Daniels,” repeated Balthazar, those eyes zeroing in on her, appreciation gleaming like a warning sign as he took her hand, bringing it up to brush a gentle kiss across her knuckles. “A unique name for a unique girl,” he said with a smirk playing at his lips.

“Unique?” she echoed in confusion, wondering what it was about her exactly that was unique.

But the prince didn't elaborate. He tucked his hands behind his back and turned towards the Doctor. “Are you two an item?” he asked plainly. Hartley bristled at the forwardness of the question.

The Doctor's eyes went wide as he took a large, deliberate step away from her. “Us? No, no,” he said quickly, giving a nervous chuckle. “Nope, just, just travelling companions – friends, I mean. We're friends, very _good_ friends, of course, but that's all. Nothing more,” he babbled like a total idiot. The prince's brows were high on his face, but a small, pleased smile was growing on his lips.

“In that case, may I cut in?” he asked him politely. Hartley didn't miss that _she_ wasn't the one he was addressing – as though she were the Doctor's property to relinquish. Already she didn't like him.

The Doctor looked awkward at the question, chewing on his words a moment before relenting with a nod. “Of course,” he said, perfectly cheerful, but Hartley could see the edge of uncertainty in his dark, earthy eyes.

He turned to find her staring back at him with wide, panicked eyes. She didn't want to be left alone to dance with the prince she'd only barely just met. Not to mention, she was getting some seriously misogynistic vibes from the guy. She wasn't sure whether it was a personal thing or a cultural one, but it made her uncomfortable either way.

“I'll be over by the food,” the Doctor told her apologetically, and she had to grit her teeth against the argument that sat ready on her tongue. He smiled once more, awkward as could be, and disappeared into the crowd.

The prince swooped in, not bothering to ask permission before sliding his large, meaty hand into place on her waist. She could feel the heat of his skin through the thin material of her dress and tried not to shudder with disgust. She reluctantly took his hand, not missing the way he nodded to the orchestra. Instantly the music shifted from lively to something slow and intimate. She tried to hide her grimace, but luckily the prince seemed too self-involved to notice.

“Hartley,” the prince said her name like he were tasting it on his tongue. It made her feel dirty, and she held back a shudder. “What does it mean?”

“It means _from the stag's meadow,_ ” she relayed robotically, almost like it were a question in an oral exam.

“Fascinating,” he murmured, those intense eyes flickering over her face. He was deep in thought – Hartley could feel his consideration and his curiosity. Worst of all, however, she could feel his lust. But she didn't pull away, because the last thing she wanted to do was snub the crown prince of a small nation while in his own home – that was just inviting trouble.

Besides, it was only one little dance, and then she'd be back in the Doctor's arms. In a crowd this size, what was the worst that could happen?

“So, uh, Prince Balthazar,” she began stiltedly, deciding that forced, awkward conversation would ultimately be better than this uncomfortable silence. “You have a beautiful palace,” she mumbled, the first thing to come to mind. Couldn't go wrong with a bit of smalltalk, right?

“You like it?” he asked in that smooth voice of his, the sound like water trickling over rocks in a stream. It should have been lovely, soothing, only somehow it was anything but.

“I do,” she nodded. “And the view from the windows is spectacular.”

“Would you like to see it from the balcony?” he offered.

The thought of going anywhere with him alone was a scary one, and her eyes widened as she struggled to form a response. “Oh, thank you, but it's, uh, it's fine,” she stammered, the words strained.

He pulled away from their dance but still held tight to her hand. It felt strangely like a leash, and at the thought a slight sweat broke out across the back of her neck. “Really, I insist,” he said in a tone that on anyone else might have been gracious, but on him just seemed slimy.

Hartley didn't know what to say, what to do to get out of the situation she was in. Glancing over her shoulder she searched frantically for the Doctor's familiar face. She found him, but he wasn't looking at her. He was engaged in a lively conversation with a short man in that same military uniform that everyone else was wearing, explaining something with vivid, enthusiastic hand gestures.

And then Prince Balthazar was pulling her through the crowd that parted as the red sea had for Moses. Hartley shrank under the glares of blatant hatred being sent her way. Apparently the other women at the ball were less than pleased to see the prince himself leading her away from the party. She felt their ire and suspicion like tiny arrows being shot her way and she winced at the barrage of unpleasant emotion.

The prince's hand was soft and hot under her own, and all she could think was how wrong it felt. It should have been cool and calloused, should have been soothing, should have been familiar.

But her thoughts were cut off as they stepped out onto the aforementioned balcony, the view from which was enough to render Hartley speechless.

Hunks of red rock mixed with glistening ice surrounded them, floating aimlessly, dotting the empty vacuum of space like little islands dotted the seaside. On some of them held civilisations, some just the odd structure, while others were too small to hold any life at all, just floating by like leaves caught in the current of a river.

“Do you like it?” asked Prince Balthazar, jolting her from her stupor. She blinked in surprise, having almost forgotten he was even there. She reluctantly turned away from the breathtaking view to look at him, only to find he was already staring back at her. The weight of his eyes was uncomfortable and she struggled not to wince.

“It's beautiful,” she said honestly, eyes flickering back to the view, hoping his would do the same.

“The most prized viewpoint in all the United Asteroids,” he boasted proudly. Hartley hummed politely, and there was a lull in conversation during which the prince watched her and she stared resolutely into the asteroids they were surrounded by.

The sound of hissed whispers met their ears, and Hartley glanced over her shoulder to see a pair of younger girls leant towards one another just inside the door, eyeing her with simmering contempt.

The prince turned to look too and they scuttled away the moment he saw them. Not knowing how to react, Hartley turned back to the view. It didn't hold the same peace as it had only a moment ago. Now it just seemed so _alien._

“It seems I'm not to only one to find you utterly breathtaking, this evening,” the Prince said smoothly.

Hartley's cheeks went red. She didn't know how to react, twisting at the ring sitting on her index finger, staring resolutely out into asteroid-filled space.

“Um, thank you, Your Highness,” she said awkwardly, glancing over at him with a perfunctory smile. “Well, we should get back,” she added as casually as she could manage, turning away, eager to rejoin the party. She didn't want to be alone with this guy any longer than she had to be.

But his hand snapped out, grasping her arm and pulling her back towards him. She squeaked in fear, body going rigid as he tugged her to him. She ended up just a little too close for comfort, trying to subtly wiggle away, heart beginning to race in her chest.

Flashes of a different face began to flicker behind her eyes, and she stopped breathing entirely. Again, it was something the prince was too self-involved to notice – or perhaps he had, and simply passed it off as attraction.

“Nonsense,” he said with a large, oleaginous smile. “We can stay awhile longer.”

He snapped his fingers abruptly and Hartley flinched at the sound. A waiter appeared like a trained monkey with a tray holding two champagne flutes carried on the palm of his hand. The prince didn't acknowledge him, merely taking the two flutes, handing one off to her before flicking his hand at the waiter, who scurried away, head ducked in respect.

“Tell me about yourself,” said the prince after taking a healthy sip of his champagne.

“Uh, not much to tell, really,” Hartley replied, voice shaking a little, although he didn't seem to notice that, either. She looked over her shoulder in what seemed like a casual glance, but her blue eyes scanned the crowd through the doors, searching desperately for the Doctor. Where was he when you needed him?

“I hardly think that's true,” the prince said, and she looked back at him with a wooden smile.

“Uh, well, I'm a writer,” she told him stiltedly, not liking the way his electric eyes were focused on her with attentive intensity.

“A writer?” he repeated, tone layered with false interest. “And what do you write?”

“Books,” she replied, the words a little sharper than appropriate, but the prince didn't seem to care. She wondered whether he were being deliberately obtuse, or whether he were just genuinely thick.

“How fascinating,” he told her, voice stale, and she turned back to look at him with a frown. “It's just – I've never met a female writer before. It isn't traditionally a feminine profession,” he said, and Hartley's eyebrows nearly hit her hairline. Her fear melted a little in favour of taut indignation.

“And what exactly _is_ a traditionally feminine profession?” she asked slowly.

The Prince laughed like she'd said something funny. “Motherhood,” he said like it were the punchline to a joke.

Hartley felt the sudden urge to bash her head against the railing. Maybe if she did it hard enough, it would put her into a come. At least then she wouldn't have to finish this conversation. “Great,” she muttered to herself bitterly, “we've landed in a misogynist's utopia.”

The prince either didn't hear her or didn't care enough to comment. “And how old are you, Hartley Daniels?” he wondered.

“Thirty-one,” she answered him evenly, watching as his eyes went wide with genuine surprise.

“So old and yet still unwed?” he asked with a disapproving grimace. Chills broke out over her skin, like her subconscious warning her something bad was going to follow.

“Just...looking for the right person, I suppose,” she replied steadily. She began to grow impatient, turning to keep scanning the crowd beyond the doors, searching for any sign of the Doctor. But he was still nowhere to be seen. She wondered what she had to do to get the prince to leave her alone; something offensive but not bad enough to get her arrested – she figured that was the sweet spot.

“Well, I believe I may have a solution to that,” said the prince from beside her, but Hartley had long since stopped paying attention.

“Is that so?” she murmured dully, her focus on eyeing the crowd. If the Doctor didn't show up in the next ten seconds she was going to throttle him with his own tie.

A flash of colour suddenly caught her attention and she turned to look at the prince, who was now holding out the flower that he'd had pinned to the breast of his suit. Frowning in confusion, Hartley could do nothing more than reach out and take it. It looked like an orchid, but the colour was more electric than anything she'd ever seen on Earth.

“Uh, thanks,” she awkwardly twirled the stem between her fingers.

“Then you accept?”

“Sure,” she told him mildly.

The prince smiled, wide and gleaming; victorious. “I look forward to a long and prosperous coupling,” he told her eagerly.

Hartley blinked. “A prosperous what now?”

There was a flurry of activity from over at the doors and she turned to see the Doctor trip out onto the balcony, his bowtie askew. “Hart!” he was shouting before he'd even seen her, eyes full of panic. “Don't take the––”

Two guards appeared, almost as if from thin air, gripping the Doctor's arms and hoisting him to his feet. “Sir, we have to ask you to stay back,” said one of the guards, his meaty hand on the golden hilt of the sword at his side. “Nobody is to come into contact with the Prince and his bride.”

Hartley's insides twisted up into knots of panic. “His _what_?!” she squawked, wide eyes flickering from a smirking Prince Balthazar and his stoic guards to the panicked-looking Doctor. “Doctor, what's happening?” she demanded shrilly. The Doctor gave a guilty grimace.

Before he could answer her, however, the prince stepped forwards, holding a hand up to silence him. “Commander Jarret, take my new bride to her quarters,” he commanded his guard with a lazy flap of his hand.

“Bride?!” Hartley echoed dubiously as the taller of the two guards appeared at her side, capturing her arm in a too-tight grip. “Get your hands _off_ me!” she hissed at him, trying to yank out of his grip but to no avail.

He started to drag her away, rough and unyielding. Panic began scratching its claws at her chest, flashes of not so very long ago flashing through her mind, memories of another alien who had held her so viciously, so without care.

“Doctor!” Hartley cried, attempting to thrust her hand into the man's face, aiming for his nose like Jack had taught her all those years ago. But he was tall and strong, snatching her hand and wrenching it back down at her side. Feeling what little control she had slipping through her fingers, she tried to lean around the goon holding her hostage, struggling to spy the Doctor amongst all the chaos. “Doctor, what's happening?!” she shouted again, and her captor shook her violently. Before the Doctor could reply she was being carted back inside the palace, not a friendly face in sight.

She barely saw any of the palace she was dragged through, too lost in her struggles to take in any of the expensive art or fashionable mouldings. The prince's guards tossed her inside a large room like she were nothing more than an object for them to arrange. She leapt at the door once it shut, banging on it with a racing heart, but they locked it from the outside, sealing her within.

She found she was still clutching the strange little flower that was at the root of this whole mess and quickly tossed it onto the floor in disgust.

Giving up on the door, Hartley turned her attention to the room into which she'd been stuffed. It was a bedroom, large and luxurious, something that would only ever belong to royalty. A massive bouquet of purple flowers sat in an ornate vase by the four-poster bed, and the mouldings were plated with gold.

Hope in her chest, Hartley moved towards the window that was blocked by a set of heavy crimson curtains. But when she threw them apart that hope crumbled to dust as she got a good look at what lay beyond.

Dozens of those little islands of asteroids dotted her view, and right below her window was a sheer drop, leading into nothing but dark, empty space. Dropping her face into her hands, Hartley groaned.

Gathering herself, she moved away from the window, trudging towards the bed and sitting down on the ornate, gold-threaded sheets. It was ridiculously comfortable, like a sitting on a cloud, but it only made her more spiteful.

What exactly was going on? How could everything have gone so wrong in such a short amount of time?

Collapsing back onto the covers, Hartley carefully went over the events of the last few minutes in her head.

The Prince had taken an interest in her, taken her away from the Doctor and offered an innocuous looking flower that she had thoughtlessly accepted, thereby inadvertently accepting his proposal of marriage, and subsequently gotten herself locked in a room without so much as a chance to explain herself.

Locked in a room…

Suddenly the reality of her situation crashed down on her like the first rain of a torrential storm. Heart in her throat, she leapt to her feet, making a dash for the door. It was still locked, of course, but that didn't stop her from trying to force it open.

Thinking quickly she began to desperately pat at her hair, searching for one of the bobby pins holding her style into place. She wrenched it free, she collapsed to her knees and shoved it into the lock – but it wasn't the kind Jack had taught her to pick at all. It was vastly more complicated and she let out an impressive array of curses, a panicked sweat beginning to cling to her skin.

The walls were slowly beginning to close in on her and the sprawling, luxurious room didn't seem so large anymore. With every passing beat of her heart, it only grew smaller and smaller, creeping in on her like the bars of a cage. The silence was making her ears ring, head starting to pound. Her hands were beginning to tingle, and she supposed that was because her breathing was so shallow.

She tried to breathe slower, but it was difficult when her thoughts were clouded by panic.

All of a sudden the lock made a clicking sound, and for one wonderful second she thought she'd managed to somehow unlock it. But then the door pushed open from the outside, and she realised somebody had done it from the other side.

She leapt backwards with a gasp, dropping the bobby pin silently to the floor and holding her hands out to defend herself should the guards or the prince come back for round two. She wouldn't be taking any chances, this time. If they tried to touch her – they were losing an eye.

Only it wasn't anyone threatening, but instead a chain of young women dressed in demure white clothing, all carting in various buckets and boxes of product.

“What's happening?” Hartley demanded, taking two very large steps back to put as much distance between herself and the women as possible. They may not have appeared to be dangerous, but she wasn't stupid enough to underestimate anyone based on how they _appeared_ to be _._ “Who're you?”

The tallest of all the girls stepped forwards, lifting her head to reveal pale skin and sparkling yellow eyes. “We're your ladies-in-waiting, your grace,” she said with a deep curtsey. Hartley just stared, struggling to make sense of what was happening. The tall girl carried on before Hartley was able to formulate a response. “Prince Balthazar sent us as a gift to you. We're to prepare you for your upcoming nuptials.”

Her heart stuttered in terror at the words. Nuptials? These people were insane!

“Uh, yes. See, about that,” she began, sounding a lot calmer than she actually was, “I think there's been some sort of misunderstanding. I didn't mean to accept the prince's proposal – I didn't even realise it _was_ a proposal. It was an accident.”

The servant girls all stared at her as if she'd grown another head. Swallowing thickly, Hartley persevered.

“If you could just call him in here, maybe, then I can straighten this whole mess out and we can all be on our merry way,” she finished in her best imitation of a cheerful, confident woman. Nobody was convinced, least of all herself.

The tall girl looked backwards to the rest of them as if gauging their reactions. Her confusion and irritation itched under Hartley's skin, and she grimaced as their eyes met again. “I'm afraid, your grace, that once the offer has been accepted, it creates a binding contract. You are to marry the prince come dawn, my lady.” As one they all dipped into another deep curtsey.

Palms sweaty from anxiety, Hartley reached up to tug at her hair, the slight pain a nice distraction from the joke that had swiftly become her life. “Look, it's a kind offer; really it is. I'm sure any number of people dream about marrying a prince – but I don't. I can't do this.”

The girls were all utterly stumped, as if she were speaking another language entirely. “Your grace,” began the one in charge.

“Hartley,” she corrected her firmly, uninterested in their titles. “My name is _Hartley.”_

The girls towards the back tittered, and the tall one was simply aghast. It was like she'd never seen anything so rude. “But my lady, you are to be our queen,” she said, strongly disapproving.

“I don't _want_ to be your queen,” Hartley insisted.

“Then why did you come to the ball?”

Hartley blinked in surprise. “What do you mean?”

The girl stared back at her like she were wondering how such an utter idiot had gotten this far in life. “Tonight was the choosing ceremony,” she said slowly, as if speaking to a child, “the night for Prince Balthazar to choose a wife. That's why the ball was thrown; as a way to bring all the eligible women in one place for him to make his choice.”

Hartley felt like she'd been plunged into a reservoir of freezing water. “I didn't know,” she said in a weak, thready voice.

The girl was utterly unbothered, turning back towards her faction of troops. “Inna and Kasdy, get started on her hair,” she began in a stern, uncompromising voice. “Janiah and Megn, begin to decide on the colour palate. Andere and Raynia, you're to begin fitting the gown. Tell me,” she turned back to Hartley, “are you pure?”

Hartley just about choked on her own tongue. “Excuse me?”

“Are you pure?” the girl repeated herself.

There was a terrible, sinking feeling in her gut. “By pure, you mean...?” she whispered.

“Virginal,” she said bluntly. The girls behind her tittered again.

Cheeks a flaming red, Hartley stared at her incredulously. She said nothing, lost for words. The servant girl was wholly unimpressed.

“You can tell us the truth now, or we can have the court physician examine you,” she said, not quite a threat, but certainly coming close.

Gritting her teeth, Hartley took a deep breath in, hoping it would steady her temper. It wasn't any of their business, but the last thing she wanted was to find herself held down while some outer-space witchdoctor poked around in her pants. She was tempted to lie, but the chance they might somehow find out was one she couldn't take.

Hope suddenly gripped her – maybe the answer would get her out of this. Maybe they wouldn't want her if they knew she wasn't 'pure'.

“No,” she said, heart thundering like the gallop of a racehorse in her chest. “No, I'm not a virgin.”

But to Hartley's great disappointment, none girls were so much as perturbed by her reply. “Then we'll have to use the eggshell gown, rather than the pristine one,” the tall girl tutted, turning to the two in charge of wardrobe. “Get to work.”

“No,” said Hartley, voice hard and holding a note of power it hadn't before. The horde of young servants froze, blinking at her in surprise. Seeing she had their attention, she barrelled on. “I'm _not_ marrying the prince. I want to find my friend and go home. Now, are you going let me go or will I have to fight my way out?” she asked darkly.

The girls all shifted warily at the thunder in her expression, seeming to sense she wasn't just being dramatic. She didn't intend to let this happen; she'd been owned like a pet once before and as far as she was concerned, it was never going to happen again. Not now, not ever.

“That won't be necessary,” came a smooth voice. Hartley turned to see the prince himself standing in the doorway, a frown marring his handsome face. The servants all gave loud gasps and dropped into deep curtseys, staying there like robots who'd broken down mid-drop.

“Prince Balthazar,” Hartley said, no ounce of adoration in her voice. There was only stony command. She was done playing their game. “I think you and I need to have a conversation.”

“Right we do,” the prince said, eyes like chips of ice. “Girls, go assist the others in guiding the rest of our lovely guests home. They won't be needed any longer.”

“But sire,” the tall one spoke up, disapproval in her heart as she looked over at Hartley. “Do you not wish to have them remain? As a…precaution?”

“No,” said the prince, eyes only for Hartley. He smirked, wide and confident and awful. Hartley wanted to rip the smarmy look from his stupid face. “I've already made me choice.”

Hartley threw up a little in her mouth.

“Come, ladies,” said the tall one with a humph. With youthful giggles the girls all scurried out after her. The door shut with a foreboding click and Hartley's pulse jumped with fear now it was just the two of them.

She hadn't been locked inside a room alone with a strange man – other than the Doctor – since her time aboard the Valiant. She'd been very careful not to let herself get into this exact situation. But here she was, thrown back into those circumstances like no time had passed, like she were still that horrible Time Lord's _pet_.

She took several more steps backwards, letting the space between them grow like a canyon. It still wasn't enough, but she was running out of room to escape to, so it would have to do.

Prince Balthazar had his hands tucked properly behind his back, a frown on his face. The silence between them lingered, heavy and uncomfortable, and Hartley hoped he couldn't hear her shallow breaths from across the room. She glanced at the door behind him, absentmindedly calculating what it might take to get past him to reach it. He was bigger than her. Stronger and more savage. He could probably snap her like a twig – and being this was his palace, nobody was likely to stop him.

“You accepted my cattleya orchid,” he finally said, his confusion tense in the air between them. She could sense it in that way she always could – the way that bled from one sense to the other. It was almost as if she could smell it; tangy and sharp, edged with petulant indignation. “You _agreed_ to be my wife,” he told her like she were the one in the wrong.

Hartley quickly shook her head, one hand coming up to grip at her own neck, hoping to ground herself. Her pulse thundered beneath her hand and she swallowed around the lump caught in her throat. “I didn't understand what it meant,” she hurried to explain. “I didn't know what this ball was for – I'm not even a citizen of your country!”

The prince's strong brow furrowed. “Then where did you come from?”

“Far away,” she said. “I'm a traveller. We both are – me and my friend, the one you met earlier, when we were dancing. We heard there was a party and stopped by. We really didn't mean for any of this to happen.”

The prince turned away, beginning to pace the length of the room. Out of instinct, Hartley flickered her eyes across the space, searching for something heavy or sharp that she could use as a weapon. She wasn't sure it would come to that, but her anxiety was telling her to be prepared, just in case.

“So you do not want to marry me?” the prince finally asked, confusion thickening even more, like the words simply did not compute. Hartley's gaze darted back to him, mouth dry with her panic.

In his eyes was an edge of danger, and gingerly reaching out with her heart, she found him to be a swirl of displeasure and anger. With a shuddering breath, Hartley searched every corner of her brain for something – anything – that could get her out of this whole mess.

She still hadn't seen the Doctor, or even heard word of him, but she knew he was working on his own end, trying valiantly to free her. But it was taking too long; she needed to get out of here, now.

“I'm sure you're lovely,” she began diplomatically. “But I'm afraid I can't marry you. I just can't.”

But the prince was ready with his reply. “Why not?”

She faltered. “Because I've only just met you, for starters,” she said. “Where I'm from you have to date – court,” she amended at his confusion, “someone for many months, sometimes years, before you decide to marry.”

The prince frowned again. “You accepted the flower,” he growled as if her explanation was nothing more than weak excuses. Frustration clutched at her insides.

“But I didn't know what it meant!” she insisted impatiently. “I mean no disrespect, Prince Balthazar, but I _don't_ want to be your queen. I just want to go home.”

The prince's head snapped up, fire in his eyes. “Do you realise what you're turning down?” he hissed. “A seat on the throne. More money and jewels than you'll ever be able to count. A chance to rule by my side, as my _wife._ ”

Hartley was already shaking her head. “That's not what I want,” she told him vehemently.

“Why not?!” he demanded. “You won't do any better! A future king? Ruler of the United Asteroids? It's everything anyone could ever dream of having. I'm doing you a _favour_!” he persisted, the words spat like poison.

“I don't _want_ it!” she cried.

“Why not?!”

“Because my heart belongs to another!”

The echo of her words rang strong in the air, and Hartley knew they hadn't been said merely out of desperation, or in a last ditch effort for her freedom. She'd said them because they were the absolute truth. And she had a feeling nothing but the truth would free her from this contract she'd unwittingly agreed to.

“The one you arrived with?” The prince's heart held pain, a feeling like she'd betrayed him. It was as if he saw her love for the Doctor as adultery, as if he had any claim whatsoever over her or her heart. “This _Doctor_ person?” he spat in disgust.

Hartley wanted to lie, but it was out there now, impossible to take back. She'd never said the words aloud before, never admitted them in any place other than the darkest recesses of her mind. But if there was ever a time to admit it, it was now.

“Yes,” she whispered, afraid that if she spoke any louder the weight of the words might crush her into nothing.

“I see,” sneered the prince. “And does he reciprocate these feelings?”

Hartley didn't know how to answer, the words catching in her throat. She inhaled deeply, trying to force herself to reply. But the prince was impatient.

“Has he laid claim to you?!” Prince Balthazar demanded, voice and eyes like thunder as he glared at her.

Hartley flinched violently at the unexpected volume, edging away from him, heart pounding so fast it was beginning to hurt. “No,” she said, answering on instinct. Because he hadn't, and he probably never would. She didn't know what it meant exactly, but she knew it was true. “No, he hasn't 'laid claim' to me.”

And he never would. It was like wishing that one day she could bottle the stars; it seemed possible from down on the ground, like you could just scoop them up and keep them forever; but then you went up into the night sky and you realised something so grand could never be bottled. It was much too big, much too beautiful, for that. She didn't get to keep the Doctor; he wasn't _hers_ to keep.

“I see,” hummed the prince, regaining his cool. Hartley's mouth was dry as she stared at him, too frightened to even breathe. She felt like her whole life hung in the balance. “Well, if he has not claimed you, then I shall,” he finally said, decidedly cruel.

Hartley's eyes went wide with horror. This guy was _genuinely_ insane. He was as unstable as it could get. Didn't his people know what _consent_ was? “What?” she squeaked. “You can't – I don't _want_ to be your queen!” she insisted shrilly, growing faint with panic. But it was like arguing with a brick wall for all the good it did.

“It doesn't matter what you want,” said the prince with a glare. His eyes were like fresh charcoal, staining everything they touched with black.

“You're going to _force_ me into a marriage?” she hissed, blindsided. “You can't do that.”

The prince looked like he were about to break out into laughter, emotions taking such a violent turn that they nearly gave her whiplash. “I can,” he countered, unnaturally calm, “and I _am._ We're to be wed at dawn.”

Hartley stared at him, trying desperately to make sense of the reality around her. “You're fucking _crazy_ ,” she finally said, voice cold as ice.

“You've got spirit,” the prince sneered. “I shall enjoy breaking it.”

It was like he'd taken the words from the mouth of the Master himself. Hartley felt herself retch, turning away and gripping the closest bed post, using it to keep herself upright. He laughed like she amused him, and she began to realise exactly how sick this guy was.

There was a knocking at the door but Hartley didn't look up as the prince moved over to it, wrenching it open with a huff.

“Sire,” came the kind of posh voice that could only come from a butler or the Venkusm equivalent, “your father is requesting an audience with you and your bride-to-be.”

Hartley felt the prince's pulse of irritation. “Why?” he demanded.

“It seems somebody is formally contesting your union, my lord,” said the voice. Hartley sucked in a sharp breath, blinking away the blurriness in her eyes as she forced herself up straight. Someone was protesting the engagement – and she knew, deep in her gut, that person was the Doctor. Hope rekindled in her chest like the budding flames of a newly lit fire.

The prince was suddenly there, gripping her wrist in too tight a fist and forcefully dragging her from the luxurious room which had acted as her temporary prison. She was glad to see it gone. “Where are you taking me?” she demanded, wiggling fruitlessly in his grasp.

The prince didn't answer, stony-faced as he pulled her along like she were a misbehaving pet on a leash. It was demeaning and cruel, and she looked away from his face before she started crying from anger – and fear.

Finally he yanked her into the ballroom, but now the party was over and done with and it was empty, the silence almost deafening. It somehow looked smaller without all the people filling it, but still every bit as grand.

At the very end of the room, by the throne up the back, was a tall man in ostentatious green robes and a crown, a pair of men dressed in formal black, a handful of guards brandishing shining swords, and a small gaggle of doting servants. And in front of them all stood the Doctor, tall and handsome as ever in his tuxedo. She felt her heart soar at the sight of him, and she only just kept from bursting into tears of sheer relief.

“What is the meaning of this?” demanded the prince as they marched down the length of the hall, his fingers still cuffed around Hartley's wrist.

She met the Doctor's gaze as the prince dragged her past him. His walls were partially down, allowing her to feel the ball of concern he was pushing towards her. It was brief and secretive – just for the two of them to share, and she swallowed at the intimacy of it all.

He wanted to know if she was okay.

She wasn't – not really – but she still nodded her head, if only to ease his worry.

“You know as well as I, Balthazar, that any man may contest your union in the hours leading up to your nuptials,” said the man in green, a glistening golden crown sitting proudly upon a head of greying hair. Hartley knew then this man was the king.

The prince turned to the Doctor, his hand still tight on Hartley's wrist. It felt like rope, like handcuffs, a symbol of bondage to this horrible man.

“And what are the grounds of your contention?” he demanded.

It wasn't the Doctor who spoke, however, but rather than king himself. “He says Ms. Daniels is his travelling companion, and they were unaware of the significance of both this night and the gesture of the orchid,” he said patiently, intelligent eyes flickering between his son, Hartley, and the Doctor.

But the prince looked unmoved. “So?” he asked petulantly. “The rules say I choose a wife. I chose and she took the orchid; it doesn't matter what she or anyone else says now, after the fact.”

Hartley tried to rip her wrist from his grip, but he only held on tighter. She knew his touch would leave bruises behind and her lip curled in disgust.

The king turned to one of the two men wearing black robes to his right. “It's true, my lord,” said the man, a shorter gentleman with deep red hair. “Once the orchid has been accepted, there is no turning back.”

“So, what, I'm just your _property_?” Hartley demanded. All the heads of the men in the room swivelled to stare at her, apparently blindsided by the sound of her protest. “I'm not something you can own, Prince Balthazar.” She paused, sight turning hazy as she recalled the last person whom had tried to possess her like she were an object to be won. “I've been owned before, by a man who thought I could belong to him,” she snarled, voice spitting like venom. “I proved him wrong, in the end, and I'm not going to let it happen to me _ever_ again.”

The prince sneered. “A righteous sentiment,” he scoffed. “But at the end of the day you're still just an unclaimed woman.”

“Where I come from, women can't be _claimed_ -” she argued shrilly, trying again to rip her wrist from his grip. His touch was dirty, coated with lust and a controlling spirit. He wanted to consume her, eat away at everything she was until all that was left was who he allowed her to be.

“Shut up,” the prince snapped, taking a threatening step forwards, and out of instinct she flinched away, eyes squeezed shut tight as she awaited the inevitable blow that would follow.

But none came, and when she opened her eyes it was to see the prince smirking like they were playing a game, and he'd just won.

“If I may,” began the Doctor, and Hartley just about melted into nothing at the familiar sound of his lilting voice. Glancing down to where he stood on the floor below the podium the rest were all stood on, she found him to look relaxed, unbothered by their situation.

This was good, she reminded herself, this meant he had everything completely under control. Probably. Most likely. _Hopefully._

“We respect your laws,” the Doctor continued once he had everyone's attention. “We really do. But your laws go against our way of life. If you insist on forcing Hartley to marry you, I'm going to have to involve the Shadow Proclamation.”

Hartley's eyebrows rose in surprise. It wasn't often the Doctor suggested going to the police; but when he did, he usually meant business.

The king huffed out a laugh, unmoved by the threat. Even as unconcerned as he was, the guards around him drew their weapons, holding them out towards the Doctor in warning. “We have the best lawyers in the galaxy, Doctor,” the king scoffed like he'd just heard a terrible joke. “Don't think that's enough to scare us.”

The Doctor's stare was grave and heavy, the weight of it settling over everyone like iron shackles. The guards shifted uneasily, and Hartley fought back a dark smirk of pride. “So that's your decision?” he asked them carefully, making sure there was no mistaking the situation. “You're siding with your son?”

The king bristled. “I'm siding with the future king of our mighty united asteroids,” he corrected tartly. “The law is in our favour, Doctor.” The king turned to his son and the men at his side. “We shall move the wedding up. Get your bride ready, Balthazar. And send for the guards – the Doctor will be locked in the dungeon until the ceremony is complete,” he ordered sharply.

“You have a dungeon?” asked the Doctor in surprise, momentarily sidetracked.

The king jerked his hand in Prince Balthazar's direction and like a good little boy he began to yank her in the opposite direction, away from her Doctor.

Hartley glanced over at him in alarm, horrified to find that the steady cool he'd held before was melting away like ice cream in the sun. “Doctor,” she hissed, panic seizing her, her heart in her throat. She couldn't die, so to her, everything was worse than death. “Doctor, do something!” she begged him.

“No, let her go!” the Doctor shouted at the king, who remain apathetic to his pleas. “Let her go _right_ _now_!”

“Doctor!” she cried as he got further and further away. The prince wore a cold, cruel smirk of triumph; like she were a conquest he had won. She struggled harder against him, desperate to get free, to reach the Doctor where she knew she'd be safe. They were almost to the door, almost out of the Doctor's sight, when suddenly the Doctor's voice, loud and desperate, rang throughout the entirety of the ostentatious ballroom.

“I lay claim!”

Everything went still and silent; even the prince froze in his place.

Hartley wasn't entirely sure what this whole 'laying claim' thing was about, but she was beginning to realise it was kind of a big deal among the people of the United Asteroids of Venkusm. Everyone stared at the Doctor, utterly nonplussed, including Hartley.

His eyes were wide and he seemed to not be breathing. He wasn't looking at her, but rather staring at the king with hard eyes, a challenge if she'd ever seen one.

“Come again?” asked one of the men at the king's side.

The Doctor took a deep breath in, squared his shoulders, then declared in a clear voice which bounced throughout the cavernous room like an echo, “I lay claim to Hartley Daniels.”

The words held weight, everybody shifting under the pressure of them. The prince began to tug Hartley back towards the throne, dragging her up the stairs, his glare focused on the Doctor. “Father,” he whined like a petulant child who hadn't gotten his way, “he only says this to stop our nuptials. It's a lie. A false claim.”

The king stroked his chin, eyeing the Doctor with curiosity. The silence stretched on as he deliberated, and Hartley's own pulse was loud in her ears. “We make no judgements until we know the truth,” the king finally decided, and that flame of hope reappeared, hotter than ever.

“The woman spoke of him,” spat the prince. Hartley scowled at the way he wouldn't even use her name. He claimed to want to marry her but wouldn't even treat her like a person. For the sake of women everywhere she could only hope he never married anyone, ever. “She said he felt nothing for her; that her feelings were unrequited.”

Humiliation burned hot within her, and Hartley turned her eyes away so nobody would see the pain in them. But it was pointless; she was in such a state that her grip on her own emotions was lax, the feelings spreading from her like a leaking faucet. She was sure the Doctor could feel it, pain and embarrassment pulsing in her like a second heart.

The others probably couldn't sense it, as none of them so much as blinked. Clearly the one person she wished couldn't read her was now the only one who could.

She shut her eyes, like if she squeezed them tight enough she might be able to disappear all together; blink out of existence. Maybe she'd get lucky and someone would shoot her – wouldn't that be a mercy?

The king turned to one of the cloaked men at his side. “See into him, Breckett,” he ordered one of them. “Sort falsehood from truth.”

Hartley opened her eyes to see one of the taller men step forwards, gracefully descending the stairs until he came to a stop in front of the Doctor. The man – Breckett – raised his hands to the Doctor's head.

“Don't touch him!” Hartley shouted, yanking against the Prince's grip hard enough for pain to radiate up her arm. She'd twisted her wrist, but it would heal. It always did.

“It's okay, Hartley,” the Doctor assured her, never taking his eyes off the king's subject.

It went against her instincts but still she fell obediently silent, watching with watery eyes as the one called Breckett lifted his fingertips to the Doctor's forehead. Everything was still for approximately three seconds before Breckett was leaping away with a cry.

The guards shifted forwards, their swords glinting in the light of the chandeliers above.

“It's okay!” Breckett insisted, holding up his hands in warning. “He's just powerful. It was a lot to take in.”

“And what did you see?” demanded the king. “What is the truth behind his claim?”

Beckett met his king's eyes and answered without hesitation. “The claim is sincere, sire. He means what he says.”

Hartley wasn't entirely sure what that meant. His claim was sincere? How could he know that from three seconds of contact? Clearly the Doctor had fabricated something in his mind, something this man had needed to see. It was the only explanation.

And apparently Prince Balthazar saw that too.

“How do we know this isn't some trickery?” he sneered.

“Breckett has never been wrong before, Balthazar,” the king said patiently. Hartley wondered how the two men could be so blatantly different. They shared no family resemblance at all apart from their frosty stares and strong jaw lines.

The prince abruptly let go of Hartley's wrist. The sudden lack of pressure was jarring, and she cradled her wrist to her chest in surprise.

“Then let him lay the claim,” said the prince with a contemptuous curl of his lip. “Right here, right now.”

Hartley was sure her heart was going to give out from how furiously it was beating. She swallowed, eyes latched onto the Doctor like he were the gravity holding her to the floor beneath. His face was a blank mask, emotions locked tight behind that ever impenetrable wall.

“Well, Doctor?” asked the king, agreeing with his juvenile excuse for a prince.

The Doctor hesitated, eyes flickering over to her. His face may have looked unemotional, but his eyes were anything but. Sparkling with passion and desperation and concern and affection, it was like a sea of emotion she would be happy to drown in.

Then he looked away, meeting the king's cool stare.

“I will lay my claim,” he swore without flinching.

“Hold on!” Hartley interjected, having just about enough of it all. She wasn't some demure servant, she wasn't about to stay still and obedient and just look pretty. She was worth more than that. Her _voice_ was worth more than that. “I'm not a piece of land to be pillaged and claimed!” she insisted.

“Hartley,” interjected the Doctor, emotions carefully contained. “Don't argue.”

It wasn't often he gave her an order like that, or often his eyes glinted with that uncompromising resolve. She needed to listen to him now, for all of their sakes. Reluctantly relenting, Hartley shut her mouth and fell silent.

“King Asher,” began the Doctor humbly, “will you witness my claim?”

The king was quiet, eyes flickering between his son and the Doctor. Hartley could feel his uncertainty, it bounced off Balthazar's impudence like lasers off a mirror. “Kneel,” he finally decided, turning away from his son indifferently.

“Father!” Balthazar cried, taking a step forwards. But the king was steadfast, barely casting his son a look.

“His claim is sincere, Balthazar,” he said patiently. “It's out of my hands.”

The Doctor went down on his knees, bowing his head compliantly. Hartley watched on in warring fascination and horror as the king pulled free the sword from his belt, holding it above the Doctor's shoulders.

Balthazar was practically vibrating with fury, but nobody paid him any attention.

“Hartley,” said the Doctor without looking up from the floor. He held out a hand and as if caught in the current of him, she drifted to his side. He nodded to her and she got the message, kneeling down beside him.

The king began to say something, but the words themselves buzzed in her ears without really taking form. Suddenly all she could focus on was the weight of the Doctor's hand in hers. He was feeling calm and peaceful, and she drew on that like water from a well.

The sword dropped onto both of their shoulders but Hartley didn't look up, too scared of what might happen if she did. The king kept talking, words indistinct and unimportant – some sort of poem, maybe? – and the Doctor's hand seemed to grow warmer in hers.

And that was it. Nothing else happened. There was no great rush of feeling, no ceremonial gestures; just the tap of the sword on their shoulders and a rambling speech before it was over and the king was ordering them to rise.

The prince stood in the back, absolutely seething with childish rage. Hartley took a grim sort of satisfaction in his ire. He deserved it, the petulant brat.

“Go now,” said the king, but his words were still fuzzy, hard to hear over her own racing pulse. “And, for your own sakes, don't come back,” he added with a tired glance back at his son. She imagined Balthazar wasn't an easy person to be related to, and knew it would make even the strongest of people weary.

“With pleasure,” said the Doctor, still gripping Hartley's hand. He paused, meeting the king's eyes one final time. “Thank you for your mercy,” he added politely.

The king waved them away. “Go,” he ordered sharply, and they were only all too happy to comply.

No words were said as they made their way back to the TARDIS. The Doctor knew where it was, which was a relief considering Hartley was all but blind to their path after everything that had just happened.

The Doctor unlocked the doors, holding them open for her to move through. She slipped inside, nearly tripping on the hem of her elaborate dress, but thankfully she caught herself in time, lifting it away from her shoes and making her way up to the console.

The door shut with a resounding creak and the Doctor didn't hesitate to send them into deep space. The ship juddered around them but neither cried out at the ride, standing as still as one could during a TARDIS' flight.

Finally it came to a stop, and everything was disconcertingly silent.

Hartley wasn't quite sure where to begin, but her mouth seemed to pick for her. “Did we just get married?” she asked, a little dumbstruck.

The Doctor let out the breath he'd been holding. “No,” he said. She couldn't help but notice he didn't quite sound relieved for the fact, something that made her very worried indeed.

“Then what just happened?” she asked, leaning her hip against the railing and watching him through careful eyes. “What was that whole claiming thing about?”

The Doctor ran his hands down over the length of his face. “It's a ceremony specific to their culture,” he began, staring down at the console, halfheartedly flicking at the buttons near his hand. “It's basically a commitment ritual. Doesn't actually mean anything. It's just symbolic, really, but they hold it above marriage. They have a saying – _you marry the person but you lay claim on the soul_.”

Hartley's mouth was dry again. “You just laid claim on my soul?” she asked, admittedly breathless.

“I mean, technically, yeah,” he nodded, still fiddling with the console. “But it was to save you, so can you really blame me?” He glanced up but didn't meet her eyes, staring resolutely at something over her shoulder. “You hungry? We could go get pizza.”

But Hartley's questions were far from over, and she wasn't letting him off the hook that easy.

“What did that guy do – Breckett or whatever his name was? He went into your mind, right?”

The Doctor hesitantly nodded his head. “I only let him touch the surface, see what it was he needed to see to let us get out of there. He was a telepath but not a particularly powerful one, so he was easy enough to overpower.”

Hartley understood, then, that her assumption had been right. To save her he'd created something in his head – maybe a feeling, or the memory of a feeling – that hadn't been real, in order to fool the telepath into believing something that wasn't true.

It shouldn't have hurt as much as it did – he'd done it to _save_ her. So why didn't she feel grateful?

“I see,” she whispered, looking away in an effort to hide her watery eyes.

The Doctor stood up straighter. “You do?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, trying to blink the tears away. “Yeah, I get it,” she said, painful but still true. “Thanks for saving me, Doc. I owe you.”

“Hartley-” he tried to say, but she turned away, lifting her dress and beginning the walk towards the back of the control room, where she could escape to her bedroom and take a shower so long her skin went pruney. “Hart,” he said again, and this time his voice was punctuated by an arm wrapping around her waist.

Strong and full of confidence, the Doctor spun her back around to face him. But when she opened her mouth to tell him she just wanted to go to her room, she found she couldn't speak, the Doctor ducking his head down and capturing her lips with his.

She gasped sharply, feeling the Doctor press a firm kiss to her bottom lip. She didn't react for a moment, perfectly still, afraid that if she moved the illusion might snap and send her crashing back into reality – where things weren't nearly as lovely, it would seem.

But a second passed, and then another, and nothing changed. The Doctor was right there, lips pressed to hers, hand resting gently on her waist.

And then it was over. The Doctor stepped back and stared at her. His walls were down, not all the way but enough for her to feel his pulse of anxiety. It was as if he were afraid of her reaction, as if he didn't know her heart was racing and her blood was singing from just that tiny, innocent press of lips.

She didn't say anything, though. She just stared at him, lost for words.

Thankfully he didn't seem quite so tongue-tied. “I might have shown him what he needed to see, but that doesn't mean what he needed to see wasn't real,” he told her, the words coupled with a warm pulse of sincerity.

And Hartley understood everything again for a second time, this time with much more clarity. “Oh,” she said, breathless.

The Doctor rocked back on his heels, nodding his head as if they'd just completed a business deal. “Right, well-” he began dismissively, but she was done with dismissive comments and glossing over things. She was over it. It was time to end the unintentional stand-off they'd fallen into over the last few months – _years_ , if she were being honest.

Without stopping to consider what she was doing, Hartley gripped the lapels of his jacket and drew him to her, pressing up onto her toes so she could slant their lips together properly.

This wasn't some halfhearted peck or the clumsy kiss of two almost-strangers without their memories. This was everything each of them were, coming together in a culmination of what they'd been heading towards from the very start.

His lips were smooth and cool and firm, and when he parted his lips to kiss her again there was the faintest scrape of stubble against her face.

His right arm folded around her, forearm pressed to her lower back and his hand gripping her waist. His other hand came up to cup her face, long fingers splayed against her head. Hartley's hands moved without her permission, wandering up to his head and threading her fingers through his wonderful hair.

She pushed herself higher onto her toes so she had a better angle, and he gripped her tighter, kissing her with fervour. Pressed head to toe against him, she stopped thinking about what was happening with their mouths and hands and instead just lost herself in the feel of him.

He buzzed under her skin, making her blood both burn and sing in the same instant. Her heart was galloping and she couldn't breathe – but that was just fine with her. Who needed air, anyway? Her skin prickled and her stomach muscles tightened. It was everything and he was everything all at once.

He was the first one to pull away – probably for the best, as she would have gone on forever if he hadn't.

Their breath mingled in the air between their faces, noses brushing against one another, gazes connecting. His eyes were hooded, pupils blown, and she knew she couldn't have looked much different. It was utterly tantalising, and she swayed into him as if magnetised, only to pull back at the last moment, blinking in an attempt to get ahold herself.

She swallowed, slowly letting herself drop until she was back on the flats of her feet.

The Doctor relaxed his grip on her, letting her move although keeping his hands on her, like he were worried if he let go she might blow away like smoke.

She wasn't sure how she was going to react. What did one say after such a mind-blowing, earth-shattering kiss with their best friend? She peered up at him from under her lashes, a little shy, a whole lot giddy.

His eyes sparkled with something like wonder, and an answering smile began to grow on her face. “Everything's going to change now, isn't it?” she asked quietly, fingers still threaded through his glorious hair, pressing gently against his scalp.

And the Doctor smiled back, wide and utterly unabashed. “Yeah,” he grinned. “It is.”


	49. Partners in Crime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, I just wanted to pop in and say thank you so much for the love on this story. All your kudos and comments mean so much to me, and I'm so glad you're enjoying Hartley's journey! xx

“ _Make new friends, but keep the old;_

_Those are silver, these are gold.”_

Joseph Parry

* * *

It had been a long time since Hartley had been in a proper office. It smelt strongly of printer ink and microwavable food. And it was noisy with at least one phone always ringing, the continuous whistle of the kettle and the hum of chatter drifting out from all of the individual cubicles scattered around the room, rather like a network of tunnels. It wasn't exactly glamorous, but she found it familiar.

Memories of meetings which went well on into the night flooded her head. Time spent pouring over cover art and tour dates and publication laws. She missed it in a sense, missed having a job and real responsibility, but she wouldn't have given up the life she had _now_ simply to go back to it.

It truly paled in comparison, being so un-extraordinary as it was.

“Can I help you?” a voice asked unexpectedly, jolting her from her absentminded reminiscing.

Blinking, she looked up to find a short, balding man staring down at her from behind a pair of thick glasses. “No, I'm fine, thank you,” she said politely, turning back to the pamphlet in her hands. Something about vegan dietary supplements – she couldn't know for sure, she was only pretending to read it. Ten pamphlets in, the words were all beginning to look like nonsensical squiggles.

“It's just, you've been sitting here for awhile now,” he said awkwardly, and she got the feeling he didn't want to be talking to her, but was being forced to by someone else. Probably management. “Are you sure there isn't something I can help you with?”

“I'm waiting for someone,” she explained.

“I'm afraid loitering is against our policy,” he told her in the kind of voice that made it clear he was shooting for firm, but wildly missing the mark.

“Not to worry, she's with me.”

Muscles relaxing with relief, Hartley leaned around the man to spy the Doctor strolling up to them, already holding out the psychic paper for him to see.

“Health and Safety,” he continued in the same, confident breath, barely casting the man a second glance, even as he squinted suspiciously at the psychic paper.

“Health and Safety?” the man echoed, skepticism radiating off him like a stench.

“Surprise inspection,” replied the Doctor without blinking, the paper disappearing back into his pocket.

“Uh, very well, then,” the man muttered, even more awkward than before. “Sorry, miss.”

Before she could so much as open her mouth to reply the Doctor had grasped her by the hand. He yanked her up out of her chair and away from the conversation, bouncing enthusiastically on his toes as they moved.

“What took you so long?” she complained, holding his hand tighter, unashamedly enjoying the feel of his cool skin against hers. “Do you have any idea how many pamphlets I've read? I've learnt more about calorie intake today than I have in my whole thirty years combined.”

They slipped from the doors, stepping out into the fading light of the day. “I can't put my finger on what it is exactly, but something's not right about this place. I got one of the employees to print out a list of their clients. Thought we could go see one each, try and figure out everything we could. I'll be using this hydraulic stabiliser to track any unusual concentrations of fat, but if we split up we'll cover more ground.”

He pulled them to a stop, the spring air cool on their exposed skin and the sky a soft pink from the setting sun. Handing her a list, Hartley let go of his hand to take it, staring down at the long list of names with a frown.

“Valerie Burton,” he said, pointing a long finger to a name towards the top of the list. “She lives only a few streets over from here.”

“Where'll you be going?”

“Roger Davey, just down the end of this road,” he revealed, gesturing vaguely in that direction. “I'll meet you back here when you're done?”

“Any red flags to watch out for?”

“Side effects, strange dreams, lights in the sky,” he listed briskly. “Anything out of the ordinary.”

“Gotcha,” Hartley nodded. He smiled back distractedly, shoving his hands into his pockets and turning to leave.

“Doctor!” she called after him, and he paused, standing still for a moment before turning back to look at her in confusion. She smiled, the expression open and wide as she danced to his side, pressing herself up onto her toes to kiss him soundly on the cheek. Pulling away, she was gifted with his surprised eyes and pink cheeks. Grinning, Hartley patted his chest, material of his Janis Joplin coat smooth and familiar under her hand. “See you soon,” she said simply, taking pleasure from his bewildered expression before strolling away, heading for the address listed on the pink paper scrunched in her hand.

The house in question was modest, made of brick with a nice, arching entryway through which pink roses grew. It was small, pressed between two duplexes without much in the way of a garden, but for a home in the city, it was rather perfect.

Rapping four times on the red, wooden door, Hartley waited until a woman opened it, pasting a wide smile across her lips.

“Hi, Valerie Burton? My name's Hartley Daniels, I'm here on behalf of Adipose Industries. I don't suppose you have a few minutes to talk about your experience with our product?” she asked in her most professional voice.

The woman who'd answered, all bright orange hair and teeth with a gap in the middle, smiled back politely. “I'm halfway through making dinner,” she replied in a distinct Irish accent. “But you're more than welcome to come in anyway, if you don't mind my attention being split,” she added, and Hartley's smile became more genuine.

“Thank you,” she said, slipping inside the house. The inside was decorated with a nautical theme, but Hartley found it more charming than tacky. “You like the sea?” she asked lightly, letting the taller woman lead her down the narrow hallway towards the kitchen, from which the strong scent of chicken broth leaked out, saturating the air and making Hartley's stomach growl with hunger.

“Me dad was a sailor,” Valerie replied, a fond smile gracing her face as she gestured for her guest to take a seat on the barstool at the small island. “Tea? Coffee?”

“No thanks, I'm fine. I've gotta say though, your dinner smells good,” she said lightly.

“Me gran's recipe. Something of a family secret,” Valerie told her with a smile. “So, Hartley Daniels, what do you want to know?” she asked, picking up a large spoon and hovering over her filled pot, methodically stirring the broth within.

“Well, to start, how are you finding your experience with these pills?” Hartley asked, deciding to just jump right in.

“They're the most brilliant thing I've ever bought,” Valerie began eagerly. “I've lost eight kilos in eight days. It's a borderline miracle.”

“You're looking fantastic,” Hartley replied, meaning every word. She looked simply gorgeous, carrying a glow that Hartley attributed less to the pills and more to her own generated happiness.

“Thank you so much,” Valerie gushed, blue eyes bright at the compliment, a giddy feeling in her gut that Hartley found nearly contagious. “I'm hoping to lose another eight, though,” she said, smile dropping into a frown as she glanced self consciously down at her stomach.

Hartley wanted to reassure her that she looked fine the way she was, but the woman was entitled to her own choices. If she wanted to lose more weight, and as long as she could do so safely, who was Hartley to judge whether she did or not? But that was the question, wasn't it? _Was_ it safe?

“So you began eight days ago, then?” she asked instead, leaning her elbows on the counter and watching as Valerie began to toss pinches of various spices into her simmering stew. “No sign of any side effects?”

“None,” Valerie told her cheerfully. “Like I said, best thing I ever bought.”

“How did you hear about Adipose Industries?” Hartley pressed. “Was it an ad, or recommended by a friend...?”

“Got an email,” she replied with a casual lift of her shoulders. “It was heaven-sent, I'm sure. Kyle wouldn't look twice at me before – now look at me!”

“Kyle?” Hartley asked playfully.

Valerie's pale, freckled cheeks flushed pink, and that same giddy feeling fizzled in her stomach like popping candy. “He's this guy at my university.” she said quietly. “He sits beside me in my Advanced Linguistics class.”

“And let me guess, he's a total babe?” Hartley drawled, amusement curling at her lips.

Valerie flushed even darker. “I was always trying to get his attention, but he never gave me the time of day, not until I started taking the pills. Just yesterday he asked if I wanted to study with him some time. _Me_! And it's all thanks to these pills.”

Hartley didn't want to say anything, but she couldn't help herself. “He wasn't interested in you before you started losing weight?” she asked, not liking the sound of it.

Seeming surprised by the question, Valerie blinked, frowning as she answered. “Well, no, but that's understandable.” Hartley definitely had some strong opinions about _that_ , but the last thing she wanted was to come across as rude, so she kept her lips sealed shut. “I can tell you disapprove,” said Valerie, but she didn't sound angry, if anything she seemed mildly amused.

This time Hartley really couldn't keep silent. “Well, I just think that anyone you need to change yourself for isn't really worth your time,” she said, utterly honest but still gentle, hoping not to hurt the younger woman's feelings.

Valerie nodded, listening to her carefully as she adjusted the heat of the stove. “Haven't you ever liked someone that much? Liked them to the point where it hurt, but they barely even gave you a second glance?” she asked, sweet and curious at the same time.

Hartley hadn't – not exactly – but she understood what she was saying. She could apply it to her relationship with the Doctor, if some of the parameters were blurred a little.

She'd adored the Doctor and his lifestyle since day one, but he'd been less than impressed by her in return. She would never say she really felt _hated_ by him, but resented at times? Most definitely.

All she'd wanted was to be his friend, to be part of his life. But, in all of that, she'd never once changed what she believed or how she acted or what she looked like. She wasn't the type of person to compromise her integrity for the sake of a guy. The fact that Valerie was didn't make her a lesser person, it made her a _younger_ person, one who needed to grow more in themselves to discover that, if a boy didn't like you for you, he wasn't worth the trouble.

“I finally got my guy,” Hartley revealed quietly, and Valerie looked up from her broth with bright curiosity. “Took me a good few years, but finally we're together. It's new and a little scary, but he's still him and I'm still me, and I'm happy. We both are,” she said, an unconscious smile growing on her face, warmth blooming in her heart.

“Yeah, but you're already gorgeous,” argued Valerie in a teasing voice, rolling her eyes and turning away.

Hartley knew there would be little that would get through to the young student – kids were stubborn about these kinds of things – so she decided to change the subject. She could just _hear_ the Doctor's voice in her head, telling her to 'stay on topic and stop lollygagging about'.

“So you're happy with your pills, then?” she asked, keeping things moving. Valerie quickly nodded. “And your service has been satisfactory?”

“I got a home visit to ask about the service, so of course it's been satisfactory,” she grinned brightly. Her energy shone almost like a light, innocence and sweetness – if there could be such an emotion – emanating from her like a beacon in the night.

Hartley really hoped that whatever was nefarious about Adipose – because surely there was _something_ – wasn't going to harm Valerie in any way. She was too kind for anything bad to happen to, and Hartley would make sure she was safe.

“Would you like some of this?” the younger girl asked as she produced a large metal ladle, beginning to spoon herself a bowl.

“I don't want to impose,” Hartley began.

“Nonsense,” Valerie said, wavering her off effortlessly. “I've made enough to last me a month. You're welcome to a bowl, if you're hungry.”

It had been a while since she'd eaten, and the smell of it was mouthwatering. It wasn't professional of her – but then again, it wasn't like she was getting paid to do this by anyone. The Doctor be damned, she'd eat if she wanted to. Besides, she had time to kill.

“Well, I s'pose I could eat,” she admitted, and Valerie grinned, already halfway through dishing up a second bowl.

A half an hour later there was a sharp rapping at the door, and Valerie got up to answer it while Hartley finished off the last of her second helping. A moment passed and then the Doctor was slipping into the room after an amused looking Valerie.

“Really?” the Doctor began, watching with a cocked brow as Hartley quickly pushed away her bowl and wiped her mouth, struggling to look innocent. “I send you to do one job and you end up eating dinner and drinking wine with the client?” he asked dryly.

In a move that was in no way casual, Hartley pushed her nearly empty glass of wine away from her, the sound of it loud against the wooden tabletop. She could only wince.

“You're incorrigible,” he sighed, and she gave him her sweetest smile, hoping she looked cute enough to get away with it.

“Is this him?” asked Valerie curiously, eyeing him with understandable interest.

“Yeah, that's him,” Hartley confirmed, standing up and retrieving her jacket from where it lay on the kitchen counter, pulling it on over her shirt.

“You've been talking about me?” asked the Doctor, unable to help but preen at the information.

“Don't let it get to your head, Spacewalker,” she tutted, moving over to Valerie. “It was so lovely meeting you, Valerie,” she said, bringing her in for a tight hug that surprised the younger woman, before she quickly squeezed back. “Thanks for dinner, it was brilliant,” Hartley added as she pulled back.

“Any time, Hart,” replied her brand-new friend. “Thanks for letting me rant about Kyle.”

“Remember what I said,” Hartley added in a tone approaching stern.

“I can do better,” recited Valerie obediently.

Hartley smiled proudly, tapping the girl on the nose before heading out into the hall. “See you!” she called over her shoulder, opening the door and stepping out into the slight chill of the evening.

The Doctor followed, letting the door click shut before he turned on her, a wide grin already on his stupid face. Hartley pointedly didn't meet his eyes.

“You've been chatting about me,” he sang, looking like a right git as he sauntered through the tiny garden towards the street. Hartley just barely resisted the urge to groan as she followed, crossing her arms over her chest, unable to help the embarrassment itching at her insides. She didn't want to come across as _too_ eager. That was bad, right?

The Doctor just kept grinning like an idiot.

“Shut up,” she said without any real heat, kicking idly at a loose stone on the footpath. His grin only seemed to grow, and her cheeks went pink.

“I mean, I know I'm dashing and funny and really just downright irresistible, but did you really need to go gushing about it to a complete stranger?” he teased, adjusting his tie with a stupidly smug look on his handsome face.

“I wasn't _gushing_ ,” she argued, but it fell on deaf ears.

“You just can't keep quiet about me. No, no, it's sweet. Really, it is,” he gave her that shit-eating grin again, and she rolled her eyes, slapping him on the shoulder in reprimand.

They fell silent, the Doctor grinning like the madman he was and Hartley blushing up a storm. Looking up into his eyes, she suddenly wanted the upper hand. “Well, maybe I was gushing,” she said in the most haughty voice she could come up with. “Whatcha gonna do about it?” she asked, swaying closer and batting her eyelids at him flirtatiously.

The Doctor's grin dropped into a look of surprise. He might have acted confident, but he forgot how long she'd been with him. She knew exactly which buttons she needed to push to make him as bashful and shy as a pre-pubescent boy with his first crush.

She smiled, her affection for him like a drug in her veins. She loved all he was, every single facet of his being, she loved it with an ardency that scared her. She had to tell him, the fact of it too loud and important for her to keep to herself. The words were on her tongue, lips opening to blurt it out without any hint of tact.

“Come on,” he said suddenly, and the words died on her lips. “I want to run some tests on this thing back in the TARDIS.”

And the moment was gone, that pressing urgency from before evaporating into nothing. There was time to tell him – she had all the time in the universe; besides, she wanted to be sure he was in the right place to hear it. She knew him well enough by now to know when not to put such a thing on his shoulders. For a man with two hearts, he really wasn't very good at accepting love.

The Doctor pulled a small golden pendant from the inner pocket of his jacket, holding it up for her to see in the faint glow emanating from the streetlights. She took the chain in her fingers, the gold cold to the touch.

“What is it?” she asked, bringing the little pendant closer to her eyes. It was small, shaped like a cylinder, or maybe a pill of some kind.

“The free gift that Adipose give all their customers,” he grimaced down at it. “I need to know what's so important about it.”

“What makes you think it's important?” she asked, holding it in her hand as they approached the TARDIS. It stood beneath a bright streetlight, the wooden exterior bathed in its ethereal white glow.

“It's made of real 18-carat gold, and they're giving it away for free,” he explained, pulling out his key and unlocking the door. She slipped inside the ship, which welcomed her with a familiar hum. “In my experience, humans aren't usually so generous unless they've got something to gain.”

“Hey,” she cried in defence of her species. But, on second thought, could she really blame him? It wasn't exactly an untrue statement.

“I call 'em like I see 'em,” he clicked his tongue in reply, the look on his face teasing, and she couldn't help but smile. He grabbed her hand, squeezing for a moment before playfully snatching the pendant from her grasp. She rolled her eyes again, watching as he grinned back like an idiot.

“Go on then,” she prompted him, waving him off. “Work your science-magic. Figure it all out for us.”

“When is it ever that easy?” he asked even as he bounced towards the console, fishing something from deep within his bottomless pockets.

“A girl can dream,” she said dryly, collapsing onto the jump seat and staring up at the domed ceiling.

She was full from a lovely dinner from Valerie, but now she was craving something sweet. She idly wondered whether the Doctor would make a tiny detour to Italy for some gelato. She doubted it – whatever was happening here was obviously more important than her sweet tooth – and decided against asking.

“Oh, fascinating,” the Doctor purred from his spot at the console, hunched over to peer through the lens of a magnifying glass. “Seems to be a bio-flip digital stitch, specifically for converting one biological material into another, perhaps even giving it _life._ Quite astonishing technology, actually, beyond anything I would have expected to find here, that's for sure,” he chattered away, moving faster than she could keep up. She was built for languages and poetry – not for science. That much had always been clear to her, pretty much since birth.

  
“So what does this mean, exactly?” she asked, pushing herself up from the chair, her shoes slapping against the grating of the floor.

“I don't know,” he said, pulling his glasses off his face, folding them up and tucking them back into his pocket along with the magnifying glass. “Not yet, anyway.”

“So then, we head back into the lion's den?” she finished, half a plan already beginning to form in her mind.

“Only thing we can do,” he agreed, picking up the pendant and tossing it to her. She snatched it from the air with ease. “Keep it safe,” he added, and she obediently threaded it around her throat, letting it hang limply against her chest. “Next day, just an hour or so before it closes,” he spoke aloud as he began to pilot his ship. It groaned as usual, shaking beneath their feet as they left one time and entered another. It landed with a small jolt, and then the Doctor was careening down the ramp towards the doors.

“Then what?” asked Hartley, making sure she had everything before following him, pulling her jacket more tightly around her body.

“Then we hide out, somewhere they won't find us, until closing.”

“And then?”

“And then we can explore without anyone seeing.”

The building was still bustling when they arrived, but they managed to slip in through the back without anyone noticing. The corridors in the bowels of the building were almost completely empty, so they were able to move without having to use the psychic paper at all.

“Here,” the Doctor said, coming to a stop beside a door labelled 'storage'. It was unlocked, and so he slipped inside; with a glance back up and down the hallway, Hartley followed. The door shut behind her and the Doctor quickly used the sonic on it, locking it from the inside, meaning they would avoid detection, at least for the hour they planned to stay hidden.

“So, what're we meant to do now?” asked Hartley. The idea of sitting in the broom cupboard for the next hour or so sounded awfully boring. She wasn't even sure the Doctor could stay _still_ for that long; he was a thousand times more restless than she was, and that was saying something.

“According to the schematics provided by the TARDIS, there's a mainframe in here,” he explained, already opening up the panels on the back wall, working at the wires and conduits within.

As he worked, Hartley glanced around at the cupboard they'd locked themselves inside of. A handful of mops rested in the corner, and the shelving on the left was mostly used to house spare toilet paper. The whole room smelt of cleaning chemicals, but it wasn't altogether that unpleasant.

Time ticked by, long and arduous. Hartley pulled out her phone, fiddling with it for so long her battery went from almost completely full to almost completely dead. She pocketed it with a sigh, stretching her aching back until it popped.

The Doctor had still yet to move from where he was hunched over the mainframe in the wall. Every now and again his sonic would buzz, and occasionally he'd mutter something in a language that the TARDIS wouldn't translate, but otherwise he worked in silence.

“Are you done yet?” she asked him, aware that she sounded like a whining child but so sick of just sitting there that she didn't care.

The Doctor sighed, abandoning his work a lot more easily than she'd expected him to. He shut the panels, leaning back against the wall opposite her and pocketing his sonic once more. “I can't get into it,” he revealed, allowing a tendril of disappointment to escape his walls.

Hartley blinked in surprise. “You mean we've been sitting here all this time, and you haven't even hacked into it yet?” she asked thinly.

His expression bordered the line between affronted and embarrassed. “It's triple deadlocked,” he told her, his face scrunching in annoyance.

She rolled her eyes, leaning back and resting her head against the wall. Typical.

“So, what now, then?” she asked, standing back up properly and nudging at a spare bucket with the tip of her shoe.

He paused, eyes narrowed as if he were trying to hear a very small sound from very far away. “It's still twenty minutes till closing,” he finally said with a nod to himself. “We just have to wait.”

He fell silent, and the quiet between them stretched on. It wasn't awkward, but rather filled with a mounting tension that she couldn't explain. Her heart began to race. She couldn't figure out why the air suddenly felt thick, or why a thin sheen of sweat began to cling to the back of her neck. It was almost like she was nervous – but of _what?_

Her foot began to tap against the floor, a gentle thumping that matched the speed of her thundering heart. She tried to distract herself, reciting the Greek alphabet in her head, and then reciting it backwards. Twice.

It didn't work, tension building and building, though to what she didn't know. The Doctor began to speak and she latched onto his words like a lifeline. “Bit of a small cupboard,” he said idly. Looking up, she met his eyes in the dim lighting of their hiding spot, finding him to look as tense as she felt.

“Well, that's the definition of the word cupboard, though, isn't it?” she replied, aware she was about to start rambling but unable to stop herself. Anything to keep the charged air in the cupboard from overwhelming her. “It's a type of furniture that originated in the Middle Ages as a board or table for cups. The word also may have been used for a stepped sideboard and later for open shelves, both to display plates. Since the 16th century the name has referred to a case fitted with doors. It then only stands to reason that such a thing would only be small enough to hold cups, as was its original purpose. Though, I do suppose the definition has since been stretched to allow for other intents, such as–”

“Are you really giving me a complete history of the word 'cupboard'?” the Doctor mercifully interjected. She was relieved – she had at least another five minutes of material on the subject, and the longer it went on the more pathetic she seemed. She glanced up at him in the faint light, finding that, instead of exasperation in his eyes, there was a warm kind of quality, like a rising fondness that brightened his chocolate gaze and pulled gently at the corners of his lips.

Her heart stuttered in her chest. “I ramble when I'm nervous,” she mumbled.

His head tilted to the side, the action much like that of a curious puppy. “Why're you nervous?” he asked, that fond warmth melting into more of a confused curiosity.

Unable to answer, Hartley lifted her shoulders in vague acknowledgement. The Doctor pursed his lips, considering her carefully in the low lighting. She wished there were some kind of bulb within the room, she felt like some proper light might ease the mounting tension – but instead they were left in semi-darkness, the only light leaking in from under the door.

The Doctor suddenly reached into his pocket, rummaging around for a long moment before producing something she couldn't quite identify. He grinned, wide and proud as he gripped the object, snapping it with a dull crack. Immediately the small, cramped cupboard was full of a dull purple light, the shine coming from the glow stick in his hands.

Hartley gave a low laugh, reaching out to take it from him with a smile. She shook it a few times, letting the glow spread evenly, then held it up between them. It was brighter than a regular glow stick, and she knew by the design it had to be one he'd gotten from a different planet. The light was too brilliant to be of Earthly origin.

“I love it,” she said with a warm grin.

He sniffed, clearly aiming for nonchalant. “It's just a luminescent cane,” he told her casually, as if that somehow lessened its beauty. “Thought you'd appreciate the colour.”

“You mean glow stick, right?” she asked, continuing to grin, the expression morphing from sweet to impishly amused.

“Different planet, different name,” he said with another sniff. She had to chuckle, looking down at the fancy luminescent cane and watching as the light seemed to ripple from within its plastic casing.

She realised that, without her even noticing, the tension in the air had evaporated, leaving her warm and comfortable. She smiled, feeling a pulse of sudden bravery and riding it through, taking a small step forwards. The already dwindling space between them disappeared into nothing, and she watched as the Doctor gulped at their sudden close proximity.

“How much longer do we have to go?” she asked quietly, voice low and holding just a hint of a husky edge.

Now it was the Doctor's turn to look nervous. “Uh, just over fifteen minutes,” he replied, Adam's apple bobbing when he swallowed. Her eyes darted down to follow the movement, then slowly trailed back up over his chin, lingering on his sinful lips before fluttering up to meet his eyes, which were wide with a panic she found adorable.

It felt like so long since she'd kissed him, and suddenly it was all she could think about doing. But he still looked so nervous, and the last thing she wanted to do was push him further than he was willing to go. So, she placed her hands gently to his chest, fingers of her right hand still curled around the glow stick, its light set between their faces, making their eyes shine in the purple glow.

“How're we gonna pass the time?” she asked coyly, blinking up at him with a hint of sultriness that made him shift his weight anxiously.

“You've been spending too much time with Jack,” he told her, attempting to keep the usual levity in the words, but instead his voice was gruff from the growing tension sparking between them like electricity. Hartley could feel the rhythm of his double hearts hammering away through the material of his suit. The fast beats matched her own, and like he were her centre of gravity she felt herself begin to sway into him.

It was a small movement, not in any way forceful, and she knew she wasn't imagining the way he also swayed closer. They paused just before meeting, and Hartley felt his cool, minty breath fan over her lips. Without giving it much thought she licked her own, and the Doctor's gaze darted down, taking in the action with narrowed, interested eyes.

“I mean, we're halfway through a plan,” he said, voice rough, like what she imagined he'd sound like if he'd just woken up. “This probably isn't a good idea,” he told her with as much conviction as he could possibly muster; which wasn't much. The attempt was wholly unconvincing, especially when he drifted closer still, their noses just barely brushing. “We don't have the time for this,” he added weakly.

“You're right,” she agreed without feeling. They were empty words, and she gripped the lapels of his suit, her fingers curling around the material, gripping it tightly like she were searching for traction. “It's probably a bad idea.”

“A very bad idea,” he nodded, but his eyes were focused solely on her lips, and she knew then that they were done for.

Unthinking, she bit down on the flesh of her bottom lip and the Doctor gave a frustrated huff. She thought suddenly that he may have been about as alien as it could get, but damn if he wasn't a _man._

“Now that's just unfair,” he said grumpily. She laughed quietly, but before she could respond he swooped down, capturing her lips with his and putting a stop to any reply she could possibly form.

Sucking in a sharp gasp of air, knowing she'd need it, Hartley pressed into him, savouring the way he did the same. Arms twisted around her middle, tugging her against the hard planes of his lanky body. Somewhere in the back of her mind she registered that she'd dropped the glow stick. It landed on the floor with a dull clatter but she didn't have the attention to spare.

Gripping the Doctor's lapels more tightly, Hartley pulled back just the slightest bit before kissing him again, dragging her lips over his in the most wonderful dance. She wondered, briefly, where he'd learned to kiss like that, but all conscious thought was removed from her head when one of his hands moved up her back. His fingers slid over the delicate ridges of her spine, ghosting over her skin through her clothes until he reached her neck, then moved around to her face.

He cupped her jaw in his palm and tilted her head, changing the angle of the kiss and startling her pleasantly. She leant into it, pushing him with enough force that he was shoved back, softly hitting the wall behind him. Hartley moved with him, thinking that he was rather like a drug she needed more of. Her lips tingled where they dragged against his, and she curled her hands around the back of his neck, gripping gently at the soft hair there. He hummed into the kiss, and a moment later broke away.

They both panted for air, and she made note to tease him about his so-called 'superior respiratory bypass system' later. Unable to help herself, her mouth pulled up into a contented smile, and when she finally got around to opening her eyes the Doctor was already look at her. He wasn't smiling but rather just staring, the look in his eyes indescribable.

The finer emotions of the room were lost in the haze of attraction that filled the space between them like a fog. She wasn't sure whose was whose, it was all blurring together into one pleasurable blur of colour in her head. It was so tangible she could almost smell it – or maybe that was just the Doctor. His usual scent of motor oil, marmalade and stardust swam in her head, and she felt drunk on it.

“Maybe we can make the time,” he conceded so abruptly that it shocked her, grasping at her again and bringing her in for another deep, languid kiss. She giggled into it, but soon it wasn't a laughing matter. His hands on her body were like fire, hot to the touch even through the layers of clothes they wore. Gasping into his mouth when his tongue flicked at her lip, Hartley responded by capturing his bottom lip in both of hers and then gently biting down. The Doctor's grip on her tightened, and he kissed her with more fervour.

All of his usual zest for life was injected into their embrace, and Hartley sighed again, the delicious sounds she made only spurring the Doctor on, making him all the more enthusiastic.

Hartley never wanted it to end. His scent, his weight, the feeling of his skin and lips against hers was almost too much, she was sure he was going to overtake her entirely. And she was inclined to let him.

Unfortunately before she could live to see that happen there was a sharp banging on the door to the broom cupboard they'd locked themselves in. Springing apart and panting for breath, the two stared at one another for a moment before turning to glance at the door, like one of them might miraculously develop the ability to see through solid wood.

“Who's in there?” asked the voice of someone who'd had one too many cigarettes in their lifetime. “Is that you, Christie? I told you to quit bringing your boyfriend down here for a quick shag. One of these days Health and Safety is gonna catch you, y'know?”

The Doctor straightened his clothes, but it did little to help the his kiss-swollen lips, flushed cheeks and mussed hair. Clearing his throat he yanked open the door, already holding up the psychic paper. “John Smith, Health and Safety,” he said with as much dignity as he could possibly muster. Which, to be perfectly honest, wasn't very much.

Hartley didn't dare poke her head out to glance at the man who'd interrupted them, instead leaning back against the wall and running her fingers through her hair, desperately trying to tame it as she fought to even her breathing, lowering her heart rate and forcing herself to calm down.

“Right, uh, sorry,” said the man, more bewildered than anyone Hartley had ever felt. Her cheeks were hot from both the snogging and the embarrassment of getting caught. “Um – should you really be...?” the stranger trailed off uncertainly.

“Testing the broom cupboard for...structural integrity,” the Doctor said. The lie was a pathetic one and it made Hartley laugh, a single loud giggle from within the cupboard. The Doctor kicked backwards, bumping her in the shin in reprimand.

“Right,” said the man again, now incredibly uncomfortable.

“Well, time to clock off now. So, off you trot,” ordered the Doctor, and Hartley caught sight of him quite literally _shooing_ the man away. There was a large moment of awkward silence before finally the sound of the man's footsteps were echoing through the hall. The Doctor remained leant in the doorway, making sure he was really gone, and Hartley appreciated the extra time to compose herself.

Finally the Doctor stepped from the cupboard, holding the door open wide and waving her out into the empty corridor.

Hartley stepped out, glad her walk was steady and her knees didn't shake. She brushed imaginary dirt from her mussed up clothes, then double checked her hair.

“Great, now we've been seen,” muttered the Doctor, frowning as he shut the door and locked it after them.

“Calm down, Grumpy Guts,” she replied, amusement warm in her voice as she stepped closer to straighten his tie from where it had come loose during their embrace. “Don't pretend you didn't enjoy it,” she grinned up at him toothily.

His cheeks turned pink, and he cleared his throat uncomfortably. “That's neither here nor there,” he said in a strained voice. Smiling, she patted him tenderly right between his hearts before taking mercy and turning away.

“So, end of the working day,” she stated the obvious, looking up and down the long concrete hallway they found themselves in. “Where to first?”

“Uh, the roof,” said the Doctor, lacking his usual confidence.

“You're the boss,” she smiled, still coy as could be, and now it wasn't just his cheeks that were pink; the tips of his ears were a rosy red too. “Come on,” she said, winding her arm through his and beginning to pull him along in the direction of the lifts. “We've got an evil plan to put a stop to.”

The elevator was mercifully empty, and by the time they'd travelled to the top of the building the Doctor had composed himself.

Hartley thought it was sweet, the way he glanced at her from the corner of his eye. It was all so new to both of them, this love of theirs; so fresh, and young. Neither knew what tomorrow might bring, but they both knew they planned to enjoy it as they found out together.

It had been so long since Hartley had had anything even close to a partner; for the longest time it had just been the Doctor. Maybe she knew, even from the very beginning, that it would just always be him. There was no one else for her; at least, the universe certainly seemed to think so.

She wondered if she still knew how to be someone's girlfriend. Was it something you ever forgot? And how different were these circumstances? Was it different because the person she was involved with was an alien? The answer was obviously yes. She wondered if there were any books on the subject she could read.

Although she doubted _How To Be a 900 Year-Old Time Lord's Immortal Girlfriend and Travelling Companion_ was something many other people in the universe were in need of reading.

“Ah, a cleaner's cradle!” cried the Doctor, bounding towards it happily. Hartley broke from her musings to give him her full attention. “Just what we need.”

“What're we meant to do with a cleaner's cradle?” she asked even as she followed him over to the device sitting on the edge of the building. “Wouldn't it just be easier to search on foot?”

“We don't know what these people are planning,” he said, climbing ungracefully into the cradle then holding out a hand to her. She took it with a grateful smile, letting him carefully pull her over the lip and onto the platform of the cradle. “Best to keep our distance.”

With the familiar buzz of the sonic, the pair of them held onto the sides of the cradle as it slowly lowered them down the side of the building. London was spread out before them, beautiful and towering against the blanket of stars that had appeared once the sun had bowed out for the night. She smiled, leaning against the edge of the cradle keeping them safe before turning to the Doctor with warmth in her chest.

“You know, as far as dates go, this isn't so bad,” she began impishly. He turned to look at her with wide eyes. “I mean, you and me, a gripping mystery, a perfect view of the London skyline, some snogging in a broom cupboard,” she listed with a small, shit-eating grin. “That's pretty much my perfect date. Have you been reading my diary?” she asked playfully.

The Doctor spluttered for a brief moment before getting control of himself and scoffing. She grinned, wide and unrestrained, then wound her arm through his. He was warm against the chill of the evening air, and for a brief moment she enjoyed the view and the perfect company, knowing it probably wouldn't be long before the bad guys of the week found them and it all went to shit.

Enjoy it while it lasted, she supposed.

The cradle came to an abrupt stop and Hartley turned away from the lights of London to glance into the window before them. It was a large, scarcely decorated office. The pair of travellers were only looking through the glass for a brief moment before the door opened and people began to pour inside.

Grabbing ahold of his companion, the Doctor sharply yanked them down and out of sight. They crouched out of sight, the Doctor fishing out his stethoscope and sticking it in his ears, pressing the end to the wall and listening intently.

Hartley considered herself a patient person, but they were sitting on a window-washer's cradle in the middle of an autumn night in London. Besides, who knew what they were up against? Not knowing something could put her life in danger...relatively speaking.

“Let me listen,” she finally hissed at the Doctor, who batted her away with a frown. Rolling her eyes, she yanked the stethoscope from his hand. He gave a yelp as they tore from his ears, but she just tutted back, sticking them in her own and leaning against the wall to listen.

“ _I am surprised you never asked about my name. I chose it well_ ,” a slimy, prim kind of voice was saying proudly. “ _Foster. As in foster mother. And these are my children._ ”

There's a beat, then another voice, much less sneering, said, “ _you're kidding me. What the hell is that_?”

Unable to stem her curiosity, Hartley began to gingerly stand straight, just enough so that she could see through the thick glass separating them and the bad guys. The Doctor looked alarmed, but she nodded to him surely. Reluctantly agreeing, together they both peeked through the window, spying the people within.

Taking the stethoscope from her ears, Hartley leant forwards in an attempt to read their lips, only to have the Doctor suddenly elbow her in the ribs. Hissing in surprise, she turned to let him have it only to see him staring directly ahead, eyes open wide in shock.

Alarmed, Hartley followed his line of sight. She froze in surprise when she finally caught sight of what he was looking at.

Donna Noble was staring through the viewing panel in the door on the opposite side of the room. She had the largest, happiest grin on her face, and although it was a little harder to read her emotions through the thick materials between them, Hartley caught a fluttering of glee so intense she giggled at the force of it.  
  
 _“Doctor!_ _Hartley!”_ their friend from so long ago mouthed, her delight climbing, smile so wide it looked ready to burst her face in two. With wide eyes, Hartley could only stare, wondering how the _hell_ Donna Noble had managed to get herself caught up in a situation like the one they were in. _“Oh my god!”_ she mouthed again, radiating glee.

  
Pulling a frown, Hartley made an expression that prompted an answer to the questions swimming in her mind.

“ _It's me!”_ mouthed Donna giddily, as if they might have forgotten.

Hartley glanced to the Doctor, finding his jaw slack with shock. Slowly, he nodded his head, telling her they knew exactly who she was.

  
 _“Oh, this is brilliant,”_ Donna told them silently.

  
“What the hell are you doing there?” the Doctor asked, the words whispered yet clear on his mouth, so Donna could read his lips.

“ _I was looking for you!”_

“What?” hissed Hartley, glancing again at the Doctor, who looked equally as bewildered. Glancing back at Donna, she noted the joy in the other woman's eyes. “Why?”

“ _I read it on the internet. Weird. Crept along. Heard them talking. Hid. You two!”_

  
Hartley nodded, following the basics. Then, “are we interrupting you?”

  
The sound of the unexpected voice startled her, and Hartley jumped, glancing over at the people they'd been spying on with a grimace. What was this, amateur hour?

  
“Run!” the Doctor instructed, this time out loud, and Donna didn't hesitate to follow the command.   
  


“Get her,” snapped Foster in a sneer.

“Sonic the door! Sonic the door!” Hartley hissed at the Doctor, who scrambled to comply. The lock lit up blue in the glow from the sonic, and then he aimed it at the mechanics of the cradle above them.

Quickly, almost too quickly for Hartley's unprepared nerves, the cradle flew upwards. Yelping, she grasped ahold of the Doctor's arm, wincing as the cold night air stung her eyes. In mere seconds they reached the roof and the Doctor was leaping from the cradle. He reached back as though from instinct, grasping ahold of Hartley and hauling her over the edge. Together they stumbled down the ladder and made a beeline for the door to the building.

“Go, go, go,” Hartley pushed the Doctor forwards faster, very nearly tripping over his feet in her need to get down the stairs. They'd only made it three floors before they just about ran face-first into another body. For a split second Hartley thought the worst, preparing to defend them if they were attacked, but then Donna _freaking_ Noble was standing in front of them.

Now that glee his Hartley with full force, and she staggered at the strength of it.

Without a second thought Donna leapt into the Doctor's arms, holding him in a brief but tight embrace. She beamed widely, pulling back and immediately latching onto Hartley.

Laughing quietly, Hartley gripped her back, soaking in her happiness and elation like it were a drug. It was strong and warm, making pleasant butterflies erupt in her gut. She clutched Donna tighter, nearly overcome with emotion simply from feeling the rush of what Donna felt. It was intoxicating.

  
Finally Donna pulled back to grip both of them, her warm eyes flickering between the pair rapidly, as if she couldn't decide who to look at first.

“Oh, my _God._ I don't believe it,” she gasped happily. The sincere joy and relief emanating from her made Hartley smile. It felt exactly like running into one of your oldest, dearest friends, despite them having only met the once before now. “Look at you! You've even got the same suit!” she said, eyes finally settling on the Doctor before her expression flattened into distaste. “Don't you _ever_ change?”

  
“Yeah, thanks, Donna,” he replied in exasperation, brow furrowed. “Not right now.”

The sound of doors being slammed open echoed up through the stairwell they were stood in. Hartley didn't hesitate to grasp Donna's hand, grinning at her widely. “Ready to run?” she asked eagerly.

“You have _no_ idea,” Donna breathed.

“Just like old times!” cried the Doctor, pushing them both up before him, then bringing up the rear. Hartley gripped Donna tightly, dragging her up the stairs as quickly as she could. She wasn't as accustomed to running as they were, but her life was on the line, so she moved impressively fast for someone unused to the lifestyle.

“I can't believe I found you!” Donna yelled over her own pants of exertion, one hand gripping Hartley, the other holding the railing as she pushed herself faster. “I've looked everywhere! And _this_ is where you turn up?! See, I just came across this by accident, really, because I thought, how do you find those two? And then I just thought, look for trouble and then they'll turn up!”

  
Hartley burst through the door, pulling Donna out after her and holding it for the Doctor. He tumbled out after them, then slammed it shut and sonicked it to hold them off.

  
“So I looked _everywhere_. You name it. UFO sightings, crop circles, sea monsters. I looked, I found them all. Like that stuff about the bees disappearing, I thought, I bet they're connected,” Donna continued to ramble, barely even pausing to take a breath. “Because the thing is, you two, I believe it all now. You opened my eyes. All those amazing things out there, I believe them all. Well, apart from that replica of the Titanic flying over Buckingham Palace on Christmas Day. I mean, that's _got_ to be a hoax,” she snorted. Hartley's face scrunched at that last one.

  
The Doctor looked up. “What do you mean, the bees are disappearing?”

“ _That's_ what you take away from all of that?” Hartley asked him, unimpressed by his priorities. He ignored her, climbing to his feet and shooting around to the ladder, climbing it fluidly. Hartley followed without hesitation, and he grasped her arm, once more helping her into the cradle. It wasn't even a chivalry thing – Hartley could tell it was just ingrained instinct, an afterthought that came from years of familiarity.

  
“I don't know,” replied Donna from the bottom of the ladder. “That's what it says on the internet. Well, on the same site, there was all these conspiracy theories about Adipose Industries and I thought, let's take a look!”

  
The Doctor was busy using the sonic on the cradle's controls, and Hartley leant over the lip, waving Donna up. “Come on, get in,” she called, glancing over at the door in concern. They couldn't have been far behind.

“What, in _that_ thing?” asked Donna in disgust.

“ _Yes_ , in that thing,” the Doctor replied impatiently.

  
“But if we go down in that, they'll just call us back up again,” Donna countered smartly.

  
“No, no, no, because I've locked the controls with a sonic cage,” he explained hurriedly. “I'm the only one that can control it. Not unless she's got a sonic device of her own, which is very unlikely.”

“Famous last words,” Hartley said from the corner of her mouth. He didn't respond other than an unimpressed look from the corner of his eye. “Come on, in now, Donna!” she called to their old friend, and the redhead reluctantly began to climb.

“I was not expecting having to do this when I got dressed this morning,” she said as she climbed unsteadily into the cradle. The moment she was on two feet the Doctor pointed the sonic at the controls and it began moving, lowering them slowly down the side of the building. “Is this safe?” asked Donna, glancing warily over the edge, taking in exactly how far up from the ground they were.

“Yeah,” the Doctor replied, blithely confident. “Perfectly.”

There was a small bang and suddenly the cradle seemed to drop out from under them. Donna let out a scream as they began to catapult towards the distant ground. Cursing, Hartley gripped onto the edge, her mind working overtime, trying to come up with a way out that didn't get them all killed.

The Doctor acted first, using his sonic to stop the drop. The cradle came to an abrupt stop and the inertia cause Hartley's head to slam into Donna's. Both women groaned, reaching up to hold their aching foreheads in pain.

“Brilliant,” muttered Donna, and Hartley winced apologetically.

“We can get in through the window,” said the Doctor optimistically, turning his sonic onto the window. Its buzzing filled Hartley's ears, but a long moment passed and absolutely nothing happened.

“Why isn't it working?” she hissed, fear like a weight in her stomach. She worried it might pull the cradle down further, heavy as it was.

“Must have deadlocked the building,” shouted the Doctor. “I can't get it open!”

Donna ducked down, reappearing a beat later with a large spanner in her hands. “Well, smash it then!” she cried, immediately beginning to slam it against the window. The glass didn't so much as crack under the assault, but that didn't stop Donna, shouting at it as she hit it over and over again, ordering it to break like it might have been listening.

  
“This is a nightmare,” groaned Hartley, watching as both Donna and the Doctor banged furiously on the glass, desperate to get inside. She tipped her head back, wondering if this particular adventure was going to end for her with a fall off a building, only to catch sight of a small, bright light glinting up on the roof, right where the cable sat connecting them to the structure.

“Shit,” she cussed, gripping the Doctor's arm in warning. “She's cutting the cable!”

Before the Doctor could do anything to stop it, the cable snapped, one half of the cradle falling slack. Donna was closest, letting out a loud scream as she fell from the only thing standing between her and the concrete below.

“Donna!” Hartley shrieked, she herself feeling the cradle disappear from under her. But before she could fall a hand wrapped around her arm, gripping her tightly and keeping her from yet another death. The action allowed her to get a better grip on the railing, and she managed to hold herself up. “Donna!” she screamed again once she was confident she was safe.

“Hartley!” Donna cried back, and Hartley realised with a surge of powerful relief that their friend was gripping the hanging cable, keeping herself from falling; for the time being. “Doctor!”

  
“Hold on!” the Doctor cried desperately.

“I _am_!” Donna snarled back, even despite her circumstances still able to find herself irritated. Hartley had the hysterical urge to laugh, but between worrying about Donna and holding herself up, there really wasn't any time.

“Try and pull her up!” the Doctor instructed Hartley, who grunted an agreement and leant down as carefully as she could. Gripping onto the cable Donna was dangling from, Hartley tried her hardest to pull, but it was far, far too heavy for her to even raise it slightly.

“Hart!” cried Donna as she swung in the icy breeze.

“You'll be okay, Donna!” she cried back, still trying to tug at the cable, despite already knowing it was pointless. She couldn't just do _nothing._

“I'm going to fall!” screamed Donna, terror hitting her like a sleeting snow, cold and painful. Hartley winced, glancing back at the Doctor to see him scaling the cradle, working his way back up to one of the windows.

“Doctor!” she yelled at him.

“I've got a plan!” he yelled back, only a slight comfort.

“This is all your fault! I should've stayed at home!” Donna bellowed.

“I won't be a minute!”

And then he was gone, tumbling inside the building with all the grace of a newborn deer. Rolling her eyes, Hartley could only adjust her own grip on the cradle and shout down at Donna as reassuringly as she could. “You okay?” she called for lack of anything better to say.

“Oh yeah, Hart, I'm just _great_!” Donna spat; a completely understandable response.

“Yeah, not my finest moment!” she shouted back, and even despite herself, Donna managed a wheezing laugh. Hartley grinned, satisfied with her efforts.

From below her a window slid open, and she watched the Doctor's arms poke into view, wrapping around Donna's flailing legs.  
  


“Get off!” the redhead screamed at him irritably.

“I've got you. I've got you,” his voice shouted back. “Stop kicking!”

  
A few moments of ridiculous struggling passed, and then Donna was tumbling into the building, safe. Hartley breathed a sigh of relief, then watched as the Doctor reappeared for her, arms poking out of the window.

“Come on, Hart!” he yelled to her over the whistling noise of the wind. “Climb down and I'll pull you in!” he promised. The last thing she wanted to do was climb her way down nothing but a single rope of cable, the possibility of falling to her death very clear in her mind.

But she also knew it was either that or hang there until the Doctor had a chance to go back and get the TARDIS. Besides, she loathed the thought of missing out on all the action.

With a deep breath, Hartley slowly began to make her way down the rope. Her hands were sweating and it was hard to get a good grip, but she persevered until finally the Doctor grabbed ahold of her legs, able to pull her in through the window, keeping her from yet another gruesome death. Because those were never fun.

“Okay?” he asked quickly once she was flat on her feet.

“Always,” she assured him.

“I was right,” Donna said once they'd taken half a second to enjoy being alive. The terror of the near-death experience seemed to have worn off, and now she was grinning from the exhilaration of it all. “It's always like this with you, innit?”

  
“Oh, yes!” the Doctor crowed. “And off we go!”

He grasped Hartley's hand, turned and bolting from the room. She grinned, heart still racing with adrenaline as she let him tug her out into the offices of Adipose Industries.

  
“Oi!” shouted someone from across the room, a person Hartley hadn't even had the time to notice. The Doctor pull them to a stop, ducking back into the room for a quick moment with his sonic, before reappearing and darting towards her and Donna, leading them through the halls.

“What now?!” asked Donna as they ran.

“I've got to learn the rest of their plan!” replied the Doctor, taking a sharp right and leading them down a long, skinny hallway.

“How do we do that?!”

But the question was answered for them as they spilled out into the next room – the call centre from the looks of it – and were met face to face with Foster and her guards. The Doctor thrust out an arm that Hartley caught on. She gripped him as she watched the older woman slip off her glasses and give them a wide, slimy smile.  
  


“Well, then,” said that week's Big Bad, “at last.”

“Hello,” Donna said, coming to a stop on the Doctor's other side.

“Nice to meet you, I'm the Doctor,” said the Time Lord, utterly cheerful.

“And I'm Donna.”

“Guess that makes me Hartley,” the immortal joked wryly, but nobody's lips so much as twitched. She hadn't really expected them to.

“Partners in crime,” sneered Foster. “And evidently off-worlders, judging by your sonic technology.”

“Oh, yes, I've still got your sonic pen,” said the Doctor broadly, fishing the pen from his pocket and holding it up. “Nice. I like it. Sleek. It's kind of sleek.”

“Oh, it's definitely sleek,” Donna confirmed.

“Yeah, and if you were to sign your real name, that would be...?”

  
Foster gave a wide smile, the expression tinted with corruptible pride as she answered the Doctor's question. “Matron Cofelia of the Five Straighten Classabindi Nursery Fleet – Intergalactic Class,” she said, chin tilted up in arrogance.

  
“A wet nurse,” the Doctor hummed, beginning to understand, “using humans as surrogates.”

  
Foster smiled again, and the look to her eyes made Hartley's skin crawl. “I've been employed by the Adiposian First Family to foster a new generation after their breeding planet was lost.”

“What do you mean lost?” asked the Doctor critically. “How do you _lose_ a planet?”

  
“Oh, the politics are none of my concern. I'm just here to take care of the children on behalf of the parents.”

  
“What, like an outer space super nanny?” asked Donna smartly.

  
Foster beamed, plastic as could be. “Yes, if you like.”

  
“So-” began Donna, sounding very much like she was trying desperately to wrap her head around what was happening. “So those little things, they're, they're made out of fat, yeah? But that woman, Stacy Campbell, there was nothing left of her.”

  
Foster kind of chuckled, the sound saccharine at best. “Oh, in a crisis the Adipose can convert bone and hair and internal organs. Makes them a little bit sick, poor things,” she pouted childishly.

  
“What about poor Stacy?” hissed Donna.

“So, what? You're just going to kill everyone on planet Earth, converting them into babies for your _employers_?” asked Hartley, disgust echoing in her voice.

Foster only giggled. The sound reminded Hartley sharply of Dolores Umbridge, which only made her dislike her more.

  
“Seeding a level five planet is against galactic law,” the Doctor said, his voice low and serious. He wasn't playing games. He wanted this to end.

  
Foster's sickly sweet demeanour abruptly dropped, and a glint of self-righteous anger appeared in her cold eyes. The smile disappeared from her face, replaced by a dark glare, a warning if Hartley had ever seen one. “Are you threatening me?” she asked, careful and measured.

  
But the Doctor didn't rise to the bait. “I'm trying to help you, Matron. This is your one chance, because if you don't call this off, then I'll have to stop you,” he said, and it was a promise.

  
Foster only smiled. “I hardly think you can stop bullets,” she said uncaringly, and the two men flanking her lifted their weapons, cocking them with loud, obnoxious sounds that made Hartley flinch.

But she fought past her fear and stepped forwards, arms outstretched, completely and utterly prepared to take bullets for Donna and the Doctor. Better her than one of them. At least she'd wake up.

“Oh, how sweet,” purred Foster, and Hartley felt bile climb her throat. She'd been shot before, but never by a gun as big as the ones aimed at her chest. She hoped it would be quick. “Willing to die for your beloved. Well, if you have a death wish, far be it from me to stop you,” she said the Matron thinly, making a small motion with her hand that had the guards taking aim.

“No, hold on, hold on,” the Doctor intervened, all but shoving Hartley backwards, forcing her into Donna, who gripped her back. Hartley noticed their old friend's hands were trembling, but there was no time to comfort her. They had enemies to disable. “One more thing, before dying,” said the Doctor with frustrating flippancy. “Do you know what happens if you hold two identical sonic devices against each other?” he asked, pulling his own sonic from his pocket and holding them both up for everyone to see.

Foster paused, considering. “No,” she finally answered, hesitation layering her voice.

  
“Nor me,” grinned the Doctor, “let's find out.”

Suddenly a horrible, awful, painful noise slammed into Hartley's head. Like some kind of sonic attack, Hartley crumpled, gripping her ears in agony. She shut her eyes, head feeling tight like a bottle of fizzy drink threatening to explode.

“Come on!”

The familiar sensation of the Doctor's hand in hers pulled her from the pain as he began to tug her in the opposite direction. Her feet stumbled underneath her, struggling to hold up her weight, but she pushed herself onwards, barrelling to safety.

“This way!” he called, and Hartley glanced over her shoulder to made sure Donna was close on their heels. They ran, taking the stairs two at a time until the reached the bowels of the building, the Doctor running straight back to the cupboard they'd hid in early. Had it really only been a short hour ago? Somehow it felt longer.

The memory of that stolen hour of theirs made her cheeks warm, but there was no time to focus on it, and she stood back as the Doctor burst inside, grabbing the various mops and ladders inside and tossing them carelessly out into the empty corridor.  
  


“Well, that's one solution,” said Donna in sheer bemusement. “Hide in a cupboard. I like it.”

The Doctor slid back the panels again, revealing the green machine hiding beyond. “I tried hacking into this thing earlier, because the matron's got a computer core running through the centre of the building,” he explained in a rush. “Triple deadlocked. But now I've got this,” he held up the other alien's sonic pen, “I can get into it.”

Hartley paused, leaning from the broom cupboard as she heard the sound of shoes slapping against concrete. “We've got incoming,” she informed the Doctor, straightening up and mentally preparing herself for a fight.

“We need a bit of privacy,” he said. Hartley listened to the loud, familiar buzz of live electricity before it faded into nothing, the footsteps disappearing along with it. “Just enough to stop them.”

Hartley remained only half inside the room as self-designated lookout. She wasn't about to let anybody sneak up on them and stop them from saving the world.

“You look older,” said Donna to the Doctor, and half of Hartley's attention dropped, focusing on their conversation out of nosy curiosity.

  
“Thanks,” the Time Lord replied dryly.

  
“Still just the two of you?”

  
“Yup,” he said without hesitation, then paused, reconsidering. “Well, no. We had this friend. Martha, she was called. Martha Jones. She was brilliant. And I destroyed half her life,” he told Donna, keeping distracted in an effort to mask his pain. Hartley felt his guilt throb in the small room, a hint of something he was too distracted to conceal, and she wished there was something she could do to help him ease that pain. “But she's fine, she's good,” he said with a sharp bob of his head. “She's gone.”

  
Donna nodded pensively. “What about Rose?” she asked, quiet and gentle.

The Doctor's hands stilled for a brief second, and this time Hartley's own pain was the one filling the room.

  
“Still lost,” he told Donna in a measured voice. “I thought you were going to travel the world?” he said, if only to get the focus off of himself.

  
Donna smiled, but the expression was rueful. “Easier said than done. It's like I had that one day with you and I was going to change. I was going to do so much. Then I woke up the next morning, same old life. It's like you were never there. And I tried. I did try. I went to Egypt. I was going to go barefoot and everything. And then it's all bus trips and guidebooks and don't drink the water, and two weeks later you're back at home. It's nothing like being with the two of you.”

Donna glanced over at Hartley, who smiled at her gently.

“I must have been mad turning down that offer,” she added, regret like a blanket over the room.

  
“What offer?” asked the Doctor, still distracted.

“To come with you.”

At her words the Doctor broke away from his task, blinking at Donna through the lenses of his brainy specs. Hartley's eyebrows shot up in surprise, looking warily between the two friends before her. “Come with us?” the Doctor repeated in shock.

  
Donna smiled brightly, filled with happiness and relief. “Oh yes, please!” she said eagerly.

  
The Doctor could only gape. “Right...”

The mainframe before them flashed, seeming to come to life before them. “ _Inducer activated_ ,” it informed them in a robotic voice.

  
“That doesn't sound good,” said Hartley, concern gripping her heart in a vice.

  
“She's started the programme!” exclaimed the Doctor, and she could tell by the way he held himself that whatever was happening, it wasn't something he was sure he could stop.

“What does that _mean_ , Doc?” she pressed in a rush.

“So far they're just losing weight, but the Matron's gone up to emergency pathogenesis!”

“And that's when they convert?” asked Donna.

  
“Skeletons, organs, everything. A million people are going to die!” he grabbed his brilliant hair, tugging on it in his panic. “Got to cancel the signal,” he said, yanking one of those golden pendants from his pocket, beginning to dismantle it with deft, capable fingers. “This contains a primary signal,” he explained as he worked. “If I can switch it off, the fat goes back to being just fat.”

  
“ _Inducer increasing_ ,” droned the system.

  
“No, no, no!” exclaimed the Doctor, once more gripping his hair from the stress. “She's doubled it. I need...haven't got time...it's too far. I can't override it – they're all gonna die!” he stammered over the half-finished thoughts. The pit in Hartley's stomach grew.

  
“Is there anything I can do?” asked Donna quickly.

  
“Sorry, Donna, this is way beyond you,” he said distantly, frantically pulling all the switches he could see, desperate to regain control. “Got to double the base pulse – but I can't.”

  
“Doctor, tell me,” said Donna, surprisingly calm in the face of the pressure. “What do you need?”

  
“I need a second capsule to boost the override, but I've only got the one. I can't save them!” He was growing distraught, the sinking weight of failure pulling at his shoulders.

Hartley tried not to think about all the people who were dying out there. All those people who only wanted to lose weight and get fit; their insides were being converted into Adipose, and the two of them were stuck at the heart of it all, powerless to do anything to stop it.

  
A gold glint in the corner of her eye made Hartley look over, and her mouth dropped open in shock as she caught sight of the pendant Donna was holding up between them, the tiniest hint of a smirk on her lips. The Doctor stared, just as Hartley did, until finally a giggle of pure relief escaped him.

He snatched the pendant from Donna's hand while Hartley took the time to lean into her friend, wrapping an arm around her middle and squeezing. Donna chuckled, squeezing the affectionate woman back as they watched the Doctor work on wiring the second pendant into the inducer.

And just like that, the machine was powered down, seeming to die right in front of them, its eerie green glow disappearing in an instant. The Doctor stepped back, hands hovered over the inducer just to be safe, but a moment passed and it was clear it had worked.

“Ha!” cried the Doctor jubilantly, spinning around and sweeping Hartley up in a tight embrace that was warm with relief. She laughed happily into his shoulder, squeezing his thin shoulders and inhaling his motor-oil scent.

They were broken from their triumphant glee by a loud noise, the volume of it shaking the very foundation of the building. Hartley and the Doctor pulled apart, blinking at one another before glancing up towards the ceiling as one, as though they might be able to see through the layers and layers of concrete above them.

“What the hell was that?” asked Donna, a hint of panic filling the room.

The Doctor met her stare, a frown on his face. “Nursery ship,” he told her grimly.

The massive computer before them lit up once more, its green glow casting shadows on the trio's faces. “ _Incoming signal_ ,” it announced robotically.

  
A voice began to speak, low and steady. The words sounded like nothing but gibberish to Donna, who stared at the machine in confusion, no connection with the TARDIS to translate the language. Hartley, however, heard every word.

“Hadn't we better go and stop them?” Donna asked them over the incoming message.

  
“Hang on,” said the Doctor, holding out a hand. “Instructions from the Adiposian First Family,” he explained, tilting his head to listen. The blood began to drain from Hartley face as she realised what was happening, listening to the man speak. “She's wired up the tower block to convert it into a levitation post,” he muttered as he listened. “Oh. We're not the ones in trouble now,” he said as the instructions turned dark for Madam Foster, “ _she_ is!”

He spun around, shoving open the door to the cupboard and toppling out into the corridor. Hartley followed close on his heels, and Donna after her. “Stairs?” asked Hartley over their panting.

“Lift!” he yelled back, all but slamming into the wall at the end of the hallway and jabbing his finger repeatedly into the button. By some miracle the lift was already on their floor, and the doors opened with a low whirl. The Doctor flew inside, barely waiting for Donna and Hartley to step in behind him before he was pressing at the button for the top floor.

Donna exhaled as the lift slowly began to rise, taking them towards the roof. “Phew,” she breathed, holding a hand to her chest. “I forgot how much running was involved in life with the two of you,” she said with a smile, the lightness in the expression telling them that she wasn't complaining.

Hartley smiled widely, pushing her messy hair back from her eyes as she replied. “You'll get used to it,” she told her before she'd realised what she'd said. The Doctor stilled from beside her, and she realised suddenly that she'd just made an awfully big assumption. Donna didn't seem to pick up on the sudden tension, however, grinning at Hartley so widely that it surely hurt.

The doors opened with a mechanical whirr and the Doctor burst out into the hall, then catapulted himself up the stairs leading to the roof. He pushed his way out into the nippy night air and both women quickly followed after him.

They came to a stop at the edge of the roof, and Hartley gaped up at the massive spaceship hovering above them. Beams of light were floating the Adipose up into its bowels, like something out of a bad 80s sci-fi film.

“What you going to do then? Blow 'em up?” asked Donna, staring at the cheerful little children with bemusement, unsure how to proceed.

  
“They're just children,” replied the Doctor with a small shake of his head. “They can't help where they come from.”

  
“Oh, that makes a change from last time,” said Donna dryly. “S'pose it's easier for you, now that Hart isn't unconscious.”

“Oi,” he barked, playing offended.

“It's not just me,” Hartley said, not noticing as she leant into his side, threading her hand through his. “Martha did him a world of good,” she told her in a conspiratorial tone, then reconsidered her statement. “She did _both_ of us a world of good, if I'm honest,” she admitted mildly.

  
“She did, yeah,” the Doctor agreed with a steady nod. Then he gave an egotistical sniff. “She fancied me,” he revealed, and Hartley snorted with exasperated laughter.

“Trouble in paradise?” Donna asked warily, eyes flickering between the pair of them like she might be able to see the fractures she thought Martha had left in their relationship.

“The opposite, actually,” Hartley assured her with a smile, feeling warmth surge through her as she leant gently into the Doctor's side, exhilarated just knowing it was something she could do now, whenever she wanted.

  
Donna smiled widely, the expression a little giddy. “Good,” she said, wholly sincere. “That's really good.”

Hartley beamed back, and then as one they turned back to face the thousands and thousands of Adipose drifting slowly up through their beams of light. Hartley lifted her hand and began to wave, realising that, despite their gruesome beginnings, they were actually rather cute little things.

“I'm waving at _fat,_ ” said Donna, conflicted about feeling the same as she waved at the innocent creatures floating up into the sky.

  
“Actually, as a diet plan, it sort of works,” said the Doctor blithely. Hartley had to disagree, and she'd just looked up at him, opening her mouth in reprimand when he suddenly exclaimed, “there she is!” and took off running towards the edge of the roof.

Foster was floating upwards, utterly at ease while levitating towards the looming ship. She wore a self-satisfied smirk on her lips. As far as she was concerned, she'd won.

“Matron Cofelia, listen to me!” the Doctor began desperately.

  
“Oh, I don't think so, Doctor,” sneered the Matron. “And if I never see you again, it'll be too soon.”

  
“Oh, why does no one ever listen?” he groaned to the pair beside him, neither of whom had an answer. “I'm trying to _help._ Just get across to the roof. Can you shift the levitation beam?”

  
“What, so that you can arrest me?” she asked primly.

“Just _listen_. I saw the Adiposian instructions. They know it's a crime, breeding on Earth. So what's the one thing they want to get rid of?” he asked smartly. “Their _accomplice._ ”

  
“I'm far more than that,” replied Foster, painted lips pulled upwards in a smirk. She thought she was untouchable. Fear gripped Hartley. She may not have been the most innocent of people, but she deserved more. “I'm _nanny_ to all these children,” she continued, utterly oblivious to the danger she was in.

  
“Exactly!” he implored her. “Mum and Dad have got the kids now. They don't _need_ the nanny anymore.”

She didn't look convinced, but they were out of time. The levitation beam shuttered off, and the Matron's eyes went wide in terrified shock before she was falling, a piercing scream escaping her mouth.

Gasping her horror, Hartley pressed into the Doctor, closing her eyes tightly before she had to view the smear that remained of the Matron on the concrete below.

The Doctor, Hartley and Donna were all silent as they looked up into the sky just in time to see the Adiposian ship disappear in a flash of startling light. Then it was gone. The whole thing felt strangely anticlimactic, Hartley thought, staring up into the empty night sky. It was all over, but they hadn't won – not really.

There was a lot of that going round, she supposed.

“Come on,” said the Doctor after they'd all taken a minute to process what had just happened. “We should get down there.”

Donna agreed, and the pair of them turned to go. As if sensing that Hartley wasn't going to move, the Doctor's fingers threaded through hers and tugged. He pulled her into his side, gripping her hand tightly and leading the way back towards the lift.

“She didn't deserve to die,” Hartley said as they climbed into the small metal box, holding the Doctor's hand tighter, the press of his calloused skin against hers grounding her.

“At least she won't be able to do this on any more planets,” said Donna in an attempt to see the silver lining.

“Yeah,” mumbled Hartley, but it was without feeling.

It had rained sometime while they were inside. Hartley hadn't noticed up on the roof, but down on the pavement she could see the wetness sparkling dully in the streetlights. It was a familiar sight, one that calmed her almost as much as the Doctor's unyielding presence at her side.

His free hand produced the Matron's sonic pen, holding it up and staring at it for a moment before shaking his head and dropping it into a metal bin sitting on the curb. Hartley was just gearing herself up to speak when her efforts were interrupted by an unfamiliar voice.

“Oi, you three!” they shouted furiously, and the trio turned to see that woman from before, the one the Matron had had tied up, stalking towards them, still secured to her chair. “You're just mad. Do you hear me? _Mad_! And I'm going to report you for...madness!” she exclaimed as she awkwardly shuffled away, and Hartley managed just the tiniest hint of a smile.

  
Donna shook her head and tutted quietly. “You see, some people just can't take it,” she hummed.

  
“No,” the Doctor agreed.

  
Then Donna smiled. “And some people can,” she grinned brightly. “So, then? TARDIS,” she said eagerly. “Come on!” she crowed, grasping hold of the Doctor's free hand and using it to tug the pair of them along like daisies threaded together into a chain.

Hartley knew then, in the wake of Donna's excitement, that there was nothing to do except to put the harrowing events of the evening behind them. People died all the time; it was what people _did_. She had things to focus on, things to look forwards to. And she had a feeling Donna was one of them.

The Doctor led them around the corner to where they'd parked the TARDIS, and they were only a few metres away when Donna suddenly cried, “that's my car!”

Hartley turned with a raised brow to see Donna gaping at the short distance between her shiny blue car and their tall, blue TARDIS.

“That is like _destiny,_ ” she exclaimed, barely able to believe it. Hartley had to agree, she felt the same. “And I've been ready for this,” she continued happily, unlocking her car moving around to the boot, pulling it open and beginning to rummage around inside. “I packed ages ago, just in case,” she began, tugging out a myriad of bags and beginning to pile them in the Doctor's hands. He was forced to drop Hartley's hand but she didn't mind, stepping back and watching on with an amused smile. “Because I thought, hot weather, cold weather, _no_ weather. It goes anywhere. I've gotta be prepared!”  
  
“You've got a, a hatbox,” the Time Lord stammered, peeking out from around the high pile of luggage in his arms.

  
“Planet of the Hats: I'm ready!”

Hartley pressed her grin into her hand, eyes alight with amusement as the Doctor could only gape.

“Come on then, you,” barked Donna, and it took Hartley a moment to realise it was her she was talking to. “Don't just stand around looking gorgeous – I need help getting these to the TARDIS,” she said, more an order than anything else, and Hartley blinked in surprise.

“Right,” she nodded, ignoring the haughty look the Doctor was sending her in return.

She hefted up a large suitcase and then began rolling it in the direction of the TARDIS, which stood tall and proud towards the back of the alleyway.

“I don't need injections, do I?” Donna began to ramble, full of a pure, unadulterated happiness that Hartley wasn't sure she'd felt in a long, long time.

She was excited, and her excitement was contagious, Hartley had to admit. She leant back against the blue box, watching Donna babble with a fond smile, only for it to drop into a frown when she realised the Doctor wasn't sharing her glow.

He was standing before them, staring back at Donna almost _sadly_. Hartley's heart dropped to her toes, and it was all she could do to pray he wasn't about to do something he'd regret. It had been awhile since Martha; just the two of them, travelling around in a little bubble of honeymoon bliss.

But Donna had been right all those years ago – they needed someone else; someone to balance them out. A happy medium between the blind compassion and the oncoming storm.

And Hartley knew that, as of tonight, that person was Donna Noble.

“You know, like when you go to Cambodia. Is there any of that? Because my friend Veena went to Bahrain, and she-” Donna cut herself off, finally noticing the Doctor's pensive frown. “You're not saying much,” she said, the dread in her voice matching the dread in her heart.

  
“No, it's just...” the Doctor trailed off, taking great care not to let his eyes stray to Hartley. She wondered why that was, but knew she could probably take a guess. “It's a funny old life, in the TARDIS,” he began again, struggling to find the words.

  
Donna was heartbroken, the feeling rather like somebody snapping the bone of her heart in two, and Hartley felt the sudden, unexpected urge to sock the Doctor in the jaw. “You don't want me,” Donna said sadly.

  
The Doctor winced. “I'm not saying that,” he said slowly.

  
“But you asked me,” she murmured, trying to understand. Her dark eyes flickered between the Doctor and his companion, insides a swirl of disappointment and fear. “Would you rather it just be the two of you?” she finally asked, quiet and subdued.

  
“We wouldn't mind having you, Donna,” Hartley assured her, unable to keep silent any longer. “We'd love it, in fact,” she added, sending the Doctor a scolding look that went ignored.

“It's just – the last time, with Martha,” he began, already wincing, “like I said, it, it got _complicated_. And that was all my fault.” He paused, eyes finally flickering over to Hartley, who gave him a soft smile in reply. She was beginning to understand with more clarity, now. And it was sweet, honestly, that he was looking out for them and what they had now. “I just want a mate,” he told Donna wistfully.

But Donna didn't react how either traveller thought she would. She gasped, abruptly horrified as she ducked behind the TARDIS door like she were trying to shield herself from their eyes.

  
“You just want _to_ _mate_?” she asked in disbelief.

  
The Doctor was confused by the reaction. “I just want _a_ mate!”

  
“You're not mating with me, sunshine!” she hissed back, then jerked her head towards Hartley. “Go mate with your girlfriend!”

Surprised to have been brought into the awkward exchange, Hartley blinked, starkly uncomfortable.

  
“ _A_ mate. I want _a_ mate!” the Doctor insisted loudly, looking panicked by the direction the conversation had taken.

  
“Well, just as well, because I'm not having any of _that_ nonsense,” Donna replied, stepping out onto the street and straightening her jacket with as much dignity as she could muster. “I mean, you're just a long streak of _nothing._ You know, _alien_ nothing,” she said with a grimace of disgust. “Honestly, what's the appeal?” she muttered to Hartley, half curious.

Hartley could only snort with amusement, shooting a smirk at the Doctor, letting her eyes trail his body. There was a lot of appeal, she thought, but none she could explain without coming across as utterly, disgustingly lovesick. Or horny, but that was another issue entirely.

  
The Time Lord looked put out, and also a little confused by the exchange that had just happened before him. “There we are, then,” he eventually said, nodding sharply in an attempt to regain some semblance of control. “Okay.”

  
Donna paused. “I can come?” she asked hopefully.

  
“Yeah,” he sniffed. “Course you can, yeah.” He broke out into a wide grin, full of the sort of light Hartley craved like the sunshine. “I – _we_ ,” he corrected himself with a warm glance at Hartley, who met his grin with a soft smile, “would love it.”

Donna seemed about ready to burst into song with the happiness humming in her heart. “Oh, that's just-” she cut herself off abruptly, suddenly glancing down at her hand which was clutching a large set of keys. “Car keys,” she said instead.

  
The Doctor blinked. “What?”

  
“I've still got my mum's car keys,” she told them, already beginning to rush away. “I won't be a minute!” she promised, ducking around the corner and out of sight.

Hartley and the Doctor stood in silence a moment, both rather shellshocked from the turn their lives had taken over the course of a single night. They'd begun it just the two of them, and now they had their third, a companion to share all the wonders of the universe with.

Excitement was planted like a seed in Hartley's gut, and she pressed her lips together to keep from smiling like an idiot. It didn't feel like she or the Doctor were _missing_ anything by being on their own, but rather that they were gaining something new with Donna on board. Hartley knew it was a step in the right direction. A necessary step to take, if she wanted to find her way back to being the woman she was before the Master had torn her apart.

Donna would be healthy for them. She could feel it in her bones.

“We should take this all inside,” she told the Doctor, bending down to pick up one of the many, many bags Donna had packed in preparation for this moment. The one she grabbed was heavy, but she shouldered the weight and turned towards the TARDIS.

“Are you sure about this?” the Doctor spoke up from behind her. Surprised, she turned back around, one eyebrow raised in question.

“About Donna?” she asked, confused as she paused in the doorway, unsure what he meant. “Course I am. She's brilliant.”

“About another companion in general, I mean,” he elaborated carefully, as though the words themselves might be enough to set her off into some kind of an attack.

She paused, eyeing him thoughtfully. “Are _you_ not sure?” she asked, the question a valid one. She was perfectly sure, but she could sense something hesitant within him, something he wouldn't let her totally see. It was there all the same, a ripple at the edge of his hearts.

“No, I am,” he said, gently moving past her to begin piling Donna's many bags in the console room.

“Donna's exactly what we need,” Hartley assured him, putting down the case she was holding before wandering back out into the alley to grab another.

“You think?” he asked as he trailed after her.

“I _know_.”

“How?” he pressed, hefting up the hatbox while Hartley righted the suitcase, beginning to roll it towards the TARDIS.

“Instinct,” she said, the words holding an ease that neither expected. There was a smile on her face, small and unassuming, but it was enough to make the Doctor beam with happiness.

They'd just finished transporting all the bags into the TARDIS when Donna reappeared, letting the door close behind her and looking up at the pair of time travellers with a wide grin, excitement seeming to seep from her pores. “Off we go, then,” she said, practically vibrating with eagerness.

  
“Here it is. The TARDIS. It's bigger on the inside than it is on the outside-” the Doctor began his usual spiel, a smug look on his face that was immediately wiped by Donna's interjection.

  
“Oh, I know that bit,” she said, waving him off. “Although frankly, you could turn the heating up,” she added, wrapping her arms around herself to keep warm.

  
The Doctor looked surprised, but quickly shook it off, turning around and beginning to fiddle with the controls. “So, whole wide universe,” he began softly, “where do you want to go?”

  
Donna smiled, the expression warm. “Oh, I know exactly the place.”

  
“Which is?”

  
“Two and a half miles that way.”

The Doctor's expression was laughably incredulous. “Two and a half miles that way?” he asked, bewildered by the strange request.

“You'll understand,” she promised him. Still unsure, the Doctor turned to look at Hartley, as though she had any answers.

“What're you waiting for?” she asked rather than bother replying. She spun her pointer finger in a circle, a mischievous look on her face. “Start her up, Doc.”

Grumbling something under his breath, the Doctor did as he was told, hurrying around the TARDIS with a pep in his step that contradicted his grumbling. He began to pilot the ship, and the floor beneath them rattled as it took off.

“Funny how we always seem to fly with you around, Donna,” said the Doctor briskly, one leg propped up on the console as he struggled to manipulate two separate controls at once.

“As opposed to what?” asked Donna as she grinned at the scene widely, glee growing in her chest like a bubble.

“Dematerialisation or vortex travel, I s'pose,” he sniffed, pointing to a large knob protruding from the side of the console. “Hartley, spin that three times clockwise, would you?”

Hartley hurried to comply, doing as instructed with her eyes focused on the Doctor, watching the way he stretched out across the controls in his wonderful pinstripe suit.

“Okay, we're here,” he told Donna, turning back to raise his eyebrows at her. “Hovering over the top of a small hill.” He glanced into the monitor, eyebrows shooting upwards. “There's someone down there,” he said, slowly beginning to understand.

Donna didn't answer the unspoken question, she just grinned broadly and hurried down to the doors, tossing them open and beginning to wave frantically at the person down on the ground below them.

Curious, Hartley scurried after her, leaning around her new (old?) friend and smiling when she saw an older gentlemen standing on the hill next to a large, ratty-looking telescope. He seemed elated at the sight of them, doing a strange sort of jig where he stood, utterly thrilled as Donna kept waving. The man bent down to get a better look through his telescope, and Hartley smiled at him, waving back enthusiastically until the Doctor dematerialised the ship, sending them back into the endless vortex of time.

“Who was that?” asked Hartley as Donna shut the doors, turning around and leaning back against them with a small, satisfied smile on her face.

“Grandad,” she revealed, still smiling, bright with happiness and content.

“Well then!” crowed the Doctor suddenly, and both women turned to see him standing by the console, grinning at them with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Where to?” he asked, growing eager for their next adventure. “Medusa Cascade? Singing Towers of Derillium? Off to meet Agatha Christie for a spot of high tea?”

“You got bedrooms in this thing?” Donna asked instead, and the Doctor visibly wilted.

“You must be tired,” Hartley said rather than focus on the Doctor's suddenly downtrodden expression.

He really was such a child sometimes – she could only pretend it wasn't completely adorable.

“I'll give you a tour of the place, since you only saw the console room last time,” she said kindly, and Donna gave a grateful smile. “Us humans can rest, and we'll start fresh in the morning,” she added, then pointed at the pile of suitcases stacked against a column of coral. “The Doctor can put all your things in your room,” she added impishly.

The Doctor sighed, grumbling under his breath again, but neither woman paid him any mind as Hartley began to lead Donna through to the door leading off to the rest of the endless ship. “I have a room?” asked Donna in surprise. “Is it like a guest room you two have or something?”

“Kind of. Except not really,” she replied with a smirk, tucking her hands deep into her pockets as she led Donna through the halls. “The TARDIS is not only infinite, but sentient,” she began to explain, taking a sharp right with the intent to take Donna to the library first. Maybe she was bias, but everyone appreciated a good library, didn't they? “Now that you're on board permanently, she'll have made you up your own room.”

Donna was quiet for a moment, absorbing what this meant. “So, the ship is _sentient_ ,” she eventually said, the words careful, not really ones she used in everyday conversation, “and it _created_ me a room?”

“Yup,” Hartley confirmed, utterly cheerful as she popped the 'p'. “This is the library,” she said, pushing open the door and dragging Donna into the glorious room. It was easily the biggest in the whole ship – which was saying something.

“Blimey,” muttered Donna as she stared at the endless, towering shelves where tens of thousands upon _hundreds of thousands_ of books sat. “How big is this ship, again?” she asked, turning her gaze upwards to see the ceiling, further away than she would have expected.

“She's infinite, remember?” Hartley grinned, the expression holding a proud gleam, as though the TARDIS was something for her to boast about. In a sense it was, she supposed. Donna nodded, absorbing the information before her quietly. Hartley got the sense that, as impressive as the library was, it wasn't really Donna's speed. “Wanna go see the swimming pool?” she suggested, and Donna nodded eagerly.

Hartley had shown Donna the swimming pool, recreation room, study, med bay and kitchen by the time she began to yawn. Feeling bad for monopolising so much of her time when she was clearly exhausted from their long day at Adipose Industries, Hartley quickly changed trajectories so they were heading for the general direction of the bedrooms.

“The TARDIS can be a bit finicky,” she said in a low, conspiratorial tone, like she were worried about the ship overhearing. This bemused Donna, but she was beginning to learn to just roll with the punches. “She gets in moods and likes to rearrange the rooms. It's kind of like the changing staircases at Hogwarts,” she told her with a grin. “They never stay the same for very long.”

Donna only stared back blankly, and Hartley got the feeling Donna wasn't much one for children's literature.

“Anyways, if the TARDIS likes you, she should reroute the hallways so you'll eventually find your way to your room,” she continued fluidly, taking care to scan each door as the passed, searching for one with Donna's name on it.

“What if she doesn't like me?” asked Donna warily.

Hartley gave a small laugh. “She already does,” she assured the slightly older woman with a grin. “I can tell.”

Donna sent her a considering look. “How long have you been with the Doctor?” she asked, voice gentle.

Hartley had to think for a moment, a frown creasing at her brow as she mentally did the math. “Somewhere between five and six years, I think,” she replied, finally coming to a stop outside of a room with the golden nameplate reading _Donna_ in pretty, looping cursive. “Why?”

“You just seem so...well adjusted,” Donna admitted with a shrug. “I guess this is your life now too, isn't it? All space travel and babies made of fat and bigger-on-the-inside boxes. This is who you are.”

“It is, yeah,” she agreed, voice quiet. She wondered then if Donna didn't mean that in a good way. “Is that a bad thing?” she asked hesitantly.

“No!” exclaimed Donna, and Hartley knew she hadn't meant anything bad by the observation. “It's good. Really. Because when I saw you last, well, it was just after Rose, wasn't it?”

The name didn't hold the same stab of pain it once had, and for that she was relieved. Confused about why Donna was bringing it up, however, Hartley frowned again. “Yeah,” she answered, more cautious than before.

“Well, I could tell back then that there was a sadness to you. You seemed...out of place – sort of lost, I s'pose.”

Hartley said nothing, leaning half against the wall, considering her friend thoughtfully.

“But you're happy now,” Donna finished, a smile on her lips. “I can tell. You're better than you were back then. You've grown.”

Hartley smiled, feeling a wave of affection for Donna crash over her, warm like an ocean in the summertime.

“It was bound to happen eventually,” she joked, made lighter by Donna's words. “Hey,” she said suddenly, and Donna looked up at her curiously. “I'm _really_ happy to have you aboard,” she told her with a glittering sincerity.

Donna grinned back, bright and tinged with a happiness. Acting on instinct, Hartley stepped forwards and wrapped her arms around the taller woman's neck, bringing her into a warm embrace. Donna gave a small sound of surprise but quickly hugged back, rubbing Hartley gently between the shoulders and squeezing tight.

Pulling away, Hartley stepped back and waved a hand at the nameplate on the wooden door. “Home sweet home,” she said with a smile, and Donna shot her an eager look before pushing her way into her new room.

Her personalised room was large and regal, spacious and luxurious. Hartley couldn't help but snicker quietly as she leant in the doorway, thinking of how different the redhead's taste was to her own. Donna seemed to love it, eyes wide as she took in the lavish bedspread and sleek, glistening furniture.

The Doctor had done as they'd asked, piling Donna's numerous bags at the foot of her new, four-poster bed.

“I'll leave you to unpack,” Hartley said, getting the feeling she could use some time alone to let it all sink in. She knew firsthand how this new reality could short-circuit your brain. What she needed was a good sleep and space to come to terms with everything she'd seen. Only then could they start to have some real fun. “See you in the morning,” she told Donna as she turned to leave.

“Hart?” Donna said from inside her room. Pausing in the doorway, Hartley turned back to look. “Is it worth it?” Donna asked quietly, but Hartley didn't immediately understand. “This life,” she elaborated softly. “Five or six years, you should know by now – is it worth it?”

Hartley smiled, wide and unrestrained. “It absolutely is,” she promised sincerely. “Don't worry, Donna,” she said impishly, “you're about to have nothing less than the time of your life.”


	50. Fires of Pompeii

“ _There is no decision that we can make that_

_doesn't come with some sort of balance or sacrifice.”_

Simon Sinek

* * *

Hartley woke after only a few hours of sleep feeling bright-eyed and well rested. She changed into loose pants and a white turtleneck that were pretty and easy to move in, despite knowing they'd likely be all but ruined in whatever their next adventure might be.

She was more than used to their adventures taking chunks out of her wardrobe. Luckily for her, the TARDIS was infinite, so running out of clothes was never something she had to worry about.

The Doctor was already in the kitchen when she arrived. She was surprised to find him there, made even more so by the fact he was reading some kind of newspaper, two mugs of steaming liquid on the table in front of him.

“Morning,” he greeted her distractedly, flipping the page with the low rustle of paper.

“Since when do you read the newspaper?” she asked in lieu of a proper greeting. Assuming one of the mugs was for her, she held a hand over the one on the left until the Doctor shook his head and pointed to the one on the right. She picked it up and took a sip, relishing in the tea made to complete perfection.

“I like to keep up with current events,” he told her without looking up from the paper.

“You're a time traveller. You already _know_ all of the events.”

He only sniffed, not seeming to see fit to indulge her with a response. She grinned into her mug at the ease of it all. Things weren't always so easy. Sometimes they were hard and painful – the Year That Never Was came to mind – but in amongst it all there were moments such as these, moments where happiness welled in her like a bubble. That was life with the Doctor, she supposed, turbulent and amazing all at once.

The sound of footsteps hitting the floor in the corridor met her ears, and she looked up in time to see Donna stumble through the door, blinking at them both blearily. “I see you found us,” said the Doctor, turning another page, eyes scanning the futuristic paper, the images on it moving like videos, like something out of Harry Potter.

“I dunno how,” Donna replied, looking mightily confused. “I barely took ten steps out of my room before I was here.”

“The TARDIS must be in a good mood,” he said, carelessly rocking back on his chair, reminding Hartley of the boisterous 'cool' kids at school. She fought a smile at the comparison.

“That for me?” Donna asked, nodding at the still-full mug steaming on the table between them.

“Wasn't sure what you liked,” the Doctor replied as she picked it up, wrapping her hands around the hot ceramic of the orange mug and inhaling its aroma.

She took a sip, then grimaced at the taste. “I think I'll make my own from now on,” she declared. “This just tastes like sugar mixed with tar.”

“It's how Hartley takes hers,” argued the Doctor defensively, as though it were all her fault.

Hartley rolled her eyes, unperturbed by the comment as she took another sip of her tea, thinking that it really was very good. “You look nice,” she told Donna, nodding to her pretty top.

“You think?” Donna asked, running her hands down the front of the blue and purple top, almost self-conscious. Hartley only smiled, the expression broad as she took another gulp of tea. “So, where to?”

As is these were the magic words, the Doctor dropped the newspaper he was reading and finally looked up at them both with a wide, unwavering beam. “I had somewhere in mind. Do you want it to be a surprise?”

“Can we go now?” asked Donna excitedly.

“Eager?” the Time Lord just barely kept from smirking.

“Like you wouldn't believe,” she replied, utterly unashamed.

“Come on, Hartley,” said the Doctor, leaping from his chair and swiping the half-empty mug from her fingers just as she was about to take another sip. “We've got places to be; things to do; people to save.”

“People to save?” echoed Donna in confusion. “Are you expecting to run into trouble?”

“Not particularly, but I usually do whether I'm expecting it or not,” he replied offhandedly, and Hartley rolled her eyes again as she climbed to her feet.

“He's cursed,” she told Donna in a conspiratorial tone.

“I prefer blessed,” he retorted.

Hartley grinned at Donna, whose eyes flickered between the pair thoughtfully. “You two have a _weird_ way of flirting,” she said as the Doctor began to lead the way through the halls towards the console room.

Hartley's cheeks grew warm and the Doctor sniffed indelicately from ahead of them, but otherwise didn't comment. Hartley watched while the Doctor checked the TARDIS' settings and the like.

He then paused at the doors leading out to their new destination. He turned back to look at Donna with a wicked glint to his eye. “Are you ready for what lay outside these doors?” he asked importantly, like a street magician setting up a trick.

“Oh, hush up and show me where you've taken us,” Donna was having none of it. Hartley laughed at the pout the Doctor gave in response.

He pushed open the doors, stepping out first and letting the other two follow. Hartley slipped out after him, and just as suddenly regretted having all of her skin covered. Wherever they were, it was warm, the sun beating down on them, and she felt the back of her neck already growing damp.

Wandering away from the TARDIS to give Donna room to step out, Hartley picked up her long, heavy hair and piled it atop her head, securing it with the tie threaded around her wrist.

  
“Ancient Rome!” the Doctor declared as Donna joined them out in the open, the TARDIS doors shutting after them with a low creak. “Well, not for them, obviously. To all intents and purposes, right now, this is brand _new_ Rome,” he babbled, watching closely as Donna soaked up her foreign surroundings.

  
“Oh, my _God,_ ” she said brightly, spinning in a full circle, keen eyes taking in every single little detail. “It's, it's so _Roman,_ ” she stumbled over the words, and Hartley glanced over at the Doctor to see him grinning away, thrilled by her reaction. “This is fantastic,” Donna exclaimed, hooking an arm around both of their shoulders and bringing them both into a tight group hug.

  
The Doctor laughed, giddy on her happiness, and Hartley squeezed her back before she pulled away, smiling kindly.

  
“I'm here, in _Rome_. Donna Noble in _Rome._ This is just weird,” she continued eagerly. “I mean, everyone here's dead,” she added in a whisper. Hartley had to giggle at the incredulity she felt, a strange haunting sensation, like she were suddenly surrounded by ghosts. Hartley supposed it wasn't exactly inaccurate.

  
“Well, don't tell them that,” the Doctor murmured, smiling calmly at a passerby who frowned at them all curiously. Meeting the Doctor's eyes, the man could only shuffle along, muttering something derisive about tourists under his breath.

  
“Hold on a minute,” Donna said, skepticism suddenly filling her. “That sign over there's in English.” She pointed to a painted sign across the alley reading ' _two amphorae for the price of one_ ', looking at the Doctor flatly. “Are you having me on? Are we in Epcot?”

  
“No, no, no. That's the TARDIS translation circuits,” he hurried to explain. “Just makes it look like English. Speech as well. You're talking Latin right now,” he told her with an impish grin.

  
“Seriously?”

  
“Seriously,” Hartley confirmed with a smile.

  
“I just said seriously in Latin,” Donna beamed, giddy. “What if I said something in actual Latin, like veni, vidi, vici? My dad said that when he came back from football. If I said veni, vidi, vici to that lot, what would it sound like?” she asked in a rush.

  
“I'm not sure,” the Doctor replied with a frustrated frown. “You have to think of difficult questions, don't you?” he complained.

  
“I'm going to try it,” she told them happily. Hartley leant back against the Doctor, smiling as she watched Donna scurry over to a vendor selling various fruits.

“Afternoon, sweetheart. What can I get you, my love?” the man asked kindly.

  
“Er, veni, vidi, vici,” Donna told him, and the vendor frowned in confusion.

  
“Huh? Sorry? Me no speak Celtic,” he said in a slow, over-exaggerated voice. “No can do, missy.”

  
Donna rocked back on her heels, smiling at him awkwardly before she meandering her way back towards her new friends. “How's he mean, Celtic?” she asked them, bemusement in her soul.

  
“Welsh. You sound Welsh,” the Doctor explained with a sniff, tucking his hands back deep into his pockets. “There we are. Learnt something.”

  
He turned to leave, but before Hartley could follow she froze under the sudden weight of eyes on their backs. She turned sharply, eyes narrowed with suspicion as she eyed the various vendors and merchants. Nobody _seemed_ to be paying them any attention, but that didn't necessarily mean nobody _was._

“Coming, Hartley?” asked the Doctor, and she swiftly spun back around. Without giving it much thought she threaded her arm through his, holding on to his side as they all wandered back down the street, aimless in their direction.

  
“Don't our clothes look a bit odd?” Donna was asking curiously.

  
“Nah – Ancient Rome, anything goes,” the Doctor told her, then glanced down at Hartley with a small grin. “It's like Soho, but bigger,” he quipped, and she muffled a small giggle into his coat.

  
“You've been here before then?”

  
“Ages ago,” he confirmed. “Long before I ever even knew Hartley,” he added, nudging her gently from beside him. She was curious, but knew there were better times to ask for more information. “And before you ask, that fire had nothing to do with me. Well, a little bit,” he amended thoughtfully. “But I haven't got the chance to look around properly. Coliseum, Pantheon, Circus Maximus. You'd expect them to be looming by now,” he said, glancing up at the sky in confusion. “Where is everything? Try this way.”

The Doctor led them through a smaller alleyway, and eventually they came out in a large, sprawling street, filled with even more merchants with children running playfully between their legs. Hartley was just smiling at one such little boy when Donna's voice drew her attention.

“Not an expert, but there's seven hills of Rome, aren't there?” she asked, and Hartley looked up from the boy, turning to eye the mountain in question. “How come they've only got one?”

With the feeling of ice water trickling down the length of her spine, Hartley opened her mouth to voice her bad feelings only to be cut off as the ground began to shake, trembling beneath them like the chest of a furious beast as it roared.

Heart in her throat, she clutched tighter to the Doctor, staring up at the smoking mountain before them with a mounting sense of horror.

“Wait a minute,” began Donna in a low voice, piecing together what had gone terribly, terribly wrong. “One mountain, with smoke,” she said weakly. “Which makes this...”

  
“Pompeii,” Hartley finished for her, voice thin from shock. “Oh, God.”

“We're in Pompeii,” the Doctor agreed, voice tight and severe. “And it's volcano day.” There was a beat, both women staring up at the smoking volcano in varying degrees of dread. “We've got to go,” said the Doctor suddenly, the words full of warning. “We've got to get out of here. Right now.”

Then he turned so sharply that his coattails slapped Hartley in the shins, and he began to sprint back in the direction of the TARDIS.

“Doc!” Hartley yelped in surprise, nearly stumbling over a man with a cart full of chickens in an attempt to keep up. “Bloody-” she began to curse, nodding to Donna who helped her steady herself before they both took off, bolting after the Doctor.

The city suddenly looked completely different now that she knew where they were. It felt wrong, somehow, like she were seeing something forbidden.

She went into the past all the time; it was common for her to be surrounded by people who were all long since dead. She was all too familiar with what it felt like to be walking amongst ghosts.

But the people around her weren't going to live out there lives in health and peace. They weren't going to die in their own distant, happy futures. There was no hope for them, none at all. These people weren't ghosts – not yet. For now, they were corpses. Walking, talking, breathing _corpses._

The Doctor came to a stop in the exact spot they'd left the TARDIS, and Hartley breathed a sigh of relief when she caught up, only to freeze when she realised the time machine was nowhere to be found. She didn't bother to muffle the sound of her frustrated groan.

  
“You're kidding,” breathed Donna, coming to a stop between them, pushed up on her toes to see over their shoulders. “You're not telling me the TARDIS has gone.”

  
“Okay,” muttered the Doctor weakly.

  
“Where is it then?” she demanded.

  
“You told me not to tell you.”

Donna had never looked more unimpressed. “Oi. Don't get clever in Latin,” she snapped, but the Doctor didn't have the time to look chastised. He spun on the spot, bolting back out of the little alcove and across the road to where that same merchant from before was arranging his produce neatly in a wooden crate.

“Excuse me. There was a box. Big blue box. Big blue wooden box, just over there,” the Doctor said, grasping the man's shoulders to force him to pay attention. “Where's it gone?” he demanded.

  
The vendor gave a wide, self-satisfied grin, showing off a row of ugly, blackened teeth. “Sold it, didn't I?” he said smugly.

  
The Doctor had never looked more incredulous. “But it wasn't yours to sell!” he exclaimed, looking very much like he might just sock Fruit Guy clean across the face.

Hartley appeared beside him, pressing her side into his, a silent but supportive presence. “It was on my patch, weren't it? I got fifteen sesterces for it. Lovely jubbly,” purred the vendor like a cat with a head cold. The Doctor's jaw flapped as he searched desperately for words.

“Who did you sell it to?” Hartley interjected with a dose of her usual supply of endless patience.

  
“Old Caecilius,” said the vendor in a matter-of-fact tone, growing tired with the questions. “Look, if you want to argue, why don't you take it out with him? He's on Foss Street. Big villa. Can't miss it.”

  
“Thanks,” muttered the Doctor with questionable sincerity, turning and rushing away, taking Hartley and Donna with him. “What'd he buy a big blue wooden box for?” the Time Lord asked them, beyond confused, and Hartley had to agree. She wasn't sure why anyone would want to buy the TARDIS – at least, not if they didn't know what it was. As far as almost everyone in the universe knew, it was nothing but a big blue box. “Ugh, where's Foss Street?” he growled after a few minutes of nothing but identical streets and more cheerful vendors.

“We might cover more ground if we split up,” Hartley suggested, pushing up on her toes to try and see something useful.

“Good idea,” said the Doctor absently, spinning around again in an attempt to find his way. “But stay with Donna, she's not ready to go off on her own yet.”

“Oi,” cried Donna indignantly, but the Doctor was far too distracted to bother replying.

“Don't go too far,” he warned.

“I know the drill,” Hartley rolled her eyes, then pushed herself up so she could smack her lips against the barely-there stubble dusting his jaw. She kissed him, pulling away with a smile at his dumbfounded expression.

She turned and grasped Donna's hand, pulling her away and off down the street, ignoring her own red cheeks in favour of focusing on their task. Donna was staring at her as they moved, and Hartley could just tell she wanted to say something.

“Come on, then,” Donna finally cracked, unable to stand wondering any longer. “Out with it.”

“How do they know which street is which if they don't have any signs?” Hartley asked in an attempt to divert Donna's attention. “Are they just supposed to remember? It's not a very good system.”

“Don't try and change the subject,” Donna huffed, refusing to be sidetracked. “You just kissed the Doctor.”

“On the _cheek_ – do you think it's this way?” she asked, determined to keep distracted.

“Has something changed between the two of you?” Donna asked in a gossipy tone of voice.

“No,” Hartley denied it instantly, more out of instinct than rational thought. Judging by the look on her face, Donna didn't believe it. That was good, seeing as it was a lie. “Yes,” she confessed with a sigh, but Donna still looked unimpressed, eager for more details. “It's complicated,” Hartley said uncomfortably.

Donna snorted. “Well, I suppose running around saving people all day every day is bound to change the way you-” she cut herself off, coming to a standstill. Hartley paused, dodging a pair of men carrying a long beam of wood and turning to look at Donna in question. “Saving people,” murmured Donna in response to Hartley's confusion. “You _save_ people.”

Hartley hesitated, a feeling like a pit in her stomach. “Well, yeah – when we can.”

“But you save people – and this is _Pompeii._ ”

Finally Hartley connected the dots, and the pit in her stomach turned into a ball of lead. Donna wanted to save the people of Pompeii, she wanted to stop the most famous tragedy in the whole of the ancient world from ever happening. Hartley might not have been a Time-Lord, but she knew a paradox when she saw one.

“Donna-” she tried to say, wondering how exactly she was meant to break the news to her friend that this just wasn't something they could do. Who _knew_ what would happen to history if Pompeii never happened? It could be catastrophic.

“We need to gather everyone, let them know so they can get out of here!” Donna exclaimed, spinning in a circle. She was set this mission, Hartley could tell, and derailing her wasn't going to be easy. “Look, we can start there,” she said, gesturing to a large amphitheatre to their left where Hartley imagined local events were held, “get everyone we can inside and explain.”

“Donna-” she tried again.

“Where's the Doctor?” Donna spoke over her without thought. Hartley couldn't blame her. Maybe on some level she sensed that what Hartley was trying to say wasn't going to be something she wanted to hear. “We need to find him – he'll know what to do!”

Hartley knew arguing further was pointless, especially when Donna turned and darted back the way they'd come. She wanted to call out, find some way to explain why it wasn't possible, why it would only do more harm than good, but despite not knowing Donna for long, she knew exactly how stubborn she could be.

The Doctor was looking for them too and when he found them he barrelled towards them, having to grasp Donna tight to slow his own momentum. “I've got it. Foss Street's this way!” he said, reaching out without thought to grasp Hartley's wrist, beginning to tug her the way he'd come.

  
“No. Well, I found this big sort of amphitheatre thing. We can start there. We can gather everyone together,” Donna began at breakneck speed, rushing through the words, eager to begin saving these people, all of whom were long since dead. “Maybe they've got a great big bell or something we could ring. Have they invented bells yet?”

  
The Doctor stared back at Donna like she were crazy. “What do you want a bell for?” he asked, incredulous.

  
“To warn everyone. Start the evacuation. What time does Vesuvius erupt? When's it due?”

  
“It's 79AD, twenty third of August,” the Doctor explained in a low, even tone that rumbled with old knowledge, “which makes volcano day _tomorrow._ ”

  
“Plenty of time,” Donna exclaimed. “We could get everyone out _easy._ ”

  
“Yeah, except we're not going to,” he deadpanned, then turned to Hartley with a frown. “What did you do?” he asked, disapproval coating his voice.

“I tried,” she argued, offended by the accusation. “She won't listen to me.”

  
“But that's what you _do,_ ” interjected Donna stubbornly, grasping their arms and forcing them back around to face her. “You're the Doctor – and the Heart...person, whatever that means. You _save_ people,” she said with such blind optimism that Hartley's chest throbbed at the innocence of it all.

  
“Not this time,” the Doctor hissed back. “Pompeii is a _fixed_ _point_ in history. What happens, happens. There is no stopping it.”

  
“Says who?” Donna argued.

  
“Says me.”

  
“What, and you're in charge?” she scoffed.

  
“TARDIS, Time Lord, yeah.”

  
“Donna, human, no.”

“Guys-” Hartley tried to gently interject. The last thing they needed was to start arguing in the middle of Pompeii. They had to focus on what was important: finding the TARDIS and getting as far away from here as physically possible.

But they ignored her, too focused on their bickering to listen.

“I don't need your permission. I'll tell them myself,” hissed Donna, in no mood for the Doctor's rules.

  
“You stand in the market place announcing the end of the world, they'll just think you're a mad old soothsayer,” growled the Doctor, throwing in jazz hands for effect. “Now, come on. TARDIS. We are getting _out_ of here.”

He grasped ahold of Hartley's hand, squeezing just a little too tight as he dragged her along after him, barrelling down the narrow street, scuffed up old chucks slapping against the dirty stone.

“Well, I might just have something to say about that, Spaceman!” Donna shouted after him furiously.

  
“Oh, I bet you will!” he called back over his shoulder, never breaking his stride.

As they moved, Hartley stared at the people they were passing, feeling her own resolve crumble. But it wasn't until they passed a small group of children playing tag in an alley that she realised she couldn't keep silent.

“Would saving them really be so bad?” she asked the Doctor in a small voice.

He pulled his hand away from hers, probably subconsciously, but she couldn't help but feel a sting from the action. “Not you too,” he muttered disapprovingly. “You should know better.”

“I can't help it,” she said, swallowing thickly as they passed an old couple holding hands and smiling at one another, both blissfully unaware of the horror about to befall them. Oblivious to the way hellfire was going to rain down from the sky, like something from their darkest nightmares. “They're all so...alive,” she whispered sadly.

“Fixed point, Hartley,” the Doctor reminded her in his most stern voice.

She wanted to argue, wanted to tell him that it didn't matter; what was the point in being able to see and do the things they did, without being able to help people when it really mattered? She opened her mouth to make her case, only to catch sight of him and change her mind.

His shoulders were hunched over and his lips were pursed into a thin line. He was cringing like something was causing him pain and there was the slightest hint of crows feet at the corners of his eyes. He wasn't letting her feel his emotions – everything trapped behind one of the impenetrable walls she'd grown so familiar with – but despite that she knew he was hurting.

He didn't want to let these people suffer. He didn't want anyone to die. But sometimes he didn't have a choice, not even when doing nothing meant watching an entire civilisation burn to ash and coal. She wondered how the weight of that burden didn't eventually crush him into nothing.

They came to a sudden stop beside a large, sprawling villa. “A big villa,” the Doctor said with a nod, and Hartley looked away from where she'd been scrutinising his expression, trying to read the emotions he wasn't letting her feel. “This must be it.”

Donna caught up to them, panting from her sprint through the city. “What now?” she breathed, staring up at the villa cautiously.

“We go in, get the TARDIS and get far, far away from Pompeii.”

Donna shot Hartley a look, pleading with her to help change the Doctor's mind. But she couldn't, not now, and they were both helpless to do anything but follow the Doctor inside the villa.

They'd barely crossed the threshold when the ground began to rumble again, trembling violently beneath them like someone had done something to anger the gods. The Doctor surged forwards, catching a marble bust just as it was about to crash to the floor, saving it from destruction.

  
“Whoa!” he exclaimed, putting it back in place and straightening up. “There you go,” he said, his big, charming grin secured in place.

Hartley turned to see a man in Roman robes standing before them, a grateful smile on his face. He looked kind, a warmth to his face that made her, in turn, feel warm. “Thank you, kind sir,” he said, the words dripping with gratitude. “I'm afraid business is closed for the day,” he added apologetically, eyes shifting quickly between the three travellers. “I'm expecting a visitor.”

  
“But that's me, I'm a visitor,” said the Doctor brightly. “Hello,” he greeted the man, reaching out to grasp his hand, shaking it with renewed enthusiasm. He let go, moving deeper into the villa, taking a subtle look around, searching for his beloved box.

  
“Who are you?” asked the man with a hint of suspicion.

  
“I am...” he trailed off unsurely. “Spartacus,” he finally said, the false name awkward and insincere on his tongue.

  
“And so am I,” said Donna, just as awkward.

  
“Mr. and Mrs. Spartacus?” asked the man.

Both the Doctor and Donna grimaced at the implication. “Oh no, no, no. We're not, we're not married,” said the Doctor quickly, Donna agreeing emphatically.

  
“Oh, then brother and sister?” the man asked with a sure nod. “Yes, of course. You look very much alike,” he smiled.

  
Donna and the Doctor exchanged bewildered glances. “Really?” they asked as one, each giving the other a once over, considering the words.

“And you are?” asked the man again, and Hartley blinked as she realised he was talking to her.

“Hartley,” she answered him, smiling politely as she reached out a hand. He took it, shaking it respectfully. She figured there was no need for a false name; what were these people going to be able to do with her real one, anyway? “It's lovely to meet you.”

“Hartley,” he repeated in a curious tone of voice. From behind him an older woman and a younger boy were watching on with careful eyes. She assumed they were the man's family. “That's not a name you hear around here. You're a traveller?”

“Oh, you have no idea,” she smiled, the expression open and cheerful, and despite being confused by the answer the man still smiled back.

“I'm sorry, but I'm not open for trade,” he told them politely.

  
“And that trade would be...?” the Doctor prompted, giving the villa another casual scan.

“Marble,” said the man proudly. “Lopus Caecilius,” he added, gesturing to himself, and Hartley understood this was his name. “Mining, polishing and design thereof. If you want marble, I'm your man,” Caecilius said with the broad smile of a salesman.

  
Hartley could spot the plan forming in the Doctor's head from a mile away, and she watched as he fished out his psychic paper, flashing it in front of Caecilius' face with all the confidence of an honest man. “That's good. That's good, because I'm the marble inspector.”

  
“By the gods of commerce, an inspection!” exclaimed the woman behind them breathlessly. “I'm sorry, sir. I do apologise for my son,” she said in a small sneer, snatching a goblet of wine from the boy in question.

  
“And this is my good wife, Metella,” said Caecilius anxiously. Hartley glanced to the left and felt her stomach swoop with glee as she spotted the big blue box they called home. The TARDIS stood in the corner, tall and beautiful and looking wholly out of place in the ancient Roman villa. “I must confess, we're not prepared for an-” Caecilius tried to say.

  
“Nothing to worry about,” the Doctor assured him easily. Hartley jabbed the Doctor in the ribs, nodding to the TARDIS once she had his attention. “I'm sure you've nothing to hide. Although, frankly, that object looks rather like wood to me,” he continued on, already making a beeline for the ship.

Hartley followed quickly, with Donna close on their heels. The moment she reached it she felt a thrum of happiness in her veins. Pressing a hand against the cool, smooth wood, she sighed in relief, the proximity like a balm to her soul.

“I told you to get rid of it,” Metella hissed at her husband.

  
“I only bought it today!” Caecilius argued, sounding rather torn up at the thought that they might take it away. Hartley understood the feeling – the TARDIS was all too easy to grow attached to, even if you hadn't yet even been inside.

  
“Ah, well. Caveat emptor,” said the Doctor, falsely apologetic.

  
“Oh, you're Celtic,” mumbled Caecilius awkwardly. “That's lovely.”

  
“I'm sure it's fine, but I might have to take it off your hands for a proper inspection.”

Hartley remained leant up against the box, watching on with a polite smile. “Although while we're here, wouldn't you recommend a holiday, Spartacus?” Donna asked, anything but subtle, and the Doctor turned to her with disapproving eyes.

  
“Don't know what you mean, Spartacus,” he said, voice like steel.

  
“Oh, this lovely family. Mother and father and son. Don't you think they should get out of town?”

  
“Why should we do that?” asked Caecilius in confusion.

  
“Well, the volcano, for starters,” she explained, and Hartley tilted her head back until it was pressed against the TARDIS, hearing it gently hum in her head. It was soothing against the chaos of the moment, and she wished suddenly for her bed, where she could curl up and pretend none of this mattered.

  
“What?” asked Caecilius, bewildered by the word he didn't yet know.  
  


“Volcano.”

  
“What-ano?”

  
“That great big volcano right on your doorstep,” she said, growing frustrated when they wouldn't understand.

  
“Oh, Spartacus, Hartley, for shame,” the Doctor exclaimed with great dramatics, “we haven't even greeted the household gods yet.” He reached back, grasping Hartley's hand and using it to tug her along, giving Donna no choice but to follow. “They don't know what it is,” he explained in a low voice, ensuring the others wouldn't overhear. “Vesuvius is just a mountain to them. The top hasn't blown off yet. The Romans haven't even got a word for volcano. Not until tomorrow.”

Donna was glaring at him, and Hartley nervously began to babble in an attempt to diffuse the tension. “Volcano, from the Latin _Volcanus,_ 'Vulcan', meaning-”

“Really not the time, Hartley,” the Doctor interrupted her with a stern look. She wisely sealed her lips, chastised.

  
“Don't speak to her like that,” growled Donna, and both travellers looked up at her in shock, the Doctor irritated, Hartley just stunned.

She wasn't sure anyone had ever called out the Doctor for the way he spoke to her. These days he rarely ever snapped at her, but she suddenly wished Donna had been around back when the Doctor was still in his Ninth regeneration. She sure could have used her quick wit and protective spirit back then.

“And she's right,” Donna added coldly, glare at the Doctor intensifying. “They can learn a new word as they _die._ ”

  
The Doctor let out his breath in a frustrated huff. “Donna, stop it,” he begged her tightly.

  
“Listen, I don't know what sort of kids you've been flying round with in outer space, but you're _not_ telling me to shut up,” Donna growled. Pride buzzed in Hartley's chest, and she just barely refrained from going 'ha' to the shocked look on the Doctor's face. “That boy, how old is he, sixteen? And tomorrow he _burns to death_.”  
  


“And that's my fault?” the Doctor hissed.  
  


“Right now, yes.”

And as proud as Hartley was for Donna standing up to the Doctor, there were some things that just went too far. “Donna, that's not fair,” she said reproachfully.

But Donna still had fire left in her argument. “If you can stop something tragic from happening, but for some reason you _don't_ , don't you think you're partially to blame?” she asked smartly.

Hartley winced. “Yes, but this is a fixed point-”

“Don't hide behind his excuse,” said Donna forcefully. Hartley blinked in surprise. It might not have felt good, but it was a valid point. What did she know about fixed points? And yet here she was preaching about them like gospel? Apparently they needed Donna even more than she'd thought.

Before she could formulate a reply, a loud voice was proclaiming, “announcing Lucius Petrus Dextrus, Chief Augur of the City Government!”

The trio of travellers spun around, eyeing the newcomer with surprise. He was old, with grey hair and lined features, wearing a cloak that covered the entire right side of his body.

“Lucius. My pleasure, as always,” Caecilius greeted the man graciously. “A rare and great honour, sir, for you to come to my house.” He held out a hand, but the new man, Lucius, didn't take it, staring at it in something like disdain. Hartley immediately decided she didn't like him.

  
“The birds are flying north, and the wind is in the west,” said the one called Lucius in a flat, unemotional voice. His insides were a swirl of vague feeling, like not all of him were there in the moment with them.

  
“Quite. Absolutely. That's good, is it?” Caecilius asked unsurely.

  
“Only the grain of wheat knows where it will grow.”

  
“There now, Metella. Have you ever heard such wisdom?” gushed Caecilius, wrapping an arm around his wife.

  
“Never,” said Metella with a small bow of her head. “It's an honour.”

  
“Pardon me, sir. I have guests,” said Caecilius quickly, turning to gesture at the three travellers watching on in curiosity. “This is Hartley, Spartacus and, er, Spartacus.”

  
Lucius gave them a long, assessing look. “A name is but a cloud upon a summer wind,” he finally said, utterly unbothered. Hartley had a Masters in Literature, and degree in poetry to boot, and yet suddenly even she felt wildly out of her depth. Was any of this supposed to make sense?

  
“But the wind is felt most keenly in the dark,” replied the Doctor, apparently not quite as lost as they were.

  
“Ah. But what is the dark, other than an omen of the sun?” said Lucius, stepping forwards, suddenly far more interested than he had been before.

  
“I concede that every sun must set,” said the Doctor with surprising ease. “And yet the son of the father must also rise.”

  
“Damn,” Lucius muttered. Hartley raised her eyebrows as she felt a flare of attraction towards the Doctor. She found seeing him discuss philosophy with a soothsayer and _win_ to be strangely hot. She looked away to hide the pleased smile curling at her lips. “Very clever, sir. Evidently, a man of learning,” conceded the Augur before them.

  
“Oh, yes. But don't mind me,” said the Doctor dismissively. “Don't want to disturb the status quo.”

  
“He's Celtic,” Caecilius explained in an undertone.

  
“We'll be off in a minute,” the Doctor told them surely. He wrapped an arm around Donna's shoulders, guiding her away from the group and towards the corner where the TARDIS sat, waiting. Hartley sent the Augur a perfunctory smile, the weight of his beady eyes uncomfortable on her skin.

  
“I'm not going,” Donna was muttering stubbornly.  
  
“You've got to,” the Doctor hissed back.

  
“Well, I'm not.”

“Donna,” Hartley said, threading an arm through hers and keeping her voice low so as to not attract any attention. “Really, I want to stay and help too, but it isn't that easy.”

“Why not?”

“It just isn't,” she whispered.

“But why?”

Hartley opened her mouth to respond only to have the Doctor come to a sudden stop. The women followed his gaze to see Caecilius revealing a slab of marble with a vaguely familiar, intricate design scribed into its smooth surface.

  
“Exactly as you specified. It pleases you, sir?” Caecilius asked hopefully.

  
“As the rain pleases the soil,” Lucius replied vaguely, staring at the marble intently.

  
“Oh, now that's...different,” said the Doctor, attention successfully caught. “Who designed that, then?”

  
“My Lord Lucius was very specific,” said Caecilius emphatically. Hartley felt like something was at foot here, something more than nefarious than just the image of a circuitboard in 79AD.

  
“Where'd you get the pattern?” asked the Doctor in a casual tone of voice, but Hartley knew he was anything but.

  
“On the rain and mist and wind,” Lucius answered vaguely. She wondered if he ever spoke in anything but poetic riddles.

  
“But that looks like a circuit,” muttered Donna to her friends.

“It is,” Hartley confirmed grimly.

  
“Made of stone,” the Doctor added.

  
“Do you mean you just dreamt that thing up?” Donna asked Lucius skeptically.

  
Lucius glanced up at her, fire in his eyes. “That _is_ my job, as City Augur,” he said sharply.

  
“What's that, then, like the mayor?” asked Donna confusedly. Hartley had to smile at her matter-of-fact way of speaking. It was definitely refreshing, of that much she was certain.

The Doctor gave an awkward, huffing laugh. “Oh, ha. You must excuse my friend, she's from...Barcelona,” he said to the group, who were paying them little attention by now, turning back to assess the marble work before them. “This is an age of superstition,” the Doctor continued to Donna and Hartley, low and quiet, for their ears only. “Of _official_ superstition. The Augur is paid by the city to tell the future. The wind will blow from the west? That's the equivalent of ten o'clock news,” he added blithely.

  
“They're laughing at us,” came a new voice, and everyone in the room turned to look. A younger girl was shuffling into view. Her skin was pale and waxen, her eyes glazed over, like she were seeing something that wasn't there. “Those three, they use words like tricksters. They're _mocking_ us,” the newcomer said, voice weak and detached.

  
“No, no, I'm not,” said the Doctor quickly. “I meant no offence.”

  
“I'm sorry,” exclaimed Metella, striding across the room to gather the girl in her arms. “My daughter's been consuming the vapours.”

  
“Oh for _gods_ , Mother. What have you been doing to her?” hissed their son, the anger he felt in his heart trembling in his voice.

  
“Not now, Quintus,” barked Caecilius, casting an embarrassed look over at Lucius.

  
“Yeah, but she's _sick._ Just look at her!” Quintus exclaimed.

  
“I gather I have a rival in this household,” said Lucius with easy interest, taking a step closer, eyeing the weak girl with curiosity. “Another with the gift.”

  
“Oh, she's been promised to the Sibylline Sisterhood,” Metella assured him. “They say she has remarkable visions,” she smiled, like the illness of her daughter was of no consequence. Hartley felt her lips pull down into a disapproving frown.

  
“The prophecies of women are limited and dull,” snapped Lucius, and as one, Hartley and Donna turned their heads to pin him with a narrow-eyed stare. “Only the menfolk have the capacity for true perception,” he said coldly.

  
“I'll tell you where the wind's blowing right now, mate,” muttered Donna, and Hartley snorted in amusement, her grin almost arrogant in its pride. She could tell Lucius was a guy who seriously needed to be put in his place. And nobody was better at that than Donna Noble.

Before Hartley could truly revel in Donna's words, the ground began to shake again. The tremor wasn't as violent as before, a mere quiver in comparison, but Hartley still reached out to grasp the Doctor's arm, holding on tightly, keeping her hand there long after the earth had stopped trembling.

  
“The Mountain god marks your words,” said Lucius to Donna, as though the tremor had just won him the argument. “I'd be careful, if I were you.” Hartley wondered if it were just her who heard the threat in his words.

  
“Consuming the vapours, you say?” asked the Doctor, successfully diverting the attention of the room.

  
“They give me strength,” said the girl, who was being held up by her mother, swaying on the spot. It was like she had no strength at all. Hartley watched her with palpable concern; she looked anything but healthy. In fact she looked ready to keel over at a moment's notice. How could any mother let the daughter get into such a state?

  
“It doesn't look like it to me,” the Doctor argued evenly.

  
The girl swayed again. “Is that your opinion?” she asked, voice thready. “As a doctor?”

  
In an instant the room fell still. Hartley felt her own insides freeze in place, like someone had injected ice into her veins. Eyes wide, she stared back at the girl, barely daring to even breathe.

“I beg your pardon?” asked the Doctor thinly, shock echoing within him.

  
“Doctor,” repeated the girl unsteadily, giving another sway, as if her centre of gravity had been stolen by the vapours, too. “That's your name.”

  
The Doctor considered her carefully. “How did you know that?”

“The Doctor and his Heart,” she told them, giving a slow blink. Hartley gripped the Doctor's hand tightly, staring at the girl in pure shock. How could she know that? This title that seemed to follow her throughout all of time and space? How did this one girl from _Pompeii_ know it? It shouldn't have been possible.

“Hartley's my name,” she said, almost like she were trying to justify it. But her voice was weak in her surprise, and it wasn't a very convincing attempt.

“No, nut it's who you are,” replied the girl with another slow blink. “It's _what_ you are.”

Hartley swallowed, staring back as she felt her pulse thrum with added adrenaline.

“And you,” the sickly girl said suddenly, turning her bloodshot eyes onto Donna. “You call yourself Noble.”

  
“Now then, Evelina,” said her mother abruptly. “Don't be rude.”

  
“No, no, no. Let her talk,” the Doctor told her, his interest piqued.

  
“You three come from _so_ _far_ away,” murmured the girl, Evelina, swaying where she stood.

  
Lucius was practically frothing at the mouth from behind them. “The female soothsayer is inclined to invent all sorts of vagaries,” he said dismissively.

  
“Oh, not this time, Lucius,” the Doctor drawled. “No, I reckon you've been out-soothsayed.”

  
“Is that so,” began Lucius coldly, “man from Gallifrey?”

The ground beneath their feet gave another violent tremor, as though punctuation to the old soothsayer's words. Hartley felt her insides rattle, swallowing around her dry throat.

  
The Doctor froze. “What?”

  
“The strangest of images,” the soothsayer purred. “Your home is lost in fire, is it not?”

  
“Doctor, what are they doing?” Donna asked quickly, and Hartley could feel her growing fright. She let go of the Doctor, winding her arm through Donna's instead, holding on tightly. She gave herself as a grounding presence to the woman, doing what little she could to comfort her. As far as first adventures went, this one was more intense than most.

  
“And you, daughter of… _London,_ ” Lucius said without hesitation, peering at Donna like he could see into her very soul.

  
“How does he know that?” Donna demanded. Hartley gripped her tighter in silent support, and Donna grasped her hand, holding firm.

“And you,” he said next, eyes focusing on Hartley like a pair of deadly lasers. “The Heart of the Storm. I see death in you. And yet there is eternity in your eyes.”

Hartley didn't bother replying, tilting her chin up defiantly. She wasn't afraid. She wouldn't let them make her afraid. Not anyone. Not ever again.

“How do you know these things?” asked Donna, panic drenching her voice.

“This is the gift of Pompeii,” said Lucius, attention back on her, for which Hartley was grateful. “Every single oracle tells the truth.”

“That's impossible.”

  
“Doctor,” Lucius barked, heedless to Donna's shock, “she is returning.”

  
“Who is? Who's _she_?” the Doctor demanded.

  
“And you, daughter of London,” he continued without pause. “There is something on your back.”

Something about the words struck a chord within Hartley, who gripped Donna tighter, like she might be able to protect her from the universe, from whatever darkness these words held.

  
“What's that mean?” Donna demanded, growing scared.

  
“Even the word _Doctor_ is false,” said Evelina from the other side of the room. Every eye turned to her, watching as she stumbled away from her concerned mother, eyes focused on the Doctor, hazy with illness. “Your real name is hidden. It burns in the stars, in the Cascade of Medusa herself. You are a Lord, sir,” she said, both strong and breathless in the same instant. “A Lord of _time._ ”

Then her eyes rolled back into her head and she collapsed to the floor, drained of strength. The Doctor was the first to react, diving to her side, checking her pulse as her mother appeared, hovering over the girl in maternal terror.

“She's okay,” the Doctor promised, already gathering her in his arms, lifting her with impressive strength. “A bed?” he asked her mother, who nodded worriedly, hurrying off into the next room. The Doctor left with her, taking the girl away from the others and safely out of sight.

Donna didn't even pause to think as she hurried out after the Doctor and the girl. Hartley didn't move, left in the centre of the room, the weight of strangers' eyes on her back. She turned, pasting on the closest thing to a confident smile as she could muster.

“Is he really a doctor?” asked Caecilius, unmistakably hopeful as he stared after his daughter in concern.

“Yes,” she promised. “He'll do everything he can to help her.”

“I'll be going now,” said Lucius, derision in his eyes as he nodded to one of his servants who scurried forwards with a small pouch full of coins, handing it off to Caecilius, who took it slowly, as if in a daze. “You'll find it's all there,” the soothsayer continued, already turning to leave, as though they were nothing, not even worth a farewell.

“How did you know those things?” Hartley asked before she could stop herself.

Lucius turned back to her with an arrogant smirk. “How do you know of others' sadness, or pain, or glee?” he questioned without pause. Hartley crossed her arms over her chest, made uncomfortable by the onslaught of impossible knowledge. “You convene with the gods, too,” he said, confident in his words. “Though perhaps for a different purpose.”

“My power comes from within,” she argued quickly. “Not from any god.”

Lucius only smirked – a smug, superior look – before turning away and leaving through the doors, taking his marble circuitboard with him.

He'd just barely disappeared from sight before the Doctor reappeared, making a beeline for Hartley as though it hadn't occurred to him that anything else might be as important. “You okay?” he asked once he'd reached her, gripping her narrow shoulders in his large, capable hands.

“A little in shock, but otherwise I'm fine,” she told him, and he nodded even as his eyes searched her, as though looking for sign of injury. “Is Evelina okay?”

“She should be fine,” he replied softly. Neither added that it didn't matter either way – come tomorrow, nothing of her, her family, or the city she called home, would remain.

Hartley moved over to Caecilius who was stashing away his pouch full of Aureus, a frown pulling at his impressive eyebrows.

“Where does Evelina consume these vapours?” she asked him carefully.

“Over here,” he told her, leading her over to a vent leading down to what seemed like a hot spring beneath the city. Hot steam rose from it with soft sounds like the hissing of snakes. She leant over it only to cough at the strength of the vapours it was emitting.

The Doctor joined her a moment later, not hesitating to wrench off the grating and set it aside so they could see into it. The metal was hot to the touch, but the Doctor wasn't human, able to handle the heat longer than Hartley would have been capable of.

“Different sort of hypocaust,” he murmured, conversational.

  
“Oh, yes. We're very advanced in Pompeii,” said Caecilius proudly. “In Rome, they're still using the old wood-burning furnaces, but we've got hot springs leading from Vesuvius itself.”

  
The Doctor hummed. “Who thought of that?”

  
“The soothsayers after the great earthquake, seventeen years ago,” he replied, taking a seat by the Doctor's side. Hartley was crouched opposite the Doctor, watching him work. “An awful lot of damage. But we rebuilt,” said Caecilius with a sure nod.

  
“Didn't you think of moving away?” the Doctor asked exasperatedly. “Oh no, then again, San Francisco,” he allowed, exchanging a knowing look with Hartley that nearly made her grin.

  
“That's a new restaurant in Naples, isn't it?” Caecilius mumbled, brows pulled into a confused frown, but his question never got answered as a loud snarling noise from below caught their attention. The sound was like a great, hungry beast lay in wait beneath them, hidden by the fumes.

Hartley glanced up at the Doctor in the same instant as he looked up at her. Their eyes met, and they shared their concern. “What's that noise?” he asked Caecilius curiously, the moment over as quickly as it had began.

“Don't know. Happens all the time,” he replied, seemingly unbothered, but Hartley could feel the wariness that was itching beneath the skin. “They say the gods of the Underworld are stirring,” he added thoughtfully. Hartley wondered what it might be like, to live in a world dictated by the whim of gods from fiery underworlds.

  
The Doctor absorbed this slowly. “But after the earthquake, let me guess – is that when the soothsayers started making sense?” he asked, the question gentle but probing.

  
“Oh, yes, very much so,” Caecilius confirmed. “I mean, they'd always been, shall we say, imprecise? But then the soothsayers, the augurs, the haruspex, all of them, they saw the truth again and _again_. It's quite amazing. They can predict crops and rainfall with absolute precision.”

  
“Haven't they said anything about tomorrow?” the Doctor asked before either him or Hartley could think to sensor it.

  
“No. Why, should they?” asked Caecilius, suddenly concerned. “Why do you ask?”

  
“No, no. No reason. I'm just asking,” the Doctor replied rather unconvincingly. Hartley conceded that for someone who spent a good time of their life lying, he could really be an awful liar. “But the soothsayers, they all consume the vapours, yeah?” he continued on fluidly.

  
“That's how they see,” Caecilius nodded.

  
The Doctor yanked free his glasses, slipping them onto his nose. “Ipso facto,” he muttered to Hartley, who couldn't help but smile.

  
“Look you,” said Caecilius uncomfortably, and Hartley's smile only grew. The Doctor reached into the hole leading to the spring, and when he pulled his hand back out he had something pinched between two fingers.

  
“They're all consuming this,” he said, and both Hartley and Caecilius leaned forwards to get a better look.

“What is it?” Hartley asked, watching as something like dust fell from his fingertips, fluttering back down into the hole, mixing with the vapours.

“Tiny particles of rock,” said the Doctor matter-of-factly. Then he brought his fingertips to his mouth, tongue darting out to lick at the dust. Hartley watched with a raised brow as he considered what he'd discovered for a weighty moment. “They're breathing in Vesuvius,” he announced grimly.

“What does that mean?” asked Caecilius, trying to understand.

The Doctor switched from concerned and thoughtful to blithe and cheerful in an instant, the change seamless as only he could produce. “Oh, probably nothing,” he said brightly, moving to put the grate back in place over the hypocaust.

Hartley wanted answers, but she very much doubted she'd be able to get them from the Doctor while Caecilius was still hovering over them curiously.

“We should go check on Evelina,” she suggested quickly.

“Right you are,” the Doctor agreed, climbing to his feet quickly and holding out a hand for Hartley to take. She let him pull her to her feet, squeezing his hand softly in thanks.

“Is she going to be okay?” asked Caecilius, and both travellers turned to look at him.

Hartley took in his worry, the kind of bone-deep concern that only a parent could hold, and she smiled calmly. “She'll be fine,” she promised him, a bare-faced lie. None of them would be fine, not ever again – but come tomorrow, none of that would _matter._

Disgust twisted in her insides and she automatically reached for the Doctor's hand. She found it and held tight. Shooting a final smile at Caecilius, she let the Doctor drag her away, both of them disappearing around the corner and out of sight.

  
There was a small alcove off the side of the hall and Hartley pulled the Doctor into it, relieved to have a brief moment to themselves. She took a beat to close her eyes breathe deeply. She was hoping to smell the Doctor, knowing his scent would calm her, but instead she just smelled the rusty, smokey scent of the vapours, and sighed in disappointment.

“You okay?” the Doctor asked, fingertips brushing against her chin, gently pushing her head up so their eyes could meet.

“How bad is it?” she asked rather than answer.

A frown creased at his brow. “On a scale of...?” he asked, something that had become a sort of running joke between them. It warmed her to hear it again, calming her down to her atoms.

“Slitheen to Dalek,” she supplied, and despite himself, he smiled.

“Slitheen _are_ dangerous, you know?”

“They're ridiculous,” she argued playfully, pulling at his tie to fix it in what was a gentle and affectionate move.

He gave a small, huffing laugh that warmed her from the inside out, and she smiled. Silence hovered between them, not awkward or uncomfortable, but heavy with the knowledge they held, and their smiles melted away at the same time, like ice cream in the sun. Hartley kept hold of his tie, the feeling of it under her skin helping to ground her, remind her he was there with her, protecting her.

“Why don't we just leave?” she asked whispered. It wasn't just a question – it was a request. One she knew in her heart would never be fulfilled. “Just get in our big blue box and _go_?”

The Doctor smiled sadly. “We can't.”

“These people...” she trailed off, the words too hard to say. She shut her eyes and forced them out through gritted teeth. “These people are already dead.” Opening her eyes to look at him, the Doctor's brown stare glittered with pain. “You said it yourself. It's a fixed point. Anything we do now – come tomorrow, will it even matter?”

He sighed, staring back at her with overwhelming feeling. “I don't know,” he admitted. “But we can't leave. Not yet.”

She sighed, letting go of his tie to smooth down his jacket lapels, more of an excuse to run her hands over his chest than anything else. “I know,” she said, resigned. “It's just…more painful this way.”

“I know,” he echoed her, voice tinged with empathy.

They took a moment of calm for themselves, but Hartley knew the peace couldn't last forever. Something was set in motion. They were on a journey to whatever the fates decided it might be. And she knew they were going to find out whether they wanted to or not.

“What's next, then?” she asked, keeping close to him and just revelling in the fact that she could.

“I need to talk to Lucius, find out what he's up to,” he told her quietly.

“I doubt you can go to Caecilius,” she replied, pushing herself up onto her toes to glance over his shoulder, making sure nobody was around to overhear. “He won't want to risk pissing off the City Augur.”

“I was going to go to Quintus,” he said, reaching up almost in reflex to brush a loose strand of strawberry-blonde hair from her face. Her skin grew warm at the gentle brush of his fingers but she didn't move away, silently hoping he'd do it again.

“Can I come?”

“I want you to stay here with Donna; make sure she doesn't do anything stupid.”

“Like foretell the end of the world?” she asked with a wry smile.

“Anything like that, yeah,” he agreed. His smile grew, wide and cheeky, and she felt the sudden urge to kiss him like a bell ringing in her head.

Seeing no reason why she shouldn't, Hartley pushed herself up onto her toes to reach his lips, but before they could meet the curtain separating them from the next room was drawn sharply aside, and the pair broke apart like they'd been caught doing something they shouldn't.

“Oh, so you're snogging in cupboards now? Really?” Donna asked them, dry and unimpressed. Hartley decided against telling her it wouldn't have been the first time.

“We weren't _snogging_ ,” the Doctor argued in the tone of an exasperated older brother, but Donna didn't let him finish.

“Just thought I'd let you know Evelina seems to be waking up,” she continued with an amused, knowing look at the pair of them before sauntering away like she owned the place.

Hartley rolled her eyes, noting with a small smile that the Doctor's cheeks were flushed slightly pink. “I'll go check on Evelina. You go find out what today's big, evil plan is,” she told him, patting him soundly on the chest. “I'll still be here when you get back.”

He nodded, watching her as she smiled back one last time before turning away and rushing to catch up with Donna. “You know anything about medicine?” Donna asked hopefully as they walked.

“I took a first aid course in university,” Hartley supplied.

“It's gonna have to do,” she murmured, leading her into a small, curtained off room, where Evelina was laid back on a bed, blinking up at the ceiling sleepily. “Evelina,” said Donna in a kind, gentle voice, “I brought Hartley with me. She'll check you over, make sure you're okay.”

“Hey Evelina,” Hartley began, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. It seemed to be made of feathers, more comfortable than she expected it to be. “Remember me?”

“The Heart of the Storm,” Evelina said, staring up at her with dopey eyes.

“Just Hartley, actually,” she smiled kindly. “Can you sit up for me?”

“I'm fine,” insisted the younger girl even as Hartley had to help her up. “Really, I am.”

“I'm sure that's true,” she allowed. “But I would still like to be certain.” After quickly checking her over, Hartley deemed her to indeed be okay. “Still, have some water,” she added, gesturing for Donna to pour her a glass. She handed it over and Evelina took a healthy sip.

“You wear such strange clothes,” said the girl once she was feeling more herself, sitting up unassisted.

Hartley looked down at her wide-legged pants and turtleneck top. They were certainly strange considering the era they'd landed in. “Side effect of travelling so often,” she explained easily. “We're not always dressed for to the right occasion.”

“Or the era?” Evelina supplied, and both travellers went silent. She smiled, the expression soft and secretive, and instead nodded to the box at the end of her bed. “Why don't you try on some of my dresses? If you're going to be here, you should at least look the part,” she said with that small, knowing smile.

“I'm not sure if they'll fit...” Donna tried to say.

“Please,” Evelina insisted. Donna and Hartley exchanged a hesitant look, but then the latter smiled, nodding for her to open the chest. It was full of an array of gorgeous garments, each one a different colour than the one before it. Hartley grew excited, leaning over and rifling through them cheerfully. Donna picked one out quickly, turning and disappearing behind the curtain to get changed.

“You like clothes?” Evelina asked Hartley conversationally, taking another sip of water for her dry throat.

“I like self-expression,” Hartley corrected her. “Fashion's just one of many different ways I can do that.”

“You like words, too,” she said, a smile in her voice as Hartley decided on a deep red dress, plucking it free and holding it up to the light. “I can hear it. The beauty of words sing in your blood.”

“Words are … they're everything to me. They always have been,” she told Evelina with a wistful smile.

“Words have never really been my thing,” said Donna blandly, her voice raised as though Hartley might not hear her through the thin curtain separating them. “Always more of a numbers girl, myself. But I guess that's how it is,” she added thoughtfully. “In school, you're either a maths-kid or an English-kid.”

Donna reappeared dressed in gorgeous purple robes. Evelina immediately began to giggle, and Donna gaped at her in mock-offence.

“You're not supposed to laugh,” the redhead chided her playfully. “Thanks for that. What do you think? The Goddess Venus?”

  
“Oh, that's sacrilege,” Evelina gasped. Hartley laughed, stepping around Donna and disappearing behind the curtain, beginning to change into her own robes of choice.

  
“Nice to see you laugh, though,” Donna said kindly. “What do you do in old Pompeii, then, girls your age? You got mates? Do you go hanging about round the shops? TK Maximus?”

Hartley rolled her eyes at the curtain between them but couldn't keep the smile from her face. “I am promised to the Sisterhood for the rest of my life,” Evelina said simply.

  
“Do you get any choice in that?” Donna asked, a frown in her voice.

  
“It's not my decision. The Sisters chose for me. I have the gift of sight.”

  
“Then...” Donna hesitated, “what can you see happening tomorrow?”

Hartley stepped out from behind the curtain, her smile missing from her face. Neither Donna nor Evelina looked up at her, their eyes locked as they spoke. “Is tomorrow special?” the younger girl asked delicately.

  
“You tell me,” Donna said probingly.

“Donna,” Hartley interjected, but she went ignored.

“What do you see?”

  
Evelina indulged her, closing her eyes and concentrating. “The sun will rise, the sun will set. Nothing special at all,” she revealed, shrugging her shoulders simply.

  
“Look, don't tell the Doctor I said anything because he'll kill me,” Donna began slowly. Hartley surged forwards, eyes wide.

“Donna, you can't,” she argued, physically stepping between them in an attempt to stop what was about to happen. “This is a bad idea.”

“Don't you want to save them?” Donna asked, pain in her eyes and in her heart as she pleaded with Hartley to understand, to agree.

“Of course I _want_ to, but it's more complicated than that,” Hartley hissed. Panic welled up in her chest. What would happen if this continued? Would it work out, or would it be disastrous? Would time itself concave into nothing? What would their future become if this event in history was altered?

“Listen, Evelina, I've got a prophecy too,” Donna said, heedless of Hartley's warnings. Evelina gasped loudly as if the words had hurt, throwing up her hands to cover her face. On the back of each hand was drawn a single eye, done with some kind of kohl.

“Evelina,” Hartley breathed, concerned but knowing enough by now to know not to touch her. Instead she just hovered over her awkwardly, unsure how she could help.

“Evelina, I'm sorry, but you've got to hear me out,” Donna tried again.

But Hartley ignored her, leaning closer to Evelina, the girl's emotions a combination of panic and frustration. “Are you okay, Evelina? Can you hear us?”

“Evelina, you need to listen-”

“There is only one prophecy,” Evelina insisted in a pitchy voice.

  
“But everything I'm about to say to you is true, I swear. Just listen to me,” Donna pushed ahead. “Tomorrow, that mountain is going to explode.”

“Donna, for God's sake,” Hartley hissed sternly.

“No, I'm doing this, Hart – whether you like it or not,” Donna retorted, filled with desperation as she turned back to Evelina, who was still curled in on herself like it would protect her from the words Donna was saying. “Evelina, please listen. The air is going to fill with ash and rocks, tons and tons of it, and this whole town is going to get _buried._ ”

  
“That's not true,” Evelina cried.

  
“I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, but everyone's going to die. Even if you don't believe me, just tell your family to get out of town. Just for one day. Just for tomorrow. But you've got to get out. You've got to leave Pompeii.”

  
“This is false prophecy!” Evelina shouted, growing hysterical.

Before either woman could say anything to help the ground began to shake. Not a long tremble, like before, but instead a single pulse, like something large and angry had slammed against the earth beneath their feet. All was silent as the three girls looked at one another, confusion on their faces.

Then it happened again, a sharp bang and a quivering ground. It happened once more, and it was then Hartley realised what it was. _Footsteps_.

“Up,” Hartley ordered Evelina quickly, hurrying to her side and beginning to help her out of bed. “Up, now. We need to find the others.”

“What's going on?” demanded Donna, struggling to stand upright with the shaking of the floor beneath her feet.

“I'll have to get back to you on that one,” Hartley admitted, wrapping one arm around Evelina and guiding her gently out the door towards the main room of her family's villa.

“What is it?” Metella was asking where she stood by their household fountain, her voice shrill. “What's that noise?”

  
“It doesn't sound like Vesuvius,” said Caecilius, standing beside one of his precious sculptures to be sure it didn't fall and shatter.

“Just stay calm,” Hartley told them, her voice even in comparison to theirs.

  
“Caecilius?!” the Doctor appeared just as she spoke, barrelling into the room at top speed, like something was chasing him. Not totally unsurprising – something usually was. “All of you, get out!” he ordered them, coming to a sudden stop by Hartley and Donna, grasping the latter by the shoulders as he glanced wildly around the room, searching for the source of the footsteps.

  
“Doctor, what is it?” Donna asked quickly, her panic mounting.

  
“I think we're being followed,” he revealed, still scanning the room for a threat. In a burst of activity the grill to the hypocaust flew into the air with a deafening bang, spinning in the air before landing on the stone floor with a loud crash. “Just get out!” he bellowed, but nobody listened, not even Hartley.

There was an almighty crack and the entire hypocaust burst open, stone and metal and fire thrust across the room. A _thing_ appeared in its place, something massive and hulking climbing up from the underworld itself. Made of stone and lava, its skin crackled with dangerous heat. The room screamed, everyone scrambling backwards, desperately trying to get away from the thing, so tall its head nearly brushed the ceiling.

  
“The gods are with us,” gasped Evelina, staring up at the creature with reverence.

  
“Water. We need water! Quintus – all of you, get water. Donna, Hartley!”

“This way!” Donna cried over the mayhem, grasping Hartley's arm and yanking her out the door after her. Just outside there was another fountain with a pile of wooden buckets stacked beside it. They hurried to grasp one each, moving quickly as they dipped them into the pool of water, filling them up and then turning to take them back inside.

Hartley took a second longer than Donna, and when she looked up it was to see a handful of women grabbing her friend and wrenching her unwillingly to the side. “Donna!” Hartley screamed, but the sound of it was lost over the furious roars of the magma-creature inside the villa.

Dropping her bucket, she moved to one of the robed women. She was a pacifist by nature, but if someone was going to try and abduct her friends, she sure as hell was going to do something about it.

She threw a punch that had the masked woman turning on her in a heartbeat. Thrusting out her hand, the woman's palm slammed into Hartley's nose and pain radiated through her head. Before she could so much as scream for the Doctor there was another sharp pain in the back of her skull, and she felt herself falling into a pair of lean, unfamiliar arms before everything went horribly dark.

* * *

When Hartley came to it was to a series of unintelligible chanting and the luminous dancing of open flames.

“Donna,” she was saying before she was even fully conscious, the words an instinct. Was Donna okay? If she wasn't, Hartley wasn't sure what she'd do with herself. Wasn't sure if she'd _survive_ it.

“Oh great, _now_ she wakes up!” exclaimed Donna's demanding voice, and Hartley's entire body relaxed as pure, unadulterated relief flooded her veins like a drug. “Where were you two minutes ago before they tied you up – when you could have actually been of some use!”

“What?” Hartley asked, still groggy. It only took another beat for her to realise what Donna was on about, tugging at her hands only to find them bound above her. She was tied up to a hook hanging from the ceiling. How novel was that?

She was at the far end of a large, sprawling room. It looked to be some kind of temple, full of women in those fancy robes. All of them were convened around a table in the centre of the room where Donna lay, bound by her hands and feet. They were still chanting, heedless to the other women's cries.

“You die again, then?” Donna called, almost conversational.

Hartley groaned. “Do you have to be so blasé about the whole thing?” she complained, scraping her shoes against the floor and tugging uselessly at her bound wrists.

“Not like it matters – you're immortal,” Donna reminded her primly, as if she might have forgotten. It was sort of refreshing, she had to admit, not to have someone tiptoe around the issue. She actually sort of enjoyed it. It made her feel normal, to some degree.

“Just knocked out,” she answered the original question. “You don't seem to be doing so well,” she added, also conversational in tone.

“You _think_?!” Donna hissed. Hartley was nothing if not empathetic to her plight.

“Kidnapped on your first trip – I wish I could say it was a new record, but I think at this point I've probably seen it all.”

“You're not _helping_ , Hart,” Donna growled, furiously tugging at the ropes binding her to the table. “What're they doing with me, anyway? Some kind of ritual?”

“Sacrifice, most likely.”

“You have _got_ to be kidding me,” Donna growled. Even despite the dire situation Hartley managed a smile. The women surrounding them finally stopped their chanting and Hartley watched as the one holding the blade moved closer to Donna.

“Hey!” Hartley screamed at her with everything she had, attempting to throw suggestive emotions in her directions, hoping to oil her resolve. “Hey, stay away from her! I _mean_ it!”

  
The one with the knife paused, and Hartley knew she was feeling they sway of her efforts. But just as quickly she shook it off and turned back to her task. “The false prophet will surrender both her blood and her breath,” she announced ritualistically.

  
“I'll surrender _you_ in a minute. Don't you dare!” bellowed Donna, writhing where she lay, struggling with everything she had to get free.

  
“You will be silent,” ordered Knife Girl.

  
“Listen, sister, you might have eyes on the back of your hands, but you'll have eyes in the back of your head by the time I've finished with you. _Let me go_!” Donna screamed, and Hartley opened her mouth to join in when she felt the atmosphere of the room shift, growing warm in a way that could only mean one thing.

With a gasp she glanced sharply to the right, more than relieved to see the Doctor standing casually against one of the temple walls. Eyes bright with relief, the Doctor met her stare long enough to shoot her a playful wink.

His happy expression melted, however, when he caught sight of her face, and judging by the dried blood she could taste on her lips, she looked anything but unharmed.

He looked away just as quickly, eyes returning to Donna, the one in more immediate danger.

  
“This prattling voice will cease forever!” Knife Girl lifted the blade, its tip hovering over Donna's heart.

  
“Oh, that'll be the day,” drawled the Doctor, looking for all the world utterly at ease.

The robed women all gasped in horror. “No man is allowed to enter the Temple of Sibyl!” exclaimed Knife Girl, aghast.

  
“Well, that's all right. Just us girls,” the Doctor strolled forwards, hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Do you know, I met the Sibyl once. Yeah, hell of a woman. Blimey, she could dance the Tarantella. Nice teeth. Truth be told, I think she had a bit of a thing for me. I said it would never last. She said, I know. Well, she would,” he sniffed.

“You trying to make me jealous?” Hartley shouted, unable to help herself. Their banter came easier than breathing, and it was the only thing she could think to do to help calm her racing pulse.

“I like to keep you on your toes,” he replied, just as casual. “You all right there?” he asked Donna, already fishing out the sonic.

  
“Oh, never better,” Donna said, the words easy.

  
“I like the toga.”

  
“Thank you. And the ropes?”

  
“Yeah, not so much.”

He aimed the sonic at Donna's restraints. They fell free, as if by magic. Then, as soon as Donna was unbound he turned to Hartley, crossing the space between them in a few short steps and aiming the screwdriver at the spot above her head.

Her cuffs broke open and she dropped the final inch to the floor. The Doctor caught her in his arms, wrapping them around her and immediately bringing her into his chest, as though he could shield her from all the dangers of the world in a single embrace.

“Okay?” he asked under his breath.

“I'm the king of okay,” she replied playfully. He gave a wry sort of a grin at her typical response.

  
“What magic is this?” Knife Girl demanded furiously.  
  


“Let me tell you about the Sibyl, the founder of this religion,” hissed the Doctor, ignoring their shock. “She would be _ashamed_ of you. All her wisdom and insight turned sour. Is that how you spread the word, hey? On the blade of a knife?”

  
“Yes, a knife that now welcomes you,” bellowed Knife Girl, holding up her dagger, pointy end aimed smack bang between the Doctor's twin hearts. Without second thought to her own life, Hartley shoved him back so she stood as a barrier between him and the weapon.

Thankfully, however, none of them had to find out how that might have ended. A voice called out, “show me this man,” and all of the robed women dropped respectfully to their knees.

  
“High Priestess, the stranger would defile us,” said Knife Girl, the only one not to kneel.

  
“Let me see. This one is different. He carries starlight in his wake,” said the High Priestess, her voice harsh, like two stones being rubbed together.

  
“Oh, very perceptive,” drawled the Doctor, pressing a hand to the small of Hartley's back, gently urging her forwards until they all stood before the curtain hiding the Priestess from sight. “Where do these words of wisdom come from?”

  
“The gods whisper to me,” the seer answered roughly.

  
“They've done far more than that. Might I beg audience? Look upon the High Priestess?”

The veil obscuring their view was promptly drawn out of the way, revealing the High Priestess in all her glory. Made entirely of stone, she was stiff and rigid, her features almost impossible to ascertain given that her face was so chipped. She was nothing but a living statue, cursed by the evil creatures she worshipped as gods.

  
“Oh, my God,” breathed Donna in unbridled horror. “What's happened to you?”

  
“The heavens have blessed me,” the High Priestess told them proudly even as she gasped for breath, like her lungs, too, were made of rock.

  
“If I might...?” the Doctor requested gently, stepping forwards.

She held out a hand, and both he and Hartley stepped forwards to get a better look, only for the High Priestess to wrench her hand back. “ _She_ is not welcome,” she spat in her gravelly voice. “She reeks of the never ending death; of the unholy immortality.”

Inexplicably hurt, Hartley shuffled back until she was beside Donna once more. After a moment the High Priestess held her hand out again for the Doctor to see. He took it without hesitation, eyeing it thoughtfully. “Does it hurt?” he asked her gently.

  
“It is necessary.”

  
“Who told you that?” he asked, nothing but compassionate.

  
“The voices.”

Hartley felt sick to her stomach. Who could manipulate these girls into worshipping them, into _converting themselves into stone_ , and still have the nerve to call it a religion?

  
“Is that what's going to happen to Evelina?” Donna demanded, voice dripping with horror. “Is this what's going to happen to all of you?”  
  
Knife Girl approached them, but the moment she was close enough to touch, afraid of what they might say if they did. “The blessings are manifold,” said the girl, unbothered by Hartley's wariness.

  
“They're stone,” said Donna with a gasp as the girl revealed her transforming arm.

  
“Exactly,” the Doctor exclaimed, pushing away from the High Priestess, letting her go and standing to his feet. “The people of Pompeii are turning to stone before the volcano erupts. But why?” he posed the question, hand pressed again to Hartley's spine, a reassuring weight.

  
“This word, this image in your mind. This _volcano_ ,” said the High Priestess, her words bordering on a plea. She didn't understand, and Hartley could tell that she _hated_ not knowing. “What is that?”

  
“More to the point, why don't you know about it?” the Doctor mused, still touching Hartley until finally he broke away, stepping closer to the High Priestess, emanating a silent threat. He was going to get answers, of that much Hartley was certain. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  
“High Priestess of the Sibylline,” she responded in that dying, crackling voice.

  
“No, no, no, no. I'm talking to the creature _inside_ you. The thing that's _seeding_ itself into a human body, in the dust in the lungs, taking over the flesh and turning it into, what?” he asked, voice turning venomous. If there was one thing that was just unacceptable to the Doctor, it was the destruction of human life.

  
“Your knowledge is impossible,” the Priestess – or maybe the creature – wheezed.

  
“Oh, but you can read my mind. You know it's not,” he said, at ease until he continued on, voice like a shard of ice, cold and deadly. “I demand you _tell me who you are_!”

  
“ _We are awakening_ ,” the High Priestess responded, but it wasn't only her anymore. Now there was another voice, one deep and resonating, echoing with a dark power that made Hartley break out in chills.

“The voice of the gods,” one of the Sisters gasped, and as one they all began to mindlessly chant, rocking back and forwards like scared little children. “Words of wisdom, words of power. Words of wisdom, words of power...”

  
“Name yourself,” the Doctor demanded, growing tired of the back and forth. He rounded on the creature, fury of the Time Lord in his eyes. “Planet of origin. Galactic coordinates. Species designation according to the universal ratification of the Shadow Proclamation.”

  
“ _We are rising!_ ” the creature inside the Priestess roared, head tilted back. Hartley's chest hurt. The woman – the human inside, whatever might have been left of her – was in so much pain. It was like flames of an inferno licking at Hartley's skin, and she wasn't even the one feeling it firsthand.

  
“Tell me your name!” the Doctor screamed back, unrelenting.

  
“ _Pyrovile_!”

There was a beat of crushing silence, then the Sisters began to obediently chant, “Pyrovile. Pyrovile. Pyrovile.”

  
“Doctor?” Hartley prompted him when he didn't immediately speak. “What's a Pyrovile?”

  
“Well, _that's_ a Pyrovile, growing inside her,” he explained to his companions under his breath. “She's a halfway stage.”

  
“What, and that turns into...?” Donna trailed off, and Hartley knew they were all thinking of the monster that had attacked them back at the villa.

  
“That was an adult Pyrovile,” the Doctor confirmed grimly.

  
“ _And the breath of a Pyrovile will incinerate you, Doctor._ ”

  
“I warn you, I'm armed,” announced the Doctor, and Hartley was shocked until she glanced over to see him holding a plastic water pistol in hand. It took everything she had not to roll her eyes. “Donna, get that grill open,” he ordered Donna sharply.

  
“What for?” she asked, confused.

  
The Doctor looked about ready to scream in frustration. “Best not to ask questions,” Hartley muttered to Donna, who understood and quickly went about completing her task.

“What are the Pyrovile doing here?” asked the Doctor in a rush, like he knew the time to get answers was limited. Hartley wondered what was going to come next. Was descending into the underworld really their best option?

  
“ _We fell from the heavens. We fell so far and so fast, we were rendered into dust._ ”

  
“Right, creatures of stone shattered on impact. When was that, seventeen years ago?”

  
“ _We have slept beneath for thousands of years._ ”

  
“Okay, so seventeen years ago woke you up, and now you're using human bodies to reconstitute yourselves. But why the psychic powers?”

“ _We opened their minds and found such gifts_.”

  
“Okay, that's fine. So you force yourself inside a human brain, use the latent psychic talent to bond. I get that, yeah. But seeing the future? That is _way_ beyond psychic. You can see through _time._ Where does the gift of prophecy come from?”  
  


“Got it!” Donna announced from where she had been working on the grate.

“Now get down,” the Doctor ordered her.

  
“What, down there?”

  
“Yes, down there,” he snapped back. “Hartley, you too,” he barked, and knowing better than to argue, she did exactly as she was told. Turning, she stepped around the bowing sisters and made her way over to Donna, leaning over to peer into the eerie hot spring beneath them. “Why can't this lot predict a volcano? Why is it being hidden?” the Doctor asked the thing inside the Priestess.

  
“ _Sisters, I see into his mind. The weapon is harmless_.”

The Doctor sighed, exasperated as he usually was when things began to unravel. “Yeah,” he conceded, “but it's got to sting.” He began to squirt water at the creature, which cried out in agony. “Get down there!” he shouted at the women, both of whom yelped as they tumbled down the hole and into the valley of fire.

Hartley landed on her hands and knees, feeling her skin break and sting on impact. Grunting, she rolled out of the way just in time as the Doctor dropped down beside them.

  
“You fought her off with a water pistol. I bloody _love_ you!” Donna exclaimed, but the Doctor was paying little attention, too busy helping Hartley to her feet then booking it down the path.

  
“This way,” he called over his shoulder.

  
“Where are we going now?”

  
“Into the volcano!” he told her cheerfully, over the crackling of crackling fire and roaring magma.

  
“No way.”

  
“Yes, way,” he shot back, bright. “Appian way!”

Hartley stumbled after him, using the wall to help steady herself. “That was so cheesy,” she complained even through a smile.

“It's a gift.”

“How d'you do that?” Donna asked Hartley, voice ringing loud over the roar of the volcano.

Hartley frowned in confusion. “Do what?”

“Smile even though you're soaked in blood.”

Realising she probably looked like a complete and utter mess, Hartley's cheeks flamed. She grabbed the sleeve of her borrowed toga and began to scrub at her face where the blood had long since dried. “Broken nose?” the Doctor asked from ahead of them, voice carefully devoid of emotion.

“It's already healed,” she assured him, noting the tension held in his shoulders.

He didn't turn back to look, but something about the tension made her uneasy. She couldn't feel his emotions. They were locked up even tighter than usual. It was strangely offensive, and she wondered why he constantly felt the need to hide from her like that. What was so bad about what he felt for her that he couldn't let her know?

“Wait, maybe this is how we can save everyone!” exclaimed Donna some minutes later as they huffed and puffed their way deeper into the fiery belly of the volcano. It was stiflingly hot, and Hartley's clothes were beginning to stick uncomfortably to her skin, hair curling from the damp, heavy on her head.

“What're you talking about?” asked the Doctor from where he remained up ahead.

“If it's aliens setting off the volcano, doesn't that make it all right for you to stop it?” she asked, as though she thought she'd just solved the problem; found some cosmic loophole the Doctor had overlooked.

  
But the Doctor just shook his head. “Still part of history.”

  
“But _I'm_ history to you. You saved me in 2008. You saved us all. Why is that different?” she pressed stubbornly.

  
“Some things are fixed, some things are in flux. Pompeii is _fixed_ ,” he replied.

“How do you know which is which?”

  
The Doctor stopped walking so abruptly that Hartley nearly smacked into him. She stopped just short and looked up at him, his face lit up in the glow of the nearby magma.

“Because that's how I see the universe. Every waking second, I can see what _is_ , what _was_ , what _could_ be, what must _not,_ ” he told her, voice dark and ancient, ringing with all the years he'd lived. “That's the burden of a Time Lord, Donna. And I'm the only one left.”

Then he turned and walked away, and suddenly Hartley could feel him again. The pain within him echoing like a sound you couldn't hear with your ears, but rather with your heart. It made her eyes burn with tears and she swallowed back the agony, looking away as she struggled to contain herself.

  
“How many people died?” Donna yelled after him, and Hartley shut her eyes at the question. The answer to which she'd been trying her best not to think about; knowing it would haunt her forever.

  
“Stop it,” he snarled, refusing to turn back.

  
“Doctor, how many people died?”

He stopped, spinning around and levelling Donna with a glare that made a note of fear spike in Donna's heart. Maybe not fear of the Doctor himself, but rather fear of what he might become if this came to pass.

“Twenty thousand,” he said, hating himself more with every syllable.

  
Donna's eyes glittered with tears. “Is that what you can see, Doctor? All twenty thousand? And you think that's all right, do you?”

The pain the Doctor felt magnified, and Hartley realised maybe he wasn't letting her see it after all. Maybe it had just become so great he couldn't contain it all, some spilling through the cracks.

Patience snapping like a band, Hartley rounded on the Donna with a glare. “Donna, you've only been here five minutes – you don't get to just walk in and-”

“You're right,” Donna allowed, and Hartley fell silent in surprise. “I haven't been here as long as you. Which is why it shouldn't be _me_ saying these things. It should be you – but instead you're too concerned with making lovey eyes at him to focus on the bigger picture!”

This time it was the Doctor coming to her defence, stepping forwards and reproachfully saying, “Donna.”

“You've become complacent, Hartley,” Donna told her, words ringing with truth. “You're meant to be the Heart – _his_ Heart – that's who you _are._ You're meant to be the kind one; the _compassionate_ one. What happened to you?”

It stung like a slap, but before Hartley could even begin to gather her wits enough to reply there was a distant roar that shook the very rock beneath their feet.

  
“They know we're here. Come on,” the Doctor hissed, grasping Hartley by the hand and yanking. The corridors of rock only grew hotter and narrower the closer they travelled the the heart of the volcano. Hartley pulled off the shawl she'd had wrapped haphazardly around her waist, abandoning it carelessly on the ground.

No more words were said, and tensions were at an all time high by the time they reached the centre of the mountain, populated entirely by Pyroviles.

“It's the heart of Vesuvius,” the Doctor announced in a hushed whisper, watching the giant, hulking Pyroviles as they plodded past, taking no notice of the three tiny little people crouched behind a big pile of rocks in the corner. “We're right inside the mountain.”

  
“There's tons of them,” breathed Donna.

  
“What's that thing?” mused the Doctor, fishing a monocular from his bottomless pockets, holding it up to get a better look.

“Don't suppose you have a water bomb the exact size of Mt Vesuvius inside those pockets of yours, by any chance?” Hartley mumbled to him quietly.

“Left it in my other suit,” he muttered back, and in spite of their dire situation, Hartley's lips curved upwards into a smile.  
  


“Oh, you better hurry up and think of something. Rocky fall's on its way,” said Donna, eyeing a passing Pyrovile with contempt.

  
“That's how they arrived. Or what's left of it,” the Doctor murmured to himself as he assessed the object in the distance. It was a pod of some kind, spherical in shape. It would look almost identical to any of the other rocks laying around the mountain, if not for the cracked door exposing futuristic circuitry and machinery. “Escape pod? Prison ship? Gene bank?”

  
“But why do they need a volcano? Maybe it erupts, and they launch themselves back into space or something?” Donna suggested wildly.

  
The Doctor's expression was drawn. “Oh, I think it's worse than that,” he said darkly.

  
“How could it be worse?” Donna asked plainly. There was a thunderous growl and the ground below them trembled as whatever was guarding the place steadily grew closer. “Doctor, it's getting closer,” she pressed anxiously.

“Where do we go?” Hartley hissed, the pit in her stomach growing as she wondered how their situation could possibly get any worse.

“Heathens defile us!” an unwelcome voice bellowed from across the cavern. They turned to see Lucius glowering down at them victoriously from where he was stood on a rocky cliff high up above them, a Pyrovile at his side. “They would desecrate your temple, my lord gods!”

  
“Come on!” the Doctor shouted, springing to his feet and dragging them along after him.

  
“We can't go in!” Donna argued.

  
“Well, we can't go _back._ ”

  
“Crush them! Burn them!”

They ran, but a Pyrovile appeared in front of them, seeming to materialise from the very stone itself, like they it one with the rock. The Doctor produced the water pistol from before, shooting the looming creature with cool water and watching as it sizzled away.

They turned, making a beeline for the pod but coming to a stop just outside of it. Hartley wanted to get them inside the thing where they would be just that little bit more safe, but the Doctor spun around to face Lucius, and she could tell by the look in his eyes that he had a plan forming in his mind.

  
“There is nowhere to run, Doctor, Heart of the Storm, Daughter of London!” Lucius called to them in his nasal, sneering voice.

  
“Now then, Lucius. My lords Pyrovillian, don't get yourselves in a lather. In a lava? No? No. But if I might beg the wisdom of the gods before we perish?” the Doctor asked loudly. “Once this new race of creatures is complete, then what?”

  
“My masters will follow the example of Rome itself. An almighty empire, bestriding the whole of civilisation!” said Lucius with misplaced pride. Hartley felt sick again.

  
“But if you've crashed, and you've got all this technology, why don't you just go _home_?” Donna cried over the Pyroviles and their loud, guttural roars.

  
“The Heaven of Pyrovillia is gone,” Lucius told them.

  
“What do you mean, gone? Where's it gone?” demanded the Time Lord between them.

  
“It was taken. Pyrovillia is lost. But there is heat enough in this world for a new species to rise.”

  
“Yeah, I should warn you,” the Doctor said simply, “it's seventy percent water out there.”

  
“Water can boil. And _everything_ will burn, Doctor,” snarled the soothsayer victoriously, like he was spearheading a war he'd already won.

Hartley felt the change in the Doctor's emotions as clearly as she could her own. Grim acceptance flooded him, and she watched as he nodded in understanding. “Then the whole planet is at stake. Thank you. That's all I needed to know. Girls,” he said, turning and ushering them into the pod behind them, then sealing the door shut with the sonic.

There was a beat of silence as all three friends took a deep breath in and turned to assess the intricate panelling of circuits before them. “Could we be any more trapped?” huffed Donna, and Hartley had to agree.

“Where can we go?” she asked the Doctor, giving the small space another glance. There didn't seem to see anything that could help, but that didn't mean much – she could barely use a television remote. This really was the Doctor's area of expertise, and she turned to him hopefully.

Only he was silent, staring at the circuits with wild eyes.

The temperature in the pod skyrocketed. It felt like they were in an oven, cooking on high. Fear thrummed through her – she would be fine, she always was, even when she sometimes desperately wished she wouldn't be.

The Doctor and Donna, on the other hand, were anything but impervious to flames. If they stood there much longer, they'd cook from the inside out. And Hartley would be damned if she was going to stand there and watch it happen.

She felt the Doctor's indecision, felt his pain like it were her own, and tears came unbidden to her eyes.

  
“Little bit hot,” Donna murmured, the understatement of the year, fanning herself with her hand.

  
“See?” the Doctor said, distracted as he fiddled with the controls. “The energy converter takes the lava, uses the power to create a fusion matrix, which welds Pyrovile to human. Now it's complete, they can convert millions,” he breathed in horror.

  
“But can't you change it with these controls?”

Pain reappeared, like a white hot poker on her heart, only it wasn't her own. The pain wasn't hers to feel, but she did anyway.

  
“Of course I can, but don't you see?” the Doctor snarled, glaring at the circuits like they were at fault. “ _That's_ why the soothsayers can't see the volcano. There _is_ no volcano. Vesuvius is never going to erupt. The Pyrovile are stealing all its power. They're going to use it to take over the world.”

Donna hadn't realised yet, Hartley could tell. She, on the other hand, understood with a sinking gut exactly what it was the Doctor was saying. It was an impossible choice, one she knew would haunt her Time Lord for the rest of his days.

  
“But you can change it back?” Donna ploughed ahead, not seeing the problem.

  
The Doctor gave a sharp exhale of frustration. “I can invert the system, set off the volcano, and blow them up, yes. But, that's the choice, Donna. It's Pompeii or the world.”

  
Donna looked sick to her stomach. “Oh, my God,” she breathed, tears in her eyes.

  
“If Pompeii is destroyed then it's not just history, it's _me,_ ” the Doctor said, horrified and guilty before he'd even done anything. He'd already made his choice, he just didn't want to admit it. “I make it happen,” he whispered, ashamed.

Hartley felt like she couldn't move, frozen with horror. The Doctor was moving quickly, setting about manipulating the controls, making it so they could do this, so they could destroy the Pyroviles – and take Pompeii with them.

  
“Doctor, the Pyrovile are made of rocks. Maybe they _can't_ be blown up,” Donna cried, scrambling for something, anything that might get them out of this terrible decision.

  
“Vesuvius explodes with the force of twenty four nuclear bombs. Nothing can survive it.” He paused, turning back to Donna with regretful eyes. “Certainly not us.”

  
Donna swallowed, the reality of the situation taking her by surprise. “Never mind us,” she said, sincere and full of unyielding acceptance.

They Doctor swallowed, then placed his hands on the lever in the middle of the controls. “Push this lever and it's over,” he said weakly, eyes misty and distant. “Twenty thousand people,” he murmured, self-hatred like a fire under his skin.

“Doctor,” Hartley said, unable to keep silent any longer. He turned, _finally_ looking at her. The pain and remorse he was feeling hit her front on, like a wave of emotion, and her eyes stung. She stepped closer, reaching up to press a hand to his face. He stared down at her with watering eyes, and she brushed the pad of her thumb tenderly over his cheekbone.

A tear finally escaped her eye, realising what this meant. If they couldn't survive it, then they _couldn't survive it_. Worse still, _she_ would.

“I don't want to go on without you,” she whispered, more of a revelation than a plea.

“You'll be okay,” he smiled gently, eyes following the path of another tear as it trickled down her face. “You're the king of okay,” he reminded her in a futile attempt at levity.

“There is no decision we can make that doesn't come with some sort of balance or sacrifice,” she reminded him breathily. He nodded, understanding what she was trying to say.

She gripped his face tighter, refusing to so much as blink as she stared up at him, wrestling with herself. She was being forced to let him go. She felt like he was being torn from her grasp. She knew she could survive anything – but in the back of her mind, she had to wonder whether this was the one thing in the universe she _wouldn't_ survive: losing the Doctor.

“I have to do this now, Hart,” he whispered, regret in his voice and remorse flowing from his skin.

She wanted to say it, those three words that held such power, but she wasn't ready – and now she never would be. Saying them felt so final, saying them made it _real._ But she was an Empath, and she didn't need words to let someone know how she felt.

Pushing herself up onto her toes, she quickly pressed their lips together in a chaste but heartfelt kiss. With everything she had, she pushed those feelings at him, letting him know exactly how she felt, exactly what she couldn't bring herself to say.

It was over as soon as it had begun, and she forced herself to pull away. With a sniffle, she turned to the lever and wrapped her hands around the Doctor's where they lay, ready to end it all. Donna's hands were there too, already prepared to help, so the Doctor wasn't doing it alone.

As one, the trio took a deep breath, and then they pushed.

It happened so quickly. One moment they were steady, the next the pod was being tossed around like a tennis ball. They all fell to one side and Hartley's shoulder smashed into the side of the pod. Pain radiated down her arm but she ignored it, putting her energy into steadying the others.

Her stomach disappeared from under her, giving a swoop like she were on the most wild rollercoaster of all time, and the pod got even hotter, like they were mere metres away from the sun itself. Donna screamed, loud and piercing.

They seemed to be moving and dropping and cooking for hours, but in reality it was probably only a few seconds. Then they hit something with enough force to knock them all together like bowling pins.

Everything was still, then the Doctor opened the hatch and toppled out onto the soil. “It was an escape pod,” he breathed, reaching in to fish both of them out before turning to survey the damage.

Hartley didn't want to look up, but she knew it would only delay the inevitable. With great reluctance she glanced up to see Vesuvius exploding with terrifying force, like an atomic bomb going off in her backyard.

“Come on!” the Doctor yelled over the angry rumbling of the volcano. He grasped Hartley's hand, holding on tightly and tugging. Hartley grabbed onto Donna, and together they ran, pushing themselves faster than they'd ever gone, fighting to stay ahead of the wave of sulphur and rock and ash that was rolling towards them like the first wave of a deadly tsunami.

The town was in a chaos, every single person crying and screaming with unadulterated terror. Hartley couldn't stop to look. She couldn't spare even a moment to meet anybody's eyes. All she could do was run, pushing her legs harder, picturing the safety of the TARDIS in her mind.

They would get there. They would be okay. They would survive.

“Don't go to the beach! Don't go to the beach, go to the hills! Listen to me! Don't go to the beach, it's not safe! _Listen to me_!” Donna was screeching into the bedlam, imploring them, begging them to just listen. Hartley whimpered, spotting a boy who couldn't have been more than five crying all alone.

Ash fell from the sky like a lethal snow. It was getting hard to breathe, the air toxic and thick.

“Come on!” the Doctor yelled to Donna, grasping her arm and forcefully dragging her back in the direction of the villa.

Glass shattered as clumps of rock fell from the sky. The roads were overflowing with the panicking dead. Hartley thought it couldn't get any worse, but then they burst into the villa to see Caecilius and his family cowering in a corner, the father's arms wrapped around his children like he might be able to protect them if he just held on tight enough.

  
“Gods save us, Doctor!” the man shouted, tears of terror in his eyes.

The Doctor didn't listen, turning and heading straight for the TARDIS, shoving his way inside. Hartley felt frozen, staring at the kind little family all scared out of their minds, living through what, to them, was the end of the world.

Donna's words from earlier echoed in her mind, haunting her waking thoughts.

  
“No! Doctor, you _can't_. Doctor!” Donna screamed after the Time Lord brokenly, but the TARDIS only gave a groan as he began to leave. Torn in two, Hartley sobbed. “Hart – you have to stop him!” Donna pleaded with her.

“Donna-”

“You have to!” she cried, tears making clear paths in the ash on her face. “You _have_ to!”

And Hartley knew she was right. This wasn't who she was. She wasn't the one who stood idly by and let people die. She wasn't the one who abided by the Doctor's unfair rules.

With renewed resolve, Hartley shoved her way into the TARDIS, Donna close on her heels. “You take this back, _right now_!” Hartley screamed at the Doctor. She felt rather like someone had scooped out her insides and used them as kindling.

It was like she was watching this as an observer. It wasn't her making these decisions, or shouting at the Doctor. It was who she was meant to be, maybe, or who she was going to be one day. She didn't often stand up to him, but Donna was right; this was her purpose. This was who she was.

“Hartley-” the Doctor began in a dark, detached voice, not so much as glancing up from the console.

“You can't just _leave_ them!” Donna yelled, the doors closing behind her and the floor of the TARDIS shuddering as it dematerialised.

  
“Don't you think I've done enough?” the Doctor snarled, patience chipped away to nothing. “History's back in place and everyone dies.”

  
“You've got to go back. Doctor, I am telling you, _take this thing back!_ ” Donna yelled forcefully, more tears streaming down her face. The Doctor only yanked on a lever to send them into the vortex, the ship giving a lurch that went ignored by all.

“This isn't you,” Hartley said, voice darker than it had ever been, giving the Doctor pause.. “This isn't you, this isn't right, and this _isn't fair_!” she felt like she were screaming it into the void, another tear escaping down her ash-smeared face. She felt the pain like a bullet being slowly driven, inch by inch, into her heart.

“You're right Hartley!” the Doctor hissed, spinning around to glare at her, radiating self-loathing. “It's _not_ fair!”

They collapsed into silence, and Donna whimpered. “But your own planet,” she cried, voice trembling. “It burned.”

  
Something in the Doctor snapped, and he whirled around to glower at her, pain seeping out of his very pores. This time it was Hartley who whimpered, arms coming up to wrap around herself, a weak comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

“That's just it. Don't you see, Donna? Can't you understand?” the Doctor snarled. More tears trickled down the length of Hartley's face, mixing with the blood she still hadn't completely washed off. “If I could go back and save them, then I _would_. But I can't. I can never go back. I can't. I just _can't._ ”

He looked away, unable to handle the weight of their stares, unable to handle his own agony.

  
“Just someone,” Donna whispered. “Please. Not the whole town. Just save _someone,_ ” she begged him.

His resolve wavered, looking up at his friends with tortured eyes. His gaze flickered between them, taking in the pleading of Donna to the unending compassion of Hartley. “Please,” Hartley whimpered, “ _please_ , be the man I know you are.”

The Doctor didn't speak for a long while. He said nothing, just turning back to the console and beginning to work the controls. Nothing happened for a minute, and they wondered if they hadn't gotten through to him at all, if he was just going to fly away like all of this meant nothing.

But then they landed and the Doctor walked silently down the ramp, opening the door and letting in the chaos of the dying Pompeii.

“Come with me,” he said, and relief filled Hartley like the breaking of a dam. Her knees nearly buckled but she caught herself on the console in time, watching with wet eyes as the family of four were brought aboard the TARDIS.

They didn't spare time to marvel at the bigger-on-the-inside box, they didn't have the emotional capacity to even notice. Everything they knew was burning and all they could do was stand there, reeling from the shock as the Doctor piloted his ship, taking them away from the death of Pompeii.

The Doctor landed the ship only a moment later, and he gently manoeuvred the family further into the TARDIS, murmuring something about Donna taking them to clean up. Hartley didn't follow, her legs feeling frozen beneath her. Holding herself up on the console, she stared into empty space, the inside of her mind so loud she couldn't focus on one single thought. It was all just a blur, eyes stinging with emotion.

“Hartley.” She wasn't sure how much time had passed – either hours or seconds – but then the Doctor was standing in front of her, a damp cloth in his hand. “Hartley,” he repeated when she didn't reply.

“Doctor,” she said instinctively, feeling strangely numb from the whole experience as she moved her eyes away from nothing so she was staring back at him. He was no longer bleeding pain, but instead a calm reassurance – one she didn't doubt was intentional. Still, she appreciated the effort.

“You're still covered in blood,” he told her quietly, stepping closer and slowly bringing the cloth to her face.

She flinched away from his touch and pain clouded his eyes, sharp and intense, before it disappeared, replaced by warm understanding. It wasn't him; it was her PTSD. Nothing like a natural disaster to bring back the memories of nearly losing everything near and dear to her heart.

“You're okay,” he promised her.

But that wasn't enough. It wasn't right. “But twenty-thousand other people aren't,” she said cooly. The Doctor's expression twisted again.

“Come on,” he said, rather than indulge that avenue of thought, “let me clean this blood off.” She didn't feel like being touched, but she still leaned forwards and let him gently clean off the blood coating her face. “How?” he asked after a few minutes of tender, methodical cleaning.

“A Sister's hand to the nose,” she replied factually. “I've had worse,” she added in an attempt at conversation, “at least I didn't die this time.”

He was careful not to react. “Neither did I,” he told her with a tiny smile. “That's always a plus.”

She didn't hesitate to push the cloth away and throw her arms around him, bringing him into a tight embrace. He still didn't smell like himself, but rather of ash and sulphur, so she stopped breathing him in and simply held him. His arms wrapped tightly around her middle, clutching her to him like he were just as desperate for the contact.

“I was so scared,” she said into his neck, where her head was soundly buried.

“So was I,” he confessed quietly, the words just for her. He buried his nose in her hair, breathing her in despite the ash that clung to her like snowflakes in winter.

“If anything had happened to you-”

“But it didn't-”

“But if it _did_ -”

“Hartley,” he said, reluctantly pulled away, bringing his hands up to cup her face. “We're all fine. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.”

“Do you promise?” she whispered, feeling like a silly child as she did. But it didn't matter; in that moment she needed reassurance more than she needed her dignity.

He ducked down to catch her eyes, and when their stares met she saw his eyes were shining with sincerity. “I promise.”

She swallowed around the lump in her throat and nodded, pretending for one blissful moment that it was something he had the ability to control. That he'd never leave her. Ever.

She wanted to tell him how she felt, but found she couldn't say the words, couldn't even _think_ the words. So she just pressed her forehead against her Doctor's chest, right between where his twin hearts beat, and pushed emotion through the contact again.

His grip on her tightened and he buried his face in her hair once more, soaking up the feeling neither were ready to put into words.

“I know,” he whispered, but she wasn't totally sure he did.

“We interrupting?” Donna's voice asked, a note of levity to it that surprised her.

The Doctor squeezed her one final time before pulling away, and she was quick to dry what remained of her tears before turning to the others. Donna, along with Caecilius and his family, stood in the doorway, the soot and ash now missing from their faces.

“Come on,” said the Doctor. “I think there's something you should see.”

Pompeii was nothing more than a pit of shadowed rock and bubbling lava as they stood watch over its demise. Caecilius and his family stood and watched with tearful eyes. Hartley stood beside the Doctor, watching on with wracking guilt contrasted by a grim acceptance.

This was history. What had happened here today was what was always meant to have happened. That's what she would tell herself in years to come, late at night when the horrors of this day kept her awake. She would tell herself they made the right choice. And some days she believed it.

“It's never forgotten, Caecilius,” the Doctor spoke after a long time of nothing but contemplative silence. “Oh, time will pass, men will move on, and stories will fade. But one day, Pompeii will be found again. In thousands of years. And everyone will remember you.”

Donna moved forwards, edging closer to Evelina. “What about you, Evelina?” she asked gently. “Can you see anything?”

  
“The visions have gone,” Evelina said honestly, voice still trembling with a grief for her lost people that maybe none except the Doctor could ever share.

  
“The explosion was so powerful it cracked open a rift in time, just for a second. That's what gave you the gift of prophecy. It echoed back into the Pyrovillian alternative,” the Doctor explained quietly, a small smile on his face. “But not any more. You're free.”

She looked like, in another life, that might have made her smile.

  
“But tell me. Who are you, Doctor?” asked Metella in a shaking voice. “With your words, and your temple containing such size within?”

  
The Doctor's expression was grave. “Oh, I was never here,” he said mildly. “Don't tell anyone.”

Caecilius stepped forwards, eyeing the destruction below with undeniable awe. “The great god Vulcan must be enraged,” he said darkly, voice tinged with horror. “It's so volcanic. It's like some sort of... _volcano,_ ” he said. Although that fact that Hartley was there for the birth of a brand new word would ordinarily make her happy, she felt nothing but pain for this beautiful family, who had lost everything and everyone all in one terrible day. “All those people...” Caecilius trailed off sadly.

The Doctor was the first to move, tightening his grip of Hartley's hand and beginning to lead her back inside the TARDIS. Donna followed, eyes sad as she left the small family behind, stepping inside their magic box, the doors creaking shut after them, sealing them off from Pompeii forever.

  
The Doctor squeezed her hand one more time before letting Hartley go, shoving his hands deep into his pockets as he slowly circled the console, brow furrowed in thought.

“Thank you,” Donna said, barely a whisper.

The Doctor looked up but didn't meet her eyes.

  
“Yeah,” he said after a moment of weighty quiet. “You were right,” he added suddenly, surprising them both, “sometimes I need someone.”

He paused, considering as his eyes flickered over to Hartley, who was leant against the railing, watching him softly.

“And sometimes, you need someone too,” he told her, meeting her eyes and something passionate and loving in his whisky eyes, “to remind you who you are…especially when I can't.”

She smiled, eyes glittering, and the Doctor turned back to Donna with a more sincere grin.

“Welcome aboard,” he said warmly.

“Yeah,” Donna whispered, her stare wet with emotion, and the time rotor groaned as the Doctor did what he said he was going to do from the very start; and he took them far, far away.


	51. Truth and Honesty

“ _Find a place inside where there's joy, and the joy_

_will burn out the pain.”_

Joseph Campbell

* * *

“What's your favourite food?”

Donna jumped in surprise, spinning around from where she was towel-drying her hair to blink at Hartley in bewilderment. “You scared the daylights outta me,” she huffed. “I've still got water in my ears.”

“Sorry,” Hartley apologised. “Enjoy your swim?”

“The pool is heavenly,” Donna agreed, still rubbing at her hair. “Shame there's no natural light, though. I'd love a good sunbathe.”

“I'll mention it to the Doctor,” Hartley promised her. “We can go to Hawaii, or maybe Greece – catch some rays on a quiet beach.”

“Can it be somewhere with cocktails?”

Hartley smiled like Donna had cracked a joke. “Of course there'll be cocktails,” she said with a scoff, as if that was ever in question. “Go on,” she continued, leaning against the wall and watching Donna expectantly, “what's your favourite food?”

Donna frowned, confused. “Why?” she asked as she pulled a big, fluffy robe on over her swimsuit.

“Because I'm making dinner,” Hartley told her like it were obvious.

“You cook?”

“Some days,” she replied with a secretive little smile. “Go on, name it. Burgers? Salad? Fish? Pasta? By the way, are you gluten free?”

Donna was gobsmacked by the sudden onslaught of options, and she blinked at Hartley in surprise. “Why're you cooking, though?” she asked once she'd recovered. “Can't we just go to any restaurant in the universe? We don't even need to wait for reservations – we can just book one then pop ahead a few weeks to eat!”

But when Hartley got a disappointed sort of look on her face, Donna realised her mistake.

“But if you _want_ to cook, that's okay too,” she said quickly, suddenly feeling guilty for her thoughtless words.

Hartley wasn't convinced. “If you'd rather go out to eat...” she trailed off.

“No, no,” Donna quickly assured her. “I'd like to try your cooking. I've always been a fan of Italian,” she offered.

Hartley lit up, expression shining with light, and Donna knew she'd made the right call. “Okay, great,” said Hartley brightly. “Feel like a trip to Italy?”

Donna blinked. “Huh?”

Hartley laughed. “The TARDIS might be infinite, but believe it or not, there aren't any markets hidden on board,” she reminded her. “If we want fresh produce, we have to go get it ourselves.”

Donna was surprised by the information. “I guess I figured it'd have some kind of fancy food machine, where you just input what you wanted and it spat out some kind of meal,” she admitted.

“It does,” Hartley nodded, jerking her hand over her shoulder in what Donna assumed was the general direction of the machine. “But all the food it creates is horrible. You can _taste_ how manufactured it is,” she shuddered with disgust.

“Home-cooked it is, then.”

“Why don't you go get dressed, and we'll meet in the control room in twenty?” she suggested eagerly.

Donna smiled again, her excitability adorable. “Perfect.”

Donna took a quick shower to wash the salt out of her hair, then changed into comfortable clothes that still looked a little dressy – so Hartley knew she was making an effort.

When she got to the control room, Hartley was already sitting on the jump seat, her legs kicking underneath her as she snorted indelicately at something the Doctor had said. “What're you two gossiping about now?” Donna asked playfully as she made her way over to them.

“We – we're not _gossiping_ ,” the Doctor insisted, tugging at his tie with a grimace in her direction.

Hartley only laughed. “Come on,” she said to Donna, bounding off the jump seat and making a beeline for the doors. “The Doc's already landed us in the marketplace. It's one of my favourites – they have _the_ best tomatoes you will ever taste in your _life_.”

“That's some big talk,” Donna chuckled.

Hartley wagged her finger in Donna's face. “You'll see,” she sang, pulling open the door and stepping out into Italy. Donna fell silent as she joined her, barely aware of the Doctor sliding out after them and shutting the door with a quiet click.

Modern-day Italy stretched out before her. It was early in the morning, the sky a soft watercolour of oranges and pinks, the air nippy and crisp. They were in a modest marketplace, wooden stalls laid out in the nooks of a small alleyway. The air smelt of fruit, and produce and people stretched down the alley and around the bend.

Hartley wasted no time, making a beeline for the nearest stall, which held a variety of plump looking vegetables. “Ever been to Italy before?” the Doctor asked Donna as they followed leisurely behind.

“Never,” she replied. “Not unless you count Pompeii.”

It was still hard to think about, however slowly but surely her memories of that day a week or two ago in Pompeii were becoming less vivid; the pain and guilt receding into something like acceptance. It had happened, there was no changing that. There was only learning to live with it.

If the Doctor found it painful to remember, he didn't show it “Hartley loves it here,” he told her conversationally. “She'll tell you it's the culture, but it's mostly just the food,” he added with a sniff.

As Donna watched Hartley barter with the man behind the stall, something occurred to her. “Hang on, how're you paying for this? You don't have any money,” she said, admittedly a little accusatory. “Shouldn't we find an ATM or something?”

The Doctor shook his head, pointing to where Hartley was waving a slip of paper over a card reader. It beeped and the man handed over Hartley's bag of assorted produce.

“What's that?”

“Psychic paper,” he told her casually, following after Hartley who walked like a woman on a mission, heading for another stall, this one selling mushrooms. “Can trick almost anything, even machines.”

Her eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “You mean you're _stealing_ this stuff?”

He turned to stare at her, offended. “No!” he said vehemently. “It really does act like money. The people get what they're owed. We're not stealing anything.”

Donna's eyes narrowed. “How does that work?” she asked carefully. The Doctor opened his mouth to answer, but she quickly changed her mind. “Oh, never mind,” she huffed. “I'm just going to call it alien magic and be done with it.”

“What's alien magic?” Hartley had reappeared. Donna watched as the Doctor reached out to take her bags from her, as if it were instinct. Something about it was so simple and pure and _normal_ – like they were any other couple down at the markets – that Donna couldn't help but stare, especially when Hartley tilted her head back to shoot him a sunny smile in thanks.

“The psychic paper,” the Doctor answered her automatically.

Hartley's nose crinkled. “Yeah, I don't pretend to know how that works. I'm just thankful it does,” she said before leaning into the bags the Doctor now held, peering inside. Her lips moved silently as she went through her mental list. “Oh, we need more garlic,” she said suddenly, turning away and heading for a small stall at the very back of the marketplace.

Donna watched her go, thoughtful. “She seems happy,” she mused.

“She does, doesn't she?” the Doctor hummed, staring after Hartley with the kind of emotion in his eyes that Donna couldn't even begin to describe. She wondered, idly, what she would give to have someone look at _her_ that way. “For awhile there I thought I might never see it again...” he murmured, seeming to almost forget Donna was even there at all.

“What's that mean?” Donna asked, confused by the words.

The Doctor blinked back to himself, turning to look at her in surprise. “Oh, I just mean after, well, there was this _thing_ that happened…” he began to explain, an uncomfortable wince twisting at his face.

But Hartley reappeared before he could finish, and he promptly sealed his mouth shut tight. “I think that's everything,” the young immortal said, slipping the cloves of garlic into one of the bags. “We're good to go.”

Donna was alight with curiosity – what had happened that would cause Hartley so much pain the Doctor treated her happiness like a precious commodity? – but with Hartley hellbent on her mission to feed them the most authentic Italian meal ever made, there was no time. Donna got the feeling it wasn't the sort of thing the Doctor wanted to bring up while Hartley was there.

Hartley led them back to the TARDIS, unlocking the door with the key she always kept safe around her neck and waving them inside. “All right, it'll take about an hour to make,” she said as she shut the door behind them. “Go kill some time and meet me in the kitchen then,” she ordered lightly, already making her way into the depths of the TARDIS.

“Bossy,” Donna called after her.

Hartley poked her tongue out over her shoulder before disappearing entirely. Curiosity was still lit like a fire in her belly, and Donna turned to the Doctor to get him to finish explaining himself, only to find him heading after Hartley into the TARDIS.

“Oi!” she shouted after him. “Where're you going?”

“To kill some time!” he called back before he turned the corner and disappeared as well.

Lost and just a tiny bit miffed, Donna made her way to the entertainment room, deciding to watch some frivolous reality TV to pass the time. The Doctor didn't tend to like her watching things from her future; but he also wasn't around to tell her off for it, so she turned on a soap opera from the 31st century and lost herself in the fake lives of people from the distant future.

By the time she was making her way towards the kitchen/dining room an hour later she was starving, and the delicious smell wafting out the doors and down the TARDIS' corridors wasn't helping any.

She heard their voices before she reached them, Hartley and the Doctor talking lightly over the muted sounds of some old rock music playing from the jukebox in the far corner.

“Quit eating all the cherry tomatoes!” Hartley said, an unmistakable note of amusement ringing her voice.

“I can't help it,” the Doctor whined back. “They're so good. It's a testament to your cooking skills – honestly.”

“I haven't even done anything to them,” she replied, exasperated.

“...You cut them with love?”

Hartley's ensuing laughter rang out loud and clear.

Donna stepped into the kitchen to catch sight of the pair, both stood at the kitchen counter with their backs to her. The Doctor was hovering over Hartley's shoulder, one hand pressed innocently to her waist and his head bent over the skin exposed by her loose woollen jumper. Hartley was humming along with the music, and the moment suddenly seemed so personal, so tender, that Donna felt guilty for intruding.

Before she could clear her throat to announce her presence, she accidentally ran into one of the chairs at the table. It made a loud sound, its feet scraping noisily against the floor.

Hartley suddenly let out a yelp, flinching away from the Doctor as if he'd burned her, hands coming up to cover her face like it were some kind of deep-seated instinct.

The sound had been jarring, certainly, but Donna was shocked by the force of her friend's reaction.

Hartley quickly lowered her hands, glancing over at Donna sheepishly. “Oh, Donna,” she said, pressing a hand over her heart, which was probably racing from the fright. “You scared me.”

“Did I? I couldn't tell,” said Donna with playful sarcasm. But to her surprise, neither Hartley nor the Doctor cracked so much as a smile. “S'everything all right?” she asked carefully, getting the feeling she'd done something wrong, but having no idea what.

The Doctor turned around with a grin too large to be sincere. “Hartley's been slaving over this Casarecce for hours,” he said as though nothing odd had even happened. Donna got the feeling it had something to do with whatever the Doctor had been alluding to in the marketplace earlier. “So, you'd better like it,” he finished teasingly.

“It's only been _one_ hour, Doc,” Hartley rolled her eyes. “For a Time Lord, he's ironically not very good at judging time,” she added over her shoulder.

Donna could tell they wanted to sweep the incident under the rug. She didn't agree, but she'd let it go – for now. “What's Casarecce?” she asked instead, taking a seat at the table.

“Just a kind of pasta,” Hartley told her as she began to dish out their food. Breathing deeply, Donna took in the combined smells of the tomatoes, herbs and cheeses that Hartley had used in her recipe. It was downright intoxicating. “You want some wine?” Hartley offered, producing a bottle of aged red wine and holding it out for Donna to inspect.

“Oh, go on then,” she said, and Hartley smiled as she poured two glasses. Donna was confused when she got out some kind of fizzy drink as well, pouring that for the Doctor instead without him so much as saying a word.

She wondered how often they did this, that they would have such a routine. If it wouldn't have made the Doctor balk, she might have commented on how _domestic_ it seemed.

“Not a fan of wine?” she asked him instead as Hartley took a seat on the Doctor's other side.

“Nah,” the Doctor replied, already picking up his fork and spearing some pasta with an eager grin. “Why would you want wine when you can have Sprite?” he asked, like the question was one that genuinely puzzled him.

Donna snorted indelicately while Hartley gave a smile that was like a crackling fire on a cold winter's day; warm and full of life. It was aimed at the Doctor, fondness sparkling in her eyes.

“Well? Dig in,” Hartley prompted her suddenly, and Donna realised she'd been ignoring the bowl of Casarecce on the table before her in favour of staring at Hartley like an idiot.

She quickly took a bite, the moan spilling from her lips surprising even herself. “Wow,” she murmured, looking up at Hartley with wide eyes. “It's good!”

Hartley laughed. “Why do you sound so surprised?” she asked playfully as she speared her own pasta, eating with a smile on her face.

“Dunno. Shouldn't surprise me you're so good at cooking; you're certainly the type.”

Hartley looked like she didn't know whether to be flattered or insulted. In the end she just rolled her eyes and returned her attention to her food.

“So,” began the Doctor as they ate. “Where do we want to go next?!”

Hartley swallowed her mouthful so she could laugh. Donna eyed him thoughtfully. “Always moving, aren't you?” she mused.

“Sitting still is so dull,” he explained. “There's just so much to see! Do you feel like swimming? There's a planet in the Jagmar system that's got the most waterparks in the universe. I once spent three weeks there! Of course, that was only because I got lost. Some of their waterslides go on for miles; I got a little turned around.”

He continued to ramble, using large hand gestures around his bites of food. But Donna wasn't watching him; she was watching Hartley, who stared at the Doctor with her shin propped up on her fist, doe eyes wide and adoring. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Donna once again wished she had someone to look at her like that, but those thoughts evaporated as the Doctor drew her attention.

“And _that's_ why you should always remember to eat your ice cream before it melts – that park _still_ has me on a lifetime ban,” he muttered, a tiny bit bitter, and Donna blinked at him in bewilderment. Where had the story gone while she hadn't been paying attention?

Hartley seemed to have had no trouble following his onslaught of words, smiling fondly to herself as she daintily chewed and swallowed her mouthful. Donna wondered if this was usual for them.

She'd assumed it was all non-stop adventure. Donna hadn't really stopped to wonder what happened _between_ all the trouble. These quiet moments, they were like an insight into another world; one she desperately wanted to become a part of. She figured the best place to start was by participating in conversations, rather than spending them all staring at the pair like they were an exhibit at the zoo.

“Well, I've always wanted to meet Beethoven,” she said as she took a generous sip of wine. It was tart on her tongue in the way that told her it was expensive. She didn't bother to ask where they got it from; knowing the answer was probably just as outlandish as any other story they had.

“But I've already met him,” the Doctor whined.

Donna was unconcerned by his whines. “So you can introduce us, then,” she shrugged.

The Doctor pouted and Hartley smiled again, reaching out absentmindedly to squeeze his hand. The movement was easy and thoughtless, like it were something they spent all day long doing.

“How long have you two been together?” Donna was asking before she'd realised what she was doing. The question had come unbidden to her lips, but once it was spoken she realised it was something she'd wondered for awhile now.

Both Hartley and the Doctor looked up at her in surprise, and she felt the need to elaborate.

“What I mean is – first time we met, you two were just friends,” she said clearly, eyes flickering between them thoughtfully. “Now it's clear you're more. When did that happen?”

The Doctor hesitated, looking over at Hartley, a little panicked. From what Donna knew of him, he wasn't exactly the kind to gush about his relationship – that was far too _human_ for someone like him. Hartley smiled and took the reins, which was probably for the best.

“Only a couple of weeks, actually,” she answered the question easily.

Donna blinked. “Only two weeks?”

Hartley smiled again. “That surprises you?”

“It's just...” Donna trailed off, struggling to put words to her thoughts.

Hartley waited patiently for her to figure it out while the Doctor just obliviously scoffed down his meal like a starving man seeing food for the first time in months. Donna thought idly that it was rather strange, seeing the Doctor eat. He seemed so otherworldly, it was easy to forget he did something so mundane.

“Looking at you, it seems longer,” Donna finally told her. “My mum has this friend, Sarah, and she's been with her husband, Andy, for over twenty years now. They come over for dinner whenever they're in the city and I look at them … and they're happy together … in love, I s'pose, but…”

Hartley cocked her head, still patiently letting Donna gather her thoughts.

Donna wanted to say that it was like her friend's relationship paled in comparison to the connection Hartley and the Doctor shared. That they made her want to believe in love again; even after everything that happened with Lance last Christmas.

But it was so sappy to say, and she knew the Doctor would only roll his eyes and get all uncomfortable. So instead she smiled and left the words unsaid.

“I'm just really glad you two are so happy,” she settled for saying.

Donna could tell Hartley knew there was more, but she was nothing if not polite. She gave a soft but blinding smile, lifting her glass and taking a sip. The brightness of her smile made Donna pause, remembering what the Doctor had alluded to earlier.

Curiosity reared its head within her, and as if someone had removed her filter entirely, she blurted, “can I ask what happened?”

The Doctor looked up from where he'd been practically inhaling his food. Hartley lowered her fork, confused. “What happened?” she echoed cluelessly.

The Doctor seemed to sense where she was going with this, and he opened his eyes wide as if to tell her 'warning, do not proceed'. But Donna was stubborn to a fault, and she wanted to know exactly what it was she was meant to be avoiding.

“Something bad happened to you before we found each other at Adipose,” she said, laying out what little she'd managed to glean since coming aboard the TARDIS.

Hartley didn't seem to react badly, as such. There was just a slight tightening of her eyes and she lowered her fork, putting it back in her bowl and pushing the whole thing away from her like she'd suddenly lost her appetite. The Doctor was frowning down at the table, but Donna couldn't have even begun to describe the look on his face.

She felt a little bad for bringing it up, but her curiosity outweighed her guilt. As far as she was concerned, she had a right to know.

Hartley looked over at the Doctor who tore his stare from the table to look over at her with sad eyes. She nodded once, a forced smile on her face as they communicated in that silent way only the closest of partners ever could, before she turned back to Donna bracingly.

“It's a long story,” she began in warning.

“It's a big meal,” Donna replied, picking up her fork and eating some more of the pasta.

This time it was Hartley who needed time to gather her thoughts. When she finally knew how to explain she began to talk, voice low and trembling. Despite the fear in her voice, her chin was tilted up bravely, like she were trying to prove something to someone. Donna wondered who that was.

And then she told the tale of the Master and his Year That Never Was. Donna didn't interrupt, she just slowly ate the food that became tasteless in her mouth as she listened.

“You're telling me there was a whole year the world just forgot?” she finally asked once Hartley had finished speaking, watching as she toyed with her food, her appetite evaporated into nothing. “A year where nearly every human on Earth was killed by a rogue, psychotic Time Lord?”

“Well, it never happened, now,” said the Doctor like it were that simple.

To Donna, it was anything _but_ simple. She didn't understand, exactly, how an entire year could be wiped from existence, but she was doing her best to keep up. She glanced over at Hartley whose eyes held a shadow of pain.

“But, what were you doing in this year?” Donna asked, confused about the agony in her friend's expression. Because she'd explained what had happened; who the Master had been and what he'd done to the Earth, but she hadn't explained what _she'd_ done during that time. She'd glossed over it like it wasn't important to the story. Donna couldn't help but think it was.

Hartley shrugged like it were inconsequential, but Donna could see in the Doctor's old eyes that it was anything but. “I was there, in the heart of the storm, with the Doctor and Jack,” she said quietly, toying absently with what remained of her food.

“Doing what?” Donna pressed stubbornly.

“Donna, maybe we should-” the Doctor began to say, but Hartley reached out and grasped the hand that sat limply on the table. He looked over at her, watched as she slowly shook her head, telling him without words that she was all right; that she could do this.

Donna found her brave, even without knowing what she was being brave about.

“The Master kept me in a room,” she began slowly, gripping the Doctor's hand so tightly her knuckles went white. Donna pretended not to notice. “An entire year, I never saw the sky, or the earth, or any face other than his.”

Donna's insides swooped, and Hartley smiled sadly, like she knew the exactly what Donna was feeling. She did that a lot, Donna found, reacted to something that hadn't happened out loud. Like she knew Donna's thoughts and feelings – almost before she did herself.

“What did he do to you?” Donna asked, voice a mere whisper, like anything louder might shatter her fragile friend into nothing. Looking at her now, it didn't seem such a ridiculous concern.

Hartley looked away, carefully chewing on her words. Donna wondered what could be so bad that she couldn't just say it, and then changed her mind. She didn't need to wonder, not really, and suddenly she wasn't sure she wanted to be told at all. But Hartley spoke anyway, eyes glassy and distant, like she weren't seeing them and the TARDIS' large kitchen but rather something else that no one else could.

“He beat me, mostly,” she revealed in a faraway voice. Donna got the feeling she wasn't there with them, but rather in the difficult past, reliving something she should never have to. Donna suddenly regretted asking anything at all, thinking that maybe some things should stay buried. “He just came in, taunted me day after day. Asked me to tell him things about the Doctor and our life together; got violent when I didn't. He was fascinated by the way I couldn't die. Said he wanted to try to kill me every way possible, just as an experiment...” she trailed off distantly.

By now Donna's throat was tight with emotion. “Hart...” she whispered, pain and horror warring in her chest. “I can't even...”

“The dying wasn't so bad,” Hartley continued like Donna had never spoken. “It became a sort of relief from the pain. The worst part was the things he said; the things he told me he was doing to my friends, or to the planet, or would do to the universe. I think I became sort of like his personal diary...”

She shook her head suddenly, as if coming out of a stupor. She finally met Donna's eyes again, a weak smile flickering to life on her face.

“Coming out of that room was harder than going into it,” she confessed. “He stripped me bare in there. Made me feel like I wasn't a person anymore. Becoming human again … it took some time.”

“But you got there in the end,” said the Doctor, soft and tender in a way Donna had never seen. He gripped Hartley's hand, looking at her like she were everything, and Donna thought that in that moment, she really was, to him.

As if suddenly realising he were gazing at Hartley like an idiot, he turned to look at Donna, sniffing indelicately.

“She has violent reactions to some things; sudden loud noises, small spaces, emotions she senses,” he explained, glancing back at her. “But she's getting better every day,” he said proudly.

Hartley smiled, but it was weak at best.

“What d'you mean 'emotions she senses'?” Donna asked, confused by the statement.

“I'm an Empath,” Hartley confessed, seeming to have recovered somewhat from her stupor. Donna could see the Doctor was right; she was getting better every day. “I can sense and manipulate emotion,” she told Donna carefully, as if scared about how she might react.

“You can?” Donna blinked. As if being immortal wasn't enough for the poor woman to handle, she thought wryly.

Hartley's cheeks were a little bit pink as she nodded. “I can't really control it – especially after that whole year being locked away from other humans. I don't mean it to be an invasion of your privacy-”

“Hart,” Donna smiled. “Calm down. It's okay.” Hartley fell silent, sheepish. “I don't mind you knowing how I feel. If there was one person in the universe I'd pick to know, it'd be you.”

Hartley smiled back, expression growing more genuine the longer she held it there. “You wear your heart on your sleeve anyway,” she admitted. “There's not much you feel that you don't show.”

Donna shrugged. “Nothing worth hiding.”

Hartley was quiet a moment, watching as Donna ate some more of her cooling pasta. “I don't want you to treat me like I'm fragile, now,” she said suddenly. “I'm still exactly the same,” she added, like she were trying to convince herself. And Donna thought that was rather sad.

“I won't, Hart,” she swore. “Honest.”

They finished up dinner, and Donna immediately got up to clean up. It said a lot about the toll the conversation had taken on Hartley that she didn't even complain.

“I think I'll head to bed,” Hartley said after draining the last of her wine. “Thanks for eating with me.”

“Thanks for cooking,” Donna replied from her spot at the sink. “I wouldn't complain if this became a regular thing,” she added playfully.

“Dinner: yes. The conversation: not so much,” Hartley replied, and Donna was rather surprised she could joke about it. Then she felt bad for underestimating Hartley. She was strong in every other aspect of her life; why should this be any different?

“Do you want me to walk you to your room?” the Doctor offered.

“Nah,” said Hartley, and Donna politely looked away when she leaned in to casually brush their lips together. “I'll be fine, Doc. See you in the morning – let's set it to random; see what happens?”

“But you don't even like random!” the Doctor argued, as if suddenly suspicious his human had been kidnapped and replaced by a convincing copy.

“I can be convinced,” she replied lightly, giving him another gentle kiss before standing to her feet, moving to Donna and squeezing her shoulder in farewell. Donna waved a soapy hand in reply and then Hartley disappeared out the door, leaving Donna and the Doctor in a weighty silence.

Donna kept washing the dishes, frown creasing her brow as she considered all her friends had just told her.

“It means a lot that she told you all that,” said the Doctor, and Donna glanced over her shoulder to see him approaching, the last of their dishes in his hands. He put them in the sink with the others and swiped up the clean dishtowel from where it lay over the oven handle. He began taking the dishes she'd washed, drying them and putting them back in their cupboards.

“You'd think a box this fancy would at least have a dishwasher,” complained Donna.

The Doctor smiled like she'd said something adorable. “Hartley likes doing them by hand,” he explained, and that certainly explained the expression.

“What, so you didn't have one installed?” she asked sarcastically.

“So the TARDIS took it out of the kitchen,” he replied with a shrug. “It's always been particularly fond of her, seeing as she was born on board.”

Donna nearly dropped the wine glass she was washing. “She what?”

“It's a long story,” he waved her off.

“You've known her _since_ she was _born_?” Donna gasped, staring at him, aghast. “Way to be a creep! One minute she's a kid and the next you're gazing at her like you wanna rip off her clothes and go at it on the TARDIS console?” she squawked.

Now the Doctor looked especially uncomfortable. “Blimey, Donna,” he huffed. “No, I met her when she was twenty-five, and it was only recently we discovered she was born on the TARDIS.”

Donna was only more confused. “How the bloody hell is that meant to work?” she demanded.

He sighed the sigh of a troubled man. “Wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey,” he muttered, and Donna decided it was just best not to ask. “I meant what I said,” he continued, and she looked up from the plate she was scrubbing, eyebrows raised. “It really does mean a lot that she was so honest with you about all this.”

“I figure it's not something she finds easy to talk about,” she said thoughtfully, handing him the plate and reaching for the last glass.

“It isn't,” he agreed. “It causes her a lot of pain.”

A question weighed on Donna's mind, persistent and annoying, and she knew she had to ask. “How does she cope?” she wondered.

The Doctor's shoulders slumped, and when she looked at him Donna saw a man much older than he looked – he suddenly seemed almost as old as he claimed to be. It was all in the eyes, she thought, so ancient and unfathomably deep.

“I suppose she copes with it the same way I always have,” he murmured, glancing up to meet Donna's eyes. “She runs; as far and as fast as she can.”

Donna frowned. “That doesn't sound healthy.”

“It's as healthy as it gets,” he argued. “Moving forwards? Plunging yourself headfirst into the future? What else is she meant to do: sit and stew in memories of her past?”

Donna thought she understood the both of them a little better, just with that one sentence. She saw them clearly now, for all they were. So similar, yet their own people entirely. They really were made for one another.

“It's healthy to move forwards,” she allowed. “But I think she needs to deal with her past properly if she ever wants to _truly_ move on.”

And she could tell the Doctor knew she had a point, even if he didn't say it out loud.

“Thanks for coming with us, Donna,” he said instead. After letting the soapy water out of the sink, she look up at him in surprise. “You were right that night we first met. We need someone else.”

Donna smiled. “Well, it wasn't entirely a selfless act for me, y'know?”

“I know you didn't come find us just for our sakes,” he assured her. “Who can blame you for wanting to see the stars? It just works out well. You're exactly what Hartley needs right now.”

“I am?”

“She needs a friend who isn't me,” he admitted. “Someone she can talk to about these things.”

And Donna understood. She wasn't complaining about that when she asked, “Why can't it be you?”

The Doctor winced. “Because the Master was _my_ friend,” he confessed, the words weighty in a way she hadn't expected. “And in the end, I was the one who forgave him – even after everything he did to her.” He shuddered in something she thought might have been self-hatred, but she couldn't say for sure.

“There was more to it, wasn't there?” she asked, barely even a whisper, the thought almost too horrible to voice. “More that she isn't saying?”

The Doctor shut his eyes and looked away. “I don't know,” he told her. “If there is, she won't tell me.”

Donna sucked in a breath. “Do you think it's possible?”

The Doctor sighed. “I wish I could say no and be certain,” he said, and she supposed that was answer enough.

The look on his face was dark, like a bank of oncoming storm clouds bringing the promise of thunder and chaos. She could tell that if she didn't try to dig him out of the hole he was sinking into, it might very well swallow him entirely.

“Wanna go play some chess?” she offered, because she could tell it was the sort of thing he enjoyed.

The Doctor glanced up from where he'd been frowning at the floor, surprise in his eyes. “You don't play chess,” he said, even though she couldn't remember ever telling him that before. If things hadn't been so tense, she might have been offended by the assumption. Besides, it was true.

“Well, I've always wanted to learn,” she told him, a lie, but a white one, so it didn't count. “You could teach me.”

And then the Doctor smiled, shaking his head in exasperation. “I'll do my best,” he said slyly, and she gave an indignant squawk that made him laugh.

And she knew then, without question, that this was exactly where she was meant to be. In the TARDIS with the Doctor and Hartley. And it was where she was going to stay for the rest of her days.


	52. Planet of the Ood

“ _The two most powerful warriors are_

_patience and time.”_

Leo Tolstoy

* * *

“Set the controls to random. Mystery tour!” the Doctor crowed once they'd finally stopped flopping about inside the TARDIS, the trip just as violent as always. “Outside that door could be any planet, anywhere, any-when in the whole wide un–are you all right?” he asked, noting the look on Donna's face. She looked like she might have been about to be sick.

  
“Terrified,” she admitted cheerfully. “I mean, history's one thing – but an _alien planet_?” she asked, voice shrill with excitement.

  
“I could always take you home,” he joked wryly. Hartley threw her head back at laughed, unable to quell the amusement.

  
“Yeah, don't laugh at me,” Donna growled, but the threat was minimal and Hartley continued to giggle.

  
“I know what it's like,” the Doctor promised, hands shoved deep into his pockets as he strode closer to Donna, who Hartley could tell was giddy on TARDIS life. “Everything you're feeling right now; the fear, the joy, the wonder? I get that,” he said brightly. Hartley smiled as she finished tying her last sneaker, popping up onto her toes and wandering over to the pair, who stood nose-to-nose at the console.

  
“Seriously? After all this time?”

  
“Yeah!” he beamed away. “Why do you think I keep going?”

  
“Oh. All right then, you and me both,” Donna grinned, turning and beginning the short journey down the ramp. “This is barmy. I was born in Chiswick. I've only ever had package holidays. Now I'm _here._ This is so...I mean it's...I don't know, it's all sort of...I don't even know what the word is-”

She opened the door and spilled out into the new terrain. Hartley grinned at the Doctor, threading her arm through his and meeting his eyes with glee. “She's so happy,” she said in a gushing tone.

“I know,” he grinned back, “it's _brilliant._ ” He led her to the door, opening it and waving her out ahead of him. Stepping onto the new planet, Hartley's senses were immediately flooded by _cold_. It was freezing, snow floating from the sky, drifting down and landing on her exposed arms. She began to shiver, skin prickling with the below-zero temperature.

“Snow! Oh, real snow!” the Doctor cheered, utterly unbothered by the cold. “Proper snow at last. That's more like it. Lovely. What do you think?” he asked the girls happily.

  
“Bit cold,” Donna said around her chattering teeth. Hartley nodded in agreement, but it was just an excuse for her to snuggle into the Doctor's side for warmth, so she didn't mind quite as much. His skin ran colder than a human's did, but it was still nicer than the icy wind.

  
“Look at that view!” he cried enthusiastically, oblivious to their dismay.

And even despite the cold, Hartley had to agree; the temperature was worth the scenery. It was a winter wonderland with twisting bridges of perfectly formed rock binding glaciers together, icicles hanging from them, dripping down into deep, beautiful ravines, like droplets of water frozen in time.

  
“Yep. Beautiful, cold view,” Donna agreed dispassionately, hunched in on herself for warmth.

The Doctor kept his arm around Hartley as he began to stroll away, taking her with him. She stared at the view, his words going in one ear and out the other, too distracted by the cold and the sights to bother listening to him rant.

  
“Millions of planets, millions of galaxies, and we're on this one. Molto bene. Bellissimo, says Donna, born in Chiswick. All you've got is a life of work and sleep, and telly and rent and tax and takeaway dinners, all birthdays and Christmases and two weeks holiday a year, and then you end up here. Donna Noble, citizen of the Earth, standing on a different planet. How about that Donna?”

Donna didn't say anything, and the Time Lord turned back to look, stopping dead when he found the space she was standing empty.  
  


“Donna?” he called out, like a lost puppy.

Hartley muffled her giggles into the material of his coat.

“Oi,” he complained, but she wasn't listening. His arm tightened around her, and she sank into him happily. Then the TARDIS door creaked open and Donna reappeared, wrapped in a thick snow jacket and blessedly clutching another in her hand.

  
“Sorry, you were saying?” she called over the sound of the wind and snow, tossing the spare jacket at Hartley, who caught it and mouthed an emphatic 'thank you' in response. She pulled it on to find it was large on her, she was nearly swimming in the puffy fabric, but she didn't care, snuggling into it happily.

  
“Better?” the Doctor asked.

  
“Lovely, thanks.”

  
“Comfy?”

  
“Yep.”

  
“Can you hear anything inside that?”

  
“Pardon?”

Hartley giggled again, this time leaning into Donna to share her laughter. The Doctor scrunched his nose at them, but not even he could hide the smile on his lips.

  
“All right, I was saying, citizen of the Earth-” he was cut off by a loud, mechanical roar. All three travellers looked upwards, blinking in shock at the sight of a rocket gliding over top of them, slicing through the air with ease.  
  


“Rocket!” Donna called out over the sound of its engines. “Blimey, a real _proper_ rocket. Now _that's_ what I call a spaceship. You've got a box, he's got a Ferrari,” she said blithely, and Hartley brought up a hand to muffle her snickers at the Doctor's offended expression. “Come on, lets go see where he's going,” said Donna eagerly, already shuffling her way through the thick snow, heading after the rocket.

“I prefer the box,” Hartley told the Doctor honestly, but it wasn't enough, he still grumbled unintelligibly under his breath, turning and striding off after Donna. Rolling her eyes, Hartley caught up to him, sticking close by his side as they waded through the thick, fluffy trenches of snow.

Everything was fine, and she was happy and content in their exploration of the new planet until suddenly her entire body froze, cold feet buried deep in the snow.

“Hartley?” asked the Doctor, feeling her go still and coming to stand in front of her.

For a brief moment Hartley felt far away, like she wasn't in her body at all. There was this music in her head, so sad, so heartbreaking, it made her chest ache with a phantom pain. It was unlike anything she'd ever heard before; haunting and full of an ancient pain. She knew it was something she'd never be able to replicate on an instrument even if she had all the time in the world to try.

“Hartley?” the Doctor asked again, this time pressing his hands to her shoulders. At the familiar weight of his hands she snapped out of her daze just as abruptly as she'd fallen into it.

“Don't you hear that?” she asked, head tilted back to look him in the eye.

“Hear what?”

The more she tried to concentrate on the sound, the more it disappeared. Like smoke in the wind. “Nothing,” she said dismissively, grabbing hold of his hand to ground herself. The Doctor didn't look convinced, but he also didn't argue.

“Oi, you two!” Donna's voice called at them over the whipping wind. “You can't stop for a snog break every fifty metres – we've got a rocket to find!”

They both rolled their eyes, and Hartley noted with satisfaction that the Doctor's cheeks were ever-so-slightly pink in a way that wasn't from the cold. She smiled, gripping his hand more firmly and dragging him on after Donna.

Their companion led them up over one of the twisting bridges that connected the edges of the ravine. The snow crunched under her feet and the Doctor's hand was starting to warm in hers, but all Hartley could think about was that echo of music rattling around inside her chest.

Because she wasn't hearing it in her ears, or her head, she was hearing it in that place where she could sense the emotions of others. The song wasn't just a song; it was a _feeling._

The Doctor came to a sudden stop, his hand yanking at Hartley's, making her pause too. “Hold on,” he said, scanning their surroundings again. “I can hear it too,” he told her, head tilted to listen. “Can you?” he asked Donna, who didn't reply, just stared back in confusion. “Donna, take your hood down.”

She did as she was told but only shrugged helplessly. She couldn't hear anything.  
  


“That noise is like a song...” he trailed off in wonderment, but before he could question further he spied something laying half buried in snow just over the way. “Over there!” he shouted, letting go of Hartley's hand and sprinting through the powdery snow as best he could. Hartley was close on his heels, falling to her knees beside the injured Ood, concern welling in her gut.

“What is it?” Donna asked as she shuffled after them, staring down at the Ood in wary confusion.

  
“He's called an Ood,” Hartley told her, pressing a hand to the Ood's chest, a reassuring presence. He was in so much pain, it rattled through her nervous system like an electric jolt, a pit of energy gathering in her heart.

  
“But its _face_ ,” Donna gasped as she got a good look at the Ood's unusual facial features.

“Donna, don't. Not now,” snapped the Doctor sternly. “He's a he, not an it.”

“Doctor,” Hartley whispered, leant over the fading life between them. “He's so scared.”

While she was concerned with his fear, the Doctor was focused on trying to save him. He'd pulled out his stethoscope, holding it to his chest in a desperate attempt to search for a pulse. “I don't know where the heart is. I don't know if he's got a heart,” he was muttering. “Donna, talk to him. Hartley, keep him calm but alert,” he ordered them.

Donna got to her knees with only minimal hesitancy. “It's all right, we've got you. Er, what's your name?” she asked in an attempt to keep him talking.

The Ood lifted its communication sphere. “ _Designated Ood Delta 50_.”

But Hartley was barely paying any attention, instead pressing her hands to the Ood's abdomen and focusing on his emotions. It was a jumble of feeling. He was scared, and lonely – he felt so alone and hopeless. She pushed as much love and comfort into him as she could. If he was going to die, he wasn't going to do it alone.

  
“Oh, God,” Donna muttered, growing distressed. “This is my friend Hartley – she's really good at making people feel better. And this is the Doctor. Just what you need, a doctor. Couldn't be better, hey?”

  
“You've been shot,” the Doctor told the Ood, a deep frown on his face.

  
The Ood felt a stab of panic, lifting his communication sphere with the last of his energy. “ _The circle..._ ” he tried to tell them.

  
“No, don't try to talk,” Donna said kindly.

  
But the Ood was stubborn. “ _The circle must be broken._ ”

  
“Circle? What do you mean? Delta 50, what circle?” called the Doctor, growing distressed when the Ood didn't reply.

“He's fading,” Hartley told him quietly, gripping onto his energy with everything she had, struggling to keep him alive. He was disappearing, slipping like sand through her fingers.

“Delta 50? What circle?” the Doctor pressed urgently.

There was a flare of emotion, like something within Delta 50 had cracked open. Hartley flinched back at the force of it, holding her head which suddenly ached something fierce. Arms wrapped around her middle, dragging her to her feet and pulling her away from the Ood just as he sat upright, eyes glowing a horrendous, threatening red. He let out a rabid, animalistic snarl.

Then, just as suddenly, he collapsed back into the snow, lifeless. Donna looked up at Hartley, hoping beyond hope that he was just unconscious, but she could only shake her head. His presence in her head was gone. He wasn't there, not anymore. He'd succumbed to that never ending dark, lost in oblivion.

“He's gone,” she confirmed regrettably, reaching up to wrap her fingers around her own throat, holding tight like the warmth of her own skin might help to ground her. It didn't.

That heartbreaking song was extinguished along with his life, making Hartley wonder whether he'd been the source all along.

  
“Careful,” the Doctor warned as Donna knelt back down beside the fallen Ood. She paid no heed, reaching out to gently press her hand against his head.

  
“There you are, sweetheart. We were too late,” she murmured, taking a brief moment to mourn. “What do we do, do we bury him?” she asked once the moment had passed.

  
“The snow'll take care of that,” the Doctor told her grimly.

  
“Who was he? What's an Ood?”

  
“They're servants of humans in the forty-second century,” he told her factually, folding up his stethoscope and sliding it back into his pocket. “Mildly telepathic. That was the song,” he said to Hartley quietly. “It was his mind calling out.”

“And I heard it?” she asked, confused.

“Empathy is just a slightly weaker form of telepathy,” he told her softly. “It doesn't surprise me that you were able to hear it.”

  
“But I couldn't,” murmured Donna, disappointed.

“Hartley was born with an extra synaptic engram,” he began to explain. “Gives her the ability. A lot of humans are, but most are never developed fully enough to be of any use. Hartley's was helped along by the power of the time vortex – but that's another story and a half.”

But Donna wasn't listening, staring down at the Ood sorrowfully. “He sang as he was dying,” she said sadly, climbing to her feet and gently dusting the excess snow from her legs.

  
“His eyes turned red,” the Doctor murmured, momentarily lost in thought.

  
“What's that mean?”

  
“Trouble,” he told her grimly, before taking a deep breath and turning to Hartley.

He reached out a hand, wiggling his fingertips at her until she took his hand, letting him drag her on down the path. She glanced at the fallen Ood a final time, saying a quick prayer of farewell in her head before turning to face the front and refocusing on the conversation.

“The Ood are harmless. They're completely benign. Except, the last time we met them there was this force, like a stronger mind, powerful enough to take them over,” he told Donna as they walked, he and Hartley's joined hands swinging between them.

  
“What sort of force?” Donna asked, shoving her cold hands into her pockets.

“Oh, now _that_ is a long story,” Hartley told her with a wry smile, recalling that impossible planet with very little fondness.

  
“Long walk,” Donna quipped.

Hartley chewed on the words for a moment but refrained from saying them, knowing how ridiculous they would sound aloud. The Doctor glanced down, catching her eye before rolling his own and telling Donna the truth.

“It was the Devil.”

  
Donna huffed in exasperation. “If the two of you're just gonna take the mickey, I'll put my hood back up,” she threatened the dryly.

Hartley gave a quiet chuckle, holding the Doctor's hand tighter and focusing on the path ahead.

  
“Must be something different this time, though. Something closer to home...” he trailed off as they came to a ridge. Letting go of Hartley's hand he scrambled onto it, peeking over the top and grinning at what he found on the other side. “Ah ha!” he cried triumphantly. “Civilisation.”

With a huff, Hartley followed them up to the top of the ridge to see for herself what lay beyond. It was an industrial factory of some kind, incredibly large and made of metal that glinted brightly in the sunlight.

“How're we meant to get in, though?” Donna asked, reaching forwards to point at the several-metres-high fences that lined the facility.

“Psychic paper,” the Doctor replied without so much as a blink. “It can get us in anywhere.” Hartley elbowed him pointedly in the stomach. “Almost anywhere,” he amended smoothly, and a smirk appeared on her lips.

He climbed to his feet, moving over the ridge and beginning to walk slowly down the snowy slope towards the path leading into the factory. “So, what's the plan, then?” Donna asked as she and Hartley hurried to follow. The slope was slippery and more than once they had to grasp one another's hands to keep from falling. “We just flash that thing and get instant access?”

“That's pretty much how it works, yeah,” the Doctor replied, turning back to shoot her a grin.

“It can't be that easy.”

“Bet you it is,” Hartley wagered with a matching grin.

“Five quid?”

“You're on.”

The guards at the fence eyed them skeptically as they approached, suspicious of their intentions. Hartley pasted a wide, sweet smile on her face, the one the Doctor always said could sell ice to an Eskimo.

“Can we help you folks with something?” asked the main guard, a tall, stocky fellow with a permanent scowl on his lips.

“Yes,” the Doctor began casually, already holding up the slightly-psychic paper for him to see. “I think you'll find it's all there.”

The guard frowned. “You're here for the Conference?” he asked, peering at the paper suspiciously.

“Yes sir, we are,” Hartley said, layering on the sweetness. She felt Donna struggling not to snort in exasperation from behind them.

“You're late.”

“Well, you know how intergalactic travel can be,” she told him in a confident voice. His eyes flickered between the paper and the trio a few more times before finally he sighed, handing the paper back and nodding for his co-worker to open the gate.

He said nothing more, nodding them through with the bare minimum amount of courtesy.

They stepped through, speeding up to reach the group gathering in the distance. “Does that always work?” Donna asked, staring at the little slip of magic paper as the Doctor tucked it back into the pocket inside his jacket.

“Almost always,” the Doctor chimed, tossing back a smug little grin that absolutely did not make Hartley's heart skip a beat.

“Now, if you'd like to follow me-” an accented voice was calling to the group of gathered people – businessmen if their clothes were any judge.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry. Late. Don't mind us. Hello!” the Doctor chirped to the woman, a very short woman with bright eyes and caramel skin. “The guards let us through,” he explained.

  
“And you would be?” she asked pointedly.

  
“The Doctor, Donna Noble, and Hartley Daniels,” the Doctor said, holding the psychic paper up for her to view.

  
“Representing the Noble Corporation PLC Limited, Intergalactic...” Donna said with as much conviction as she could manage. The unnamed woman glanced over at Hartley, who made sure to give her a bright, winning smile.

  
“Must have fallen off my list,” she said, accepting the lie at face value. “My apologies. Won't happen again,” she gave a large, plastic smile. “Now then, Doctor Noble, Mrs Noble, Ms Daniels, if you'd like to come with me-”

  
“Oh, no, no, no, no,” the Doctor interrupted her, revulsion on his face. “We're not married,” he said, gesturing between himself and Donna with a grimace.

  
“We're _so_ not married,” Donna seconded the sentiment.

  
“Never.”

  
“Never ever.”

“Okay guys, she gets it,” Hartley told them with a roll of her eyes, shooting the nameless woman an apologetic smile and shrugging, as though this happened all the time – which, to be fair, it _was_ starting to become something of a pattern.

  
“Of course,” said the woman with a smile. Hartley figured she'd probably seen weirder things than the three of them – she worked with _Ood,_ after all – and didn't give it any further thought. “And here are your information packs, vouchers inside,” she said, handing off a packet full of documents to the Doctor, who took it with an interested hum. “Now if you'd like to come with me, the Executive Suites are nice and warm.”

  
They'd barely gotten a foot inside the door when an alarm abruptly blared, the sound shooting throughout the entire compound. Hartley couldn't help but notice all the guards shift warily at the sound, gripping their weapons just a little tighter.

  
“Oh, what's that?” chirped the Doctor in not-so-innocent curiosity. “That sounds like an alarm.” Hartley stifled a giggle; the man was able to smell trouble from over a _lightyear_ away.

“Oh, it's just a siren for the end of the work shift,” the woman lied. None of the other executives so much as blinked, taking it at face value. Hartley knew better; she could feel the woman's panic, her concern as she glanced warily over her shoulder at the rest of the courtyard. “Now then, this way, quick as you can,” she continued in the same breath.

The Doctor nodded to Hartley and Donna, both of whom followed the woman into the factory. Something bad was going on here; but the only way they'd ever find out what was by going forwards.

The halls they were led through were carpeted and lined with expensive artwork, but it felt stale and crass to Hartley. She didn't know what kind of operation they were running, but something about it was making her skin crawl in warning.

“Something doesn't feel right,” she whispered to the Doctor as quietly as she could so that the woman up ahead couldn't hear.

“I know,” he replied, just as quiet. His eyes flickered back and forth, scanning the doors they were passing, looking for some kind of clue as to what path they were on.

“It feels strangely like we're walking into a slaughterhouse,” she whispered just as the woman stepped through a doorway, then moved aside and began waving the group of businessmen through.

“As you can see, the Ood are happy to serve, and we keep them in facilities of the highest standard,” she began to speak once everyone was inside the room, and Hartley had to rest a hand on the Doctor's shoulder, holding herself steady as she pushed herself up onto her toes to see over the heads of the buyers. “Here at the Double O, that's Ood Operations, we like to think of the Ood as our trusted friends. We keep the Ood healthy, safe, and educated.”

When Hartley found what she was looking for, she frowned in displeasure.

Three Ood were lined along a small display stage while another handful were walking in and out of the small crowd, handing out food and beverages to the hungry executives.

“We don't just breed the Ood,” said the woman cheerfully. “We make them better. Because at heart, what is an Ood, but a reflection of us? If your Ood is happy, then you'll be happy, too.”

She gave another plastic smile that made Hartley grimace. She turned just as an Ood approached their small trio, a tray of drinks balanced on his gloved hands. “ _Something to drink?_ ” he asked them politely, his translator ball lighting up with the words.

“No, thank you. I'm fine,” she told him kindly, eyes flickering over his figure, searching for any sign that he was being treated badly.

The Ood inclined his head and moved on, wandering off to serve the next human being in sight.

“Do they look healthy to you?” she asked her friends in another undertone.

“I mean, I don't pretend to know much about Ood physiology,” the Doctor muttered back, one hand still pressed loosely to the small of her back, thoughtless and comfortable. “But they look fine to me.”

“They can't be,” she whispered, withholding a sigh of frustration. “If they are, then why was Delta 50 shot and left in the snow to die?”

“I'd now like to point out a new innovation from Ood Operations,” began the woman from before, joining them on the floor and moving over to the three Ood lined along the stage. “We've introduced a variety package with the Ood translation sphere. You can now have the standard setting. How are you today, Ood?” she directed the question at the first one in the line.

  
“ _I'm perfectly well, thank you_ ,” it replied in a regular voice.

  
“Or perhaps after a stressful day, a little something for the gentlemen. And how are you, Ood?” she asked the second.

  
“ _All the better for seeing you_ ,” said the Ood in a husky, feminine voice. Eyes wide in horrified shock, Hartley looked away, wondering exactly what had gone wrong with the human race for them to end up _here._

  
“And the comedy classic option. Ood, you dropped something,” she said the the final Ood.

  
“ _D'oh!_ ” it exclaimed in a perfect impersonation of Homer Simpson. Everyone in the room laughed, but Hartley could only frown at the scene in dismay. It was all so _wrong_.

  
“All that for only five additional credits,” the woman, who so far still remained nameless, smiled at them all sweetly. “The details are in your brochures. Now, there's plenty more food and drink, so don't hold back.”

The moment she was gone from sight the Doctor moved over to the podium on the far wall. His long fingers tapped away at the controls, bringing an image up on the big screen before them.

  
“Ah, got it,” he said once he was done. “The Ood Sphere. I've been to this solar system before. Years ago – ages. Close to the planet Sense Sphere. Let's widen out. The year 4126. _That,_ ” he added, nodding to the clusters of stars on the screen, “is the Second Great and Bountiful Human Empire.”

  
“4126?” Donna repeated, struggling to wrap her mind around the detail. “It's 4126. I'm in 4126,” she gasped, eyes bright with excitement.

  
Hartley, who was leaning closer to the screen to get a better look, turned to grin at Donna broadly. “It's good, isn't it?” the Doctor asked, grinning just as wide.

  
“What's the Earth like now?” she asked quietly, expression alight with wonder. She was emitting low pulses of happiness and awe, and they were filling Hartley to the brim, almost making her forget the serious circumstances they were there under.

“Bit full,” the Doctor replied with a shrug. “But you see, the Empire stretches out across three galaxies,” he said, tracing his long fingers over the clusters of human-inhabited planets littering the night sky.

  
“It's weird. I mean, it's brilliant, but…back home, the papers and the telly, they keep saying we haven't got long to live,” Donna revealed, her voice soft and contemplative. “Global warming, flooding, all the bees disappearing.”

  
“Yeah. That thing about the bees is odd,” the Doctor agreed. Hartley resolved to start visiting the 2000s more often, if only to keep up with current events. She was beginning to lose touch with humanity, and as brilliant as that was, it was also foreboding.

  
“But look at us,” Donna continued in a humbled, awe. “We're everywhere. Is that good or bad, though? I mean, are we like explorers? Or more like a virus?” she asked wryly.

  
“Sometimes I wonder,” he murmured thoughtfully. Hartley slapped him gently on the chest in reprimand, but even she couldn't quell her amusement. He glanced down with a tiny grin, like the single brush of contact had made his whole day. Her cheeks warmed with pleasure.

  
“And what do all these red dots mean?” she asked to get the attention off of herself, crossing her arms over her chest and looking back at the screen.

  
“Ood distribution centres,” he told her honestly, and she frowned at the thought.

  
“Across _three_ _galaxies_?” Donna asked, incredulous. “Don't the Ood get a say in this?”

Hartley opened her mouth to respond but Donna was already walking away, making a beeline for an Ood stood idle in the corner.   
  
“Hello?” she greeted him, gently tapping him on the shoulder to get his attention. The Ood tilted its head at her curiously. “Tell me, are you all like this?”

The Ood lifted its translation sphere to speak. “ _I do not understand, Miss,_ ” he said clearly.

  
Immediately Donna's curiosity dropped, replaced by proud indignation. “Why'd you say Miss?” she demanded in a panic. “Do I look single?”

  
The Doctor rolled his eyes. “Back to the point.”

  
“Yeah,” she agreed, clearing her throat and turning back to the matter at hand. “What I mean is, are there any free Ood? Are there Ood running wild somewhere, like wildebeest?”

  
“ _All Ood are born to serve. Otherwise, we would die_.”

  
“But you can't have started like that. Before the humans, what were you like?” she pressed kindly.

The Ood's head suddenly jerked and Hartley was flooded with a sense of _wrong._ She inhaled, reaching over to grasp the Doctor's wrist, squeezing tightly, telling him without words that something was wrong.

  
“ _The circle,_ ” the Ood said plainly.

“What do you mean?” the Doctor pounced on the words. “What circle?”

  
“ _The circle_ ,” he repeated himself. “ _The circle is-_ ”

  
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the woman in charge began to say, and Hartley bit back a sigh of frustration. “All Ood to hospitality stations, please.”

  
“I've had enough of the schmoozing,” said the Doctor before either woman could follow the main group away. “Do you fancy going off the beaten track?” he asked, holding up the map he'd gotten in his information packet earlier.

  
“Rough guide to the Ood Sphere? Works for me,” Donna smirked.

“Hart?” he pressed.

“You know I'm in,” she scoffed, and he grinned again, turning and leading the way confidently out of the room. That was the key to the Doctor's success, after all: confidence. Act like you owned the room and it usually ended up being true.

He consulted the map in his hands for a moment, then ducked quickly out of a door to the right. It led into another hallway, at the end of which was a service door, but beyond that was the compound, the chill of the snow slapping them all in the face.

The door closed with a quiet creak and the Doctor led the way down a steep flight of stairs and through a locked mesh gate that he opened with the sonic.

Hartley pulled them to a stop before they could pass through the gate. It felt strangely like a threshold. Beyond the metal wiring that made up the fence was a storm of swirling, invisible emotion. Its proximity made her feel weak. “Whoa,” she breathed, pressing a hand against her stomach as it rolled with secondhand feeling.

“Hart?” Donna asked, spinning around to stare at her in concern. “You okay?”

“Hartley?” the Doctor said her name delicately, holding out a hand to help steady her. She clutched onto it like a lifeline, gripping him tightly and trying to let the press of his cool skin ground her. “What is it?” he asked quietly, scanning the immediate area for a looming threat she knew he wouldn't find.

Hartley closed her eyes against the painful onslaught of emotions she was experiencing, none of them her own. “Sadness,” she told him in a whisper. “Great sadness. And anger,” she said, gripping his hand tighter as fury took hold in her gut. It was an unsettling sensation – to be so full of rage that had no origin, to be furious and not know why.

“The Ood?”

“I think so,” she nodded, eyes still sealed shut. She felt his breath on her face as he leant closer and reluctantly opened her eyes. He was nose-to-nose with her, concern shining in his chocolate gaze.

“Okay?” he asked once her the dismay in her expression had melted away. She was quick to nod, not wanting to be a bother.

He nodded back, still gripping her hand in his as he turned to lead her through the gate.

Like a wall of gut-wrenching feeling, she was met with the Ood's pain. In her heart there was the hum of a terrible song, the same one from the dying Ood before, but she swallowed and focused on the weight of the Doctor's hand in hers, pushing it away. As painful as it was to hear, these Ood needed help. They needed somebody to fight where they couldn't.

The Doctor led them up a flight of stairs and onto a small deck overlooking the compound. What they found was enough to make Hartley's stomach twist in disgust.

  
Ood were marching along like cattle, guards monitoring their every move. One of the Ood in the back of a line collapsed to his knees in what Hartley knew to be exhaustion. “Get up,” snarled one of the guards, cracking a whip into the snow beside the fallen Ood. “I said _get up_.”

  
“Servants?” Donna breathed incredulously. “They're _slaves._ ”

Hartley watched on in mounting horror, disgust burning a hole in her stomach. “Get up! March!” hissed the guard again. The Ood climbed to his feet as quickly as he possibly could, then shuffled tiredly along after the rest of his herd.

  
“Last time we met the Ood, I never thought – I never asked,” said the Doctor, regret in the words.

“Neither did I,” Hartley whispered, watching as the Ood were marched away in uniform lines. Their pain was like a pulsing flash in her head and it was all she could do to lean against the Doctor in search of comfort.

  
“That's not like you,” Donna said quietly, looking away from the Ood to peer at them thoughtfully.

  
“We were busy,” the Doctor replied, eyes echoing with the memories of that impossible planet. With the memories of _Rose._ “So busy I couldn't save them. I had to let the Ood die,” he paused, considering it carefully. “I reckon we owe them one, wouldn't you say?” he asked, turning away from the slaves to look down at Hartley.

“Yeah,” she agreed, thinking back to the fallen Ood on that planet so very long ago. “Yeah, I reckon we do.”

“That looks like the boss,” said Donna suddenly, and Hartley followed her line of sight to see a balding man striding through the snow with reluctant purpose. He reeked of nervousness, a kind of anxiety that went bone deep, and she watched as his eyes nervously flickered across the compound as though expecting something to appear from thin air and attack.

  
“Let's keep out of his way,” the Doctor said, already turning to leave. “Come on,” he prompted them, beginning to make his way back down the flight of stairs they'd just climbed.

“What're we looking for?” asked Donna, voice more subdued than it was before.

“Something suspicious,” replied the Doctor, pulling the map from his pocket as he slipped his glasses onto his nose, squinting down at it and walking on ahead.

“The last time you met the Ood,” Donna began quietly as she and Hartley wandered along behind him, “it was while Rose was still with you, wasn't it?”

Hartley paused, surprised by the words. Thoughts of Rose always brought a mix of pain and fondness. On one hand remembering her was difficult, painful; but on the other, memories were all that connected them still.

“What makes you say that?” she asked, voice small, insides a swirl of contrasting emotion.

“You just get this look on your face sometimes,” Donna explained gently. “The both of you. Like you're happy and sad all at once.” Hartley smiled at the ground, soft and subdued but nonetheless sincere. “Think this door leads anywhere good?” she asked abruptly, and Hartley glanced up to see she'd stopped in front of what looked like an unassuming service door. She stuck two fingers into her mouth, conjuring up a sharp whistle that had the Doctor flinching as though under attack.

He spun around, whipping off his glasses as he moved, shoving them deep into his pocket. “Where'd you learn to whistle?” he asked Donna with wide eyes, producing his sonic free and aiming it at the lock.

  
“West Ham, every Saturday.”

  
The door opened without trouble, but the moment Hartley stepped over that threshold it was like she'd been sucker punched in the gut. Curling in herself, she struggled to remember to breathe.

“Hart?” the Doctor asked, spinning around and gently pulling her from the doorway, letting the door close after them to ensure nobody would see them and get suspicious. “What is it?”

“Pain,” she whispered, eyes gleaming with tears. “And sadness and rage and _hate_.” She took a shaky breath in. “What is this place?” she asked quietly as her body slowly balanced out the sharp sting of the foreign emotions, adjusting to it accordingly.

  
“Ood export,” the Doctor replied grimly, but he barely paid the room any attention, focused on her. “Are you okay?” he asked, hands still pressed against her shoulders, concern spread across his face.

“Yeah,” she nodded, swallowing thickly. “It was just too much, too fast.”

The Doctor nodded, stepping back and giving her room to breathe. Hartley crossed her arms securely over her chest and slowly followed he and Donna deeper into the cavernous room. It was a warehouse, filled with hundreds upon hundreds of massive blue shipping containers.

“What's that?” asked Donna, pointing at a large, claw-like device that was hovering high above their heads. Hartley felt uncomfortably like she were standing in a cheap arcade game, and _they_ were the prize.

“Lifts up the containers, takes them to the rocket sheds, ready to be flown out all over the three galaxies,” the Doctor explained.

  
“What, you mean, these containers are full of...?” Donna trailed off, barely able to stomach saying the words. It wasn't a stretch for Hartley to believe, if the emotions filling the warehouse were anything to go by.

  
“What do you think?”

The Doctor moved over to the door of one of the containers, grasping at the handle and wrenching it open to reveal the massive hoard of Ood inside, standing there without so much as a twitch, like programmed robots on standby.

  
“Oh, it stinks!” Donna exclaimed, reaching up to plug her nose. “How many of them do you think there are in each one?”

  
“Hundred? More?” the Doctor murmured, brow furrowed with thought.

“This is sick,” said Hartley, feeling like she might need to gag at any moment, and not just from the terrible odour.

  
“A great big empire built on slavery,” Donna muttered, the words ringing with disgust.

  
The Doctor hummed. “It's not so different from your time.”

  
“Oi!” she barked back, taking offence. “I haven't got slaves.”

  
“Who do you think made your clothes?”

  
“Is that why you travel round with a human at your side? It's not so you can show them the wonders of the universe, it's so you can take cheap shots?” Donna snapped.

The Doctor blinked, properly chastised. “Sorry,” he apologised, small but still sincere.

  
“Don't,” Donna deadpanned, then seemed to realise she was being just a tad too harsh. “Spaceman,” she added in a warmer tone, telling him without the words that all was forgiven, and Hartley looked up to see a hint of a smile playing at the corners of the Doctor's lips. “I don't understand, the door is open, why don't you just run away?” Donna asked the Ood at the front of the group.

  
He lifted his translator sphere, tilting his head curiously. “ _For what reason_?” he asked, as though the idea were pure lunacy.

  
“You could be free.”

  
“ _I do not understand the concept_ ,” admitted the Ood, perfectly matter-of-fact.

  
“What is it with that Persil ball?” Donna whispered. “I mean, they're not born with it, are they? Why do they have to be all plugged in?”

And Hartley had never even thought of that. How could it not have occurred to her that the communication sphere all the Ood held was something that had to have been added to their bodies? And she was right, the spheres were wired into their bodies, electrical mixing with biological in the most sickening way.

  
“Ood, tell me,” the Doctor began, “does the circle mean anything to you?”

Every Ood had spoke at once, the container lighting up with the glow of their communication spheres. “ _The circle must be broken._ ”

  
“Oh, that is creepy...” Donna muttered, and Hartley nodded in weak agreement.

  
“But what is it? What is the circle?” the Doctor pressed, beginning to grow desperate.

  
“ _The circle must be broken._ ”

  
“Why?”

  
“ _So that we can sing_.”

The trio of travellers stood in silence for a moment, staring at the Ood, all of whom blinked back as though in a trance. Before any of them could say anything – press for answers and get to the bottom of what was happening here – a loud, piercing siren rang out from high above them. The sound echoed throughout the warehouse, amplified by the metal walls and large, open space.

“Oh, that's us,” muttered the Doctor, turning and darting from the container, barely pausing long enough for Hartley and Donna to catch up. “Come on!” he shouted over the blaring sirens, reaching out to blindly grasp at their arms. He managed to grab ahold of Hartley and they gripped one another as they ran, bolting back the way they'd come.

Shouts filled the warehouse, the sound mingling with the sirens, but neither Hartley nor the Doctor took the time to turn and look.

It wasn't until they'd made considerable distance that Hartley slowed, turning to check on Donna only to groan when their new friend was nowhere to be seen. “Donna?!” she called, uncaring who heard her. The guards already knew they were there; it wasn't like shouting would put them in any _more_ danger.

  
The Doctor spun around too, head snapping to the side like a meerkat. “Where's she gone?”

Before Hartley could respond a small group of guards threw themselves around the corner with big, threatening weapons held in their meaty hands.

  
“Stay where you are!” one of them ordered, but neither Hartley nor the Doctor listened. He grabbed her arm and yanked him after her, the two sprinting the corridor at full pelt.

“But Donna!” she yelled over the guards' furious shouting and the monotonous, piercing sound of the sirens.

“We can't help her from a jail cell!” he called back without breaking pace. She knew he had a point, picking up her pace and legging it through the maze of shipping containers. It was like a macabre labyrinth, and she ran with the knowledge that they were full of Ood enslaved to the human race.

  
The Doctor let go of Hartley's arm to knock against some of the passing containers, hoping he might find Donna in one of them.

“Donna?” he called, uncaring that the guards could hear them. “Where are you?”

“Donna!” Hartley yelled, throwing herself around a corner and desperately scanning the area, looking for any hint of the fiery redhead in question. “ _Donna_!” she cried, but there was no answer.

Their frantic search was cut to a abrupt end when there was a loud, mechanical whir. It seemed to approach them, gaining more and more speed with every passing heartbeat. Hartley glanced up, and a very uncool squeak left her lips as she laid eyes on the warehouse's massive mechanical claw, hovering above them in threat.

Somebody was controlling it remotely, and it gave a menacing creak as it followed them through the maze they'd been thrust into. “Go, go, go!” the Doctor shouted, a hand pressing to her back as they sprinted for safety – if there even was such a thing.

The metal hands of the claw slammed into the containers surrounding them and loud, deafening bangs rumbled from all around them, like unforgiving cracks of thunder during a lightning storm. Every turn they made, however sharp, was tracked. The claw followed them like a dog with a scent, snapping its metallic jaws at their heads.

Hartley was sure a death was coming – she couldn't imagine there were any way out of this scenario alive – but she never stopped sprinting, flinching away as the jaws of the claw got terrifyingly close to her skull.

It wasn't until the Doctor gave a shout from behind her that she stopped running.

Spinning on the spot, she found the Doctor sprawled on the floor, staring wide-eyed up at the claw, which hovered above him, prepared to end him where he lay.

She didn't take the time to think, didn't stop for even a moment. Acting on pure instinct she threw herself down over the Doctor, covering him like a human shield. He was firm and solid beneath her, and she squeezed her eyes shut tight against the pain she was sure was coming, pressing her face into his neck and focusing on his scent, letting it calm her before death came.

Only a few long moments passed and nothing happened. There was no robotic drone that told her the claw was descending. No shouts of pain, or that inky blackness that always meant she'd died.

Another beat and she cracked open one eye. The Doctor was staring at the space above them, chest rising and falling beneath her as he panted from all the running. Hartley pushed herself up on his chest, glancing over her shoulder to see the claw limp and lifeless. Someone had switched it off.

Before she could so much as open her mouth to express her relief to the Doctor, the small area they were sprawled in was flooded with guards. They approached with their guns raised, prepared to open fire at the smallest show of a threat.

Hartley quickly pushed herself up properly, turning to look at the Doctor for instructions. He met her eyes, communicating that it was important to stay calm, then held his hands up in surrender. Slowly, she moved to do the same, and a moment later the guards were upon them, none-too-gently forcing them to their feet.

The guard holding Hartley was tall and smelt like grease. He gripped her hands tightly enough to hurt, forcing them behind her back and shoving her forwards like she were a prisoner on death row.

“Do you think you could loosen–?” she began to ask, but the guard only grunted and held her tighter in response. Swallowing back a mean comment, Hartley sighed and let herself be led in the opposite direction.

“All right?” the Doctor asked from beside her. She noticed he had two guards holding him, hands folded firmly behind his back.

“I'll live,” she said wryly, and the Doctor gave a snort that held no real amusement.

“Throwing yourself over me; that was a gutsy move,” he said, the words somehow conversational and disapproving at the same time.

“That's me; human shield.” The look he sent her was full of disapproval, and she rolled her eyes. “I'm not going to apologise for trying to save your life,” she told him flatly.

“Silence,” snapped the guard holding her, giving her wrists a painful squeeze.

“I'm the girl who can never die,” she continued, uncaring of the guard's stern order. “It's just common sense.”

Not even the Doctor could argue with that logic, but he could certainly look unhappy about it, scowling at her unhappily.

“Doctor! Hartley! Get me _out_ of here!” they heard a familiar voice shout through the metal wall of a shipping container and the knot in Hartley's chest slowly unfurled, relieved to know Donna was safe.

  
“If you don't do what she says, you're really in trouble,” said the Doctor dryly, and the guards shot him a dark look, just daring him to try. “Not from me, from her,” he explained, eyebrows raised in sincerity.

  
A tall man who looked like he might have been in charge stepped forwards, nodding to one of the other guards sharply. “Unlock the container,” he ordered briskly.

The latch to the container was unlocked and when the man opened the door Donna tripped out, immediately making a beeline for her friends. She threw her arms around the Doctor's shoulders, squeezing him tightly. “Doctor!” she cried with relief. After a moment he let her go so she could pounce on Hartley, hugging her tightly enough to constrict her airways.

  
“There we go, safe and sound!” the Doctor crowed, patting Donna soundly on the back.

  
“Never mind about me,” said the redhead in a hurry, pushing away from Hartley and turning back to face the shipping container with wide eyes. “What about them?”

The Ood were spilling from the container, translator spheres held out, their eyes glowing a ruby red. Hartley heard the song again, stronger than ever. It was loud and heartbreaking, a song of misery and sorrow. Tears appeared, burning her eyes, but she couldn't spare the time to listen to the music. Not now.

“Red alert! Fire! Shoot to kill!” the man in charge shouted, and the gathered men began to open fire on the Ood. Hartley gasped as bullets ricocheted off the metal barrels and containers around them, bouncing in their direction.

“We need to go!” she shouted over the mayhem at the Doctor, who grabbed Donna to keep her safe and began running for the exit.

Outside they may have been out of the range of the bullets, but they were by no means any more safe out there than they had been within.

Snow had finally stopped falling, but it didn't mean it was any less cold. Hartley held on tightly to Donna's hand, letting the Doctor guide them through the compound. The ice and snow beneath their feet seeped up through the soles of their shoes but they didn't stop to complain, rushing forwards with everything they had.

The Doctor finally pulled them to a stop around a corner and out of the sight of the guards. Hartley realised the woman from before was with them. Short and pretty, she was panting for air, eyes wide from the shock of it all.

“If people back on Earth knew what was going on here...” Donna was still catching her breath, but there was a fire in her eyes that refused to be extinguished.

  
“Oh, don't be so stupid,” the woman – Solana – said sharply, scowling at Donna like she were an idiot. “Of course they know.”

  
“They know how you treat the Ood?”

  
“They don't ask,” said Solana with a huff. “Same thing.”

Hartley could hear the sounds of distant gunfire and her stomach rolled.

“Solana, the Ood aren't born like this. They can't be,” interjected the Doctor, an impatience in his voice that wasn't often heard. “A species born to serve could never evolve in the first place. What does the company do to make them obey?”

  
“That's nothing to do with me,” she hissed back.

  
“Oh, what, because you don't ask?” the Doctor countered darkly. Solana looked momentarily taken aback, the expression melting into something like offence.

  
“That's Dr. Ryder's territory,” she said once she'd recovered.

  
“Dr. Ryder,” repeated Hartley in a hurry. Was it just her, or were the sounds of gunfire growing closer? “Where is he?” Solana only stared at her in stony, unsure silence. “You have to tell us, Solana. We can help, but only if you tell us.”

The Doctor fished the map from his pocket, flattening it in his hands and holding it out to her. “What part of the complex?” he pressed, but she still hesitated. “I could help with the red eye,” he said sharply, imploring her to listen. “Now show me!”

  
The spat order was enough to shake her, and she quickly pointed at the map with a single, trembling finger. “There. Beyond the red section,” she said in a small voice.

  
“Come with me,” the Doctor said, and Hartley glanced discretely around the corner, noting with a sense of creeping anxiety that the guards were moving closer to their position. “You've seen the warehouse. You can't agree with all this. You know this place better than me. You could help,” he said imploringly.

Solana was silent, staring at him unsurely. Hartley could feel her terror, her indecision and fear. It mixed together potently, and Hartley wished they had more time to talk with her, to convince her to do the right thing. But they didn't, and somehow Hartley knew what she was going to say even before she'd opened her mouth to speak.

  
“They're over here! Guards! They're over here!” Solana shouted to the guards heading for them.

The Doctor wilted in disappointment, but there was no time to wallow. He grasped onto Donna, quickly dragging her off in the direction of Ood Conversion. Hartley was close on their heels, not stopping to look back at the guards. Either they would reach them or they wouldn't, looking back in fear did nothing.

The Doctor led them through the icy compound to a small, nondescript door on the side of one of the buildings. He paused in front of it, leaning close enough that his ear nearly brushed the face of rusted metal. “Oh, can you hear it?” he whispered sharply.

“Yes,” Hartley confirmed, swallowing around her sadness. The song was louder here, piercing the air with misery and despair. “I hear it,” she whispered, wishing, suddenly, that she couldn't.

“We didn't need the map,” he said, quickly using the sonic on the lock. “We should have _listened._ ”

They spilled through the door and the Doctor didn't hesitate to shut it after them, aiming the screwdriver at the lock until it sparked, breaking under the sonic assault. The song was louder from the inside, seeming to echo off the very walls, drenching the room in emotion.

“Hold on. Does that mean we're locked in?” Donna hissed, staring down at the broken lock in horror.

  
“Listen,” the Doctor whispered back, too distracted to pay her words any attention.

“Doctor,” Hartley said as they descended the stairs. “My head hurts.”

He reached to her, pressing a hand against her spine. “I know,” he said, just as quiet. “Mine too.”

  
“What is it?” Donna pressed, eyes narrowed in confusion.

  
“Can't you hear it?”

“Hear what?”

A tear escaped Hartley's eye, sliding down her cheek and dripping from her chin. It was painful. Her head hurt from the weight of the music, and her heart hurt from the flood of emotions she could feel. The sorrow was like a flood, and she was being drowned. “The singing,” she whispered to Donna, who was alarmed by her tears.

The Doctor grasped a lever on the wall, yanking it upwards. Instantly the dark room was swamped with light, revealing a set of cages before them all filled with Ood, huddled together as though for comfort and warmth.

Hartley was sure her chest would concave from the force of it all, from the weight of their shared pain. She gave a quiet sob, moving closer to the cage and staring down at the poor Ood in sorrow.

  
“They look different to the others,” Donna was murmuring to the Doctor from behind her.

  
“That's because they're natural born Ood, unprocessed, before they're adapted to slavery. Unspoilt,” the Doctor explained grimly. Slowly, they both came to kneel before the cage on Hartley's right, but the Empath didn't look up from the miserable Ood before her. “That's their song,” he whispered, voice layered with tragedy.

  
“I can't hear it,” Donna said quietly.

  
“Do you want to?”

  
“Yeah.”

  
“It's the song of captivity,” he warned.

  
“Let me hear it.”

  
“Face me. Open your mind. That's it. Hear it, Donna. Hear the music...”

The song seemed to amplify under Donna's attention, and Hartley gently nuzzled her head into the Doctor's side, both hands gripping onto his arm, hoping it would help ground her.

The pain they felt was real and pressing. They were mourning a shared history of enslavement. These Ood knew where they were heading, knew these were their last days as themselves.

And the force of that knowledge was enough to cripple Hartley's sensitive heart.

  
“Take it away,” Donna whispered urgently, voice trembling with her tears. Hartley knew she now understood, and that she wished she didn't.

  
“You're sure?” the Doctor asked delicately.

  
“I can't bear it,” Donna cried. He twisted away from Hartley to take the music away, then turned back to her, gripping her back. Hartley knew he needed just as much support as he was giving. “I'm sorry,” Donna apologised from his other side, sniffling sadly.

  
“It's okay,” he promised, staring at the Ood in sorrow.

  
“But you two can still hear it,” she whispered.

  
The Doctor turned, looking down to meet Hartley's teary eyes. “All the time,” he said, voice full of remorse, as though it were his fault she was in so much pain. “Hart?” he said softly, the single word an entire question, and she sniffled, nodding her head up and down. She was okay; because she had to be.

Reluctant to move but knowing they didn't have the time, the Doctor stood slowly to his feet, bringing a still-distraught Hartley with him. One hand wrapped around her, he used his free hand to aim the sonic at the cage door. From above them there was the loud grinding of metal and Hartley flinched at the sound.

  
“They're breaking in,” Donna cried, eyeing the door at the top of the stairwell warily.

  
“Ah, let them,” the Doctor replied with a flippant growl, yanking open the door to the cage and stepping inside, Hartley and Donna following in after him. They slowly approached the Ood, all of whom were cowering against the far wall of the cage. Their song became louder with anxiety.

  
“What are you holding?” the Doctor asked, crouching down to their level so as to seem less imposing. Hartley and Donna mimicked him, stooping down and staring at the young, scared Ood with overwhelming sympathy. Hartley realised they were all clutching something small in their gloved hands. “Show me. Friend. Doctor, Donna, friend. Hartley, friend,” he told them in a low, soothing voice. “Let me see. That's it, go on.”

An Ood hesitantly approached, shuffling closer and gingerly opening his hands, revealing what lay within. A small, pink brain sat in his palm, utterly vulnerable to the world.

  
“Is that...?” Donna trailed off, unable to finished.

“A brain,” whispered Hartley in shock. “It's a _brain_.”

  
“A _hind_ brain,” the Doctor corrected her gently, sounding just as in shock. “The Ood are born with a secondary brain. Like the amygdala in humans, it processes memory and emotions. You get rid of that, you wouldn't be Donna or Hartley anymore. You'd be like an Ood. A _processed_ Ood.”

Realising what he was saying, nausea rolled through Hartley's stomach like a wave at the beach.

  
“So the company cuts off their brains?” Donna asked, horrified.

“And they stitch on the translator,” he spat in confirmation.

  
“Like a lobotomy,” she gasped, and Hartley stared into the eyes of the Ood. They held more emotion than any she'd met in the past. She could feel his sadness, his pain, his mind-numbing _fear._

Hartley began to move, driven by an instinct she didn't really understand. She reached out, gently grasping the Ood's hand, the one that wasn't holding his hind brain. His emotions got louder, more bright in Hartley's sensitive mind. The Ood's song of sorrow grew to a near-deafening volume, but she persevered.

“Hartley?” the Doctor asked, watching on with cautious eyes, but he went ignored.

She focused on sending everything she had at the Ood, flooding him with love and kindness and respect, none of which he had ever before experienced from a human. He sent back a pulse of gratitude, blind trust and love. He was full of innocence, vulnerability that stabbed her in the chest. They were so very young.

“What're you doing?” Donna whispered in confusion, but it wasn't Hartley who answered.

“They're both Empaths,” the Doctor explained. “She's letting him know he'll be okay. Comforting him in a way neither of us ever could.”

Hartley was silent another minute, soaking in the feelings, the connectedness she shared with these other Empaths, so different from her, and yet so very much alike. Finally she opened her eyes, peering at the young Ood with sadness.

“He's so scared,” she whispered to Donna and the Doctor, voice full of their shared pain. “He's young. Barely a year old,” she told them, feeling herself tremble.

Donna sucked in a sharp, horrified breath from behind them. “I spent all that time looking for you, Doctor, because I thought it was so wonderful out here,” she said, saturated with shock and disgust. Disgust with what humanity had become. “I want to go home,” she whispered, and Hartley glanced over at her in surprise.

Before anyone could so much as utter a word there was a large crash from above them and all three travellers flinched, spinning around to look behind them. A small army of guards were rushing down the stairs towards them.

  
“They're with the Ood, sir!” shouted a young, overeager guard. But the Doctor didn't waste any time, bolting to his feet and grasping the door to the cage, yanking it shut and sneering at the approaching guards. They were led by a tall, balding man wearing an expensive suit and a permanent scowl.

  
“What you going to do, then?” the Doctor snarled at the group of men. “Arrest me? Lock me up? Throw me in a cage? Well, you're too late. Ha!”

But neither the man, nor the guards, seemed to see this as the power move it was, grasping the door to the cage and pulling. It opened with a squeak, and the guards leapt inside.

Everything was thrown into chaos as Hartley and Donna tried to fight, but then the Doctor surprised them by saying, “don't fight it. We'll go with you.”

Hartley desperately wanted to argue. She'd have rathered die than be cuffed and dragged along like some kind of _prisoner._ She'd been that before, and had no interest in being one again.

But then she met the Doctor's eyes and knew there was more to this than her own fears, her own pride. He had a plan – or, as much of a plan as usual – and needed her to cooperate. Reluctant, Hartley let the guards cuff her and remained silent as they were marched from the basement like prisoners on death row.

Hartley barely remembered the walk back to the main building. She recalled the cold that seeped through her shoes from the snow and the biting chill of the handcuffs around her wrists. Feel, that she could do. But see? Everywhere she looked she was back aboard the Valiant, stuck in that tiny room with nothing and no one but the Master for company.

She could hear his laughter in her ears; smell the tang of sweat and and the rust of blood as it filled the room; see that manic look in his eyes as he goaded her, tried to make her tear apart at the seams. She felt like throwing up.

“Hartley!” the Doctor shouted, urgent, making her think it hadn't been the first time he'd said her name.

Blinking back to herself, she turned her head to the left to look at him, eyes wide as she stared, mind struggling to find a balance between her two warring realities.

“Would you just take those cuffs off?!” the Doctor continued, the words snapped at the man in charge, a rare frustration leaking into his voice. “She's claustrophobic. She can't handle being bound!”

“Well, she's going to _have_ to,” barked the man from up front, reaching up to pat at his sweating head, then reaching out for a drink from his personal Ood. He threw it back like whiskey, coughing and handing it back, then patted the top of his balding head self-consciously.

Hartley swallowed, turning to look at the Doctor. He was staring at her, his worry written across his face. She nodded, just a small jerk of her head that seemed to do nothing to ease his concern.

“Why don't you just come out and say it?” snapped the balding man, the one Hartley assumed to be in charge. “FOTO activists,” he spat with no small degree of disgust. Hartley pulled at her restraints, the chilled metal of the cuffs cutting into the delicate skin of her wrists.

  
“If that's what Friends Of The Ood are trying to prove, then yes,” the Doctor spat back, glaring at the man furiously.

  
“The Ood were nothing without us,” said the man, giving a derisive chuckle that made Hartley's skin crawl, “just animals roaming around on the ice.”

  
“That's because you can't _hear_ them,” the Doctor replied in a hiss.

“They welcomed it,” laughed the man, chest puffed out in a pose of power. “It's not as if they put up a fight.”

  
“You idiot,” Donna snarled, and the smug look on the man's face melted, giving way to surprise at being called such a name. “They're born with their _brains_ in their _hands._ Don't you see, that makes them _peaceful_. They've got to be, because a creature like that would have to trust anyone it meets,” she said, words hard with conviction.

  
“Oh, nice one,” the Doctor commented absently.

  
“Thank you.”

“They're angry _,_ ” Hartley spoke up, unable to stay silent any longer.

“Excuse me?” the man asked, eyebrows raised at the unexpected comment.

“The Ood,” she elaborated, eyes dark with ire of her own. “They're _angry_.”

The man gave a greasy grin. “Then you clearly don't know much about the Ood,” he said in a tone of great condescension. “Inventing lies like that in your head, just to justify your cause … how could you possibly know how they _feel_?” he spat like the words themselves were the most ludicrous thing to ever leave his lips.

Hartley couldn't answer – because what would she say? That she was an Empath? That she could feel the anger and the pain thrumming through the Ood as if it were her own? He'd only think her even more insane.

Smirking smugly, as if her silence had proved his victory, he folded his hands over his small beer belly. “The system's worked for two hundred years. All we've got is a rogue batch,” he stood from where he'd been leant against the table, taking a few extra steps into their space, a sneer on his oily face. “But the infection is about to be sterilised,” he said with a vicious snarl, before lifting his wrist and speaking into his communicator. “Mr. Kess – how do we stand?”

“Canisters primed, Mr. Halpen. As soon as the core heats up, the gas is released. Give it two hundred marks and counting.”

The words didn't register with the women as quickly as they did with the Doctor, whose eyes went wide with horror. _“_ You're going to gas them?” he demanded, staring at the man – who she now knew to be Mr. Halpen – with revulsion.

  
“Kill the livestock,” he said simply. “The classic foot and mouth solution from the olden days. Still works.”

  
“No!” Hartley exclaimed, pulling harder at her restraints. “You can't do that!”

“I just did,” replied Halpen with a victorious little sneer.

Her heart dropping into her stomach. She was no longer seeing the Valiant everywhere she looked, instead she was full of a bursting pain, a crushing fear for the Ood filling that warehouse. They were all going to be gassed, as though they were nothing, as though their lives meant _nothing._ She felt like she might be sick.

She opened her mouth to let her rage pour out, but before she had the chance to say so much as a word she was interrupted by an alarm. Loud and piercing, it cut through the air of the entire facility.

“What the hell?” Halpen hissed, flinching at the sound, beady eyes flickering around the room like he might find the source of the emergency. After a moment he seemed to realise this wouldn't work and stormed towards the door they'd entered through. The door slammed against the wall as he threw it open, violent in his haste to leave.

He disappeared, leaving Hartley, Donna and the Doctor alone with his small handful of armed guards.

“What now?” hissed Donna, aware of the guards watching and listening closely, but unable to keep from asking.

“Stay calm,” the Doctor replied, eyes flitting between the guards and the empty doorway, assessing their options.

Through the open door they began to hear the loud roar of gunfire, and both Hartley and Donna stiffened in response. “Bit hard to keep calm when there're guns blazing just outside,” the latter hissed back sharply. “It sounds like a war zone out there.”

Before anyone had a chance to respond, Halpen, his Ood and the scientist returned from the fray outside, the former nervously moping at the sweat on his shiny head.

“Change of plan!” he announced in a commanding voice that was just slightly too high of a pitch to be taken seriously.

  
“There are no reports of trouble off-world, sir,” said the scientist, hurrying after him like a slave – like an Ood. “It's still contained to the Ood Sphere.”

  
Halpen tilted his head up, like the duty of keeping the universe safe had fallen solely onto his pointy shoulders. “Then we've got a public duty to stop it before it spreads,” he said proudly.

  
“What's happening?” the Doctor demanded before Halpen could spew any more bullshit fuelled by his hero syndrome.

  
“Everything you wanted, Doctor,” Halpen said plainly, watery eyes moving between the three travellers, lips pulled into a sneer. “No doubt there'll be a full police investigation once this place has been sterilised, so I can't risk a bullet to the head.” At his words Hartley cringed, heart leaping in her chest with fear for her friends. “I'll leave you to the mercies of the Ood,” Halpen told them decisively, then ducked his head and made for the door.

  
“But Mister Halpen – there's something else, isn't there?” the Doctor called after him, and Halpen came to a sudden stop, turning to eye the Doctor in contempt. “Something we haven't seen.”

  
“Like what, Doctor?” Hartley asked, leaning closer into Donna, unthinkingly creating a barrier between the fiery redhead and the balding CEO – just to be safe.

  
“A creature couldn't survive with a separate forebrain and hind brain, they'd be at war with themselves,” the Doctor explained in a hurry, maintaining eye contact with Halpen, who seemed to be getting paler by the minute. “There's got to be something else, a third element, am I right?”

  
Halpen smirked, the expression layered with disdain. “And again, so clever,” he purred, and it made Hartley want to hurl.

  
“But it's got to be connected to the red eye!” the Doctor shouted over the growing roar of gunfire outside. “What is it?” he demanded, and Halpen seemed to snap.

  
“ _It_ ,” he spat, moving into the Doctor's space, sneer on his face growing, hatred and fear swimming in his eyes – and his soul, “won't exist for very much longer.” He gave a tiny smirk, thinking that he'd won. “Enjoy your Ood,” he told them darkly before turning and once more storming from the room.

The guards followed, and the moment they were gone, the trio immediately began to try and break free of their handcuffs.

“Well?” Donna asked sharply after a minute without any progress. “Do something. Hart, quick – break your wrist!”

Startled, Hartley whirled around to look at her. “Why would I break my own wrist?”

“It's what they do in movies, to get out of handcuffs,” Donna explained, still wiggling as she struggled to get free.

“Why me?”

“You're the immortal one – it won't hurt you, right?”

“That's not how it _works-_ ”

“These are _really_ good handcuffs,” the Doctor interrupted their mild bickering, and Donna whirled on him with an exasperated glare.

  
“Oh well, I'm glad of that,” she hissed in pure frustration. “I mean, at least we've got _quality._ ”  
  


From across the room the sound of an automatic door sliding open met their ears, and all three friends froze. Standing in the doorway were three Ood, holding their translation spheres out in front of them, all of their eyes glowing a dangerous red.

They began to approach, eerily still and terrifyingly calm, spheres they used as weapons held out in threat.

  
“Hartley, Doctor, Donna, friends!” the Doctor exclaimed immediately, eyes wild with panic. Even for him, the odds of getting out of the situation weren't good.

  
“The circle must be broken!” Donna added desperately, voice shrill as the Ood steadily approached.

Hartley wasn't sure words would do any good, so she didn't bother to try. Instead she closed her eyes, dropping her chin to her chest and inhaling deeply. She focused on feelings of love and respect, trying to convey how much she cared, and how sorry she was that this was happening. She tried to tell them, using only her emotions, how scared she was for her friends, how they didn't deserve to die – not here, not now.

The Doctor and Donna abruptly stopped talking, and Hartley lifted her head to see the Ood with theirs in their hands. All three travellers were perfectly still, silent as they watched on, until finally the Ood all lifted their head, the red gone from their squinted eyes. When they next spoke, it was with no threat in their automated, robotic voice.  
  
 _“Hartley. Doctor, Donna. Friends.”_

  
The three relaxed, elation and relief spread out across their faces. “Yes – friends!” Hartley beamed, almost forgetting their dire circumstances under the force of her relief.

“ _You are bound._ ”

“Could you reach into the pocket of my coat? Hand me the long object inside?” Hartley opened her mouth, practically instinct at this point, and the Doctor cut her off with a sharp, “no.”

Pouting, she watched wordlessly as the Ood leaned around the Doctor to slip his sonic into his cuffed hands.

“Yes – thank you, thank you,” the Doctor gushed gratefully. There was a low buzz and the soft _clink_ of metal meeting tile, then the Doctor was free.

“Oh, thank God!” Donna exclaimed loudly, leaning to the side as the Doctor worked on her cuffs. They dropped to the floor next to his, and he quickly moved on to Hartley.

The cuffs dropped from her wrists, and she quickly brought them up to her chest, gripping them tightly and trying to rub away the ache there.

“All right?” the Doctor asked her, taking just a moment for the two of them, making sure she was okay. Concern shone from him like a light and she found herself revelling in it, letting the feeling of it warm her up where before she'd been bitterly cold.

“Yeah,” she nodded, her voice soft.

“Oi – quit it with the googly eyes,” barked Donna, and the two moved away from one another, scolded.

“Come on!” called the Doctor, recovering quickly and bolting for the door, shouting a 'thank you' to the Ood as he ran. Donna and Hartley rushed after him, keeping close to his tail even as they burst out into the frigid cold.

Snow fell from the sky and the brutal sound of gunfire pierced the air. Hartley felt like she could hardly breathe, and she struggled to stay upright on the stairs, the concrete covered by a thin layer of treacherous ice.

  
“I don't know where it is!” the Doctor yelled back at them as they ran, shoes sinking into the freshly fallen snow. “I don't know where they've gone!”

  
“What are we looking for?” Donna shouted back in confusion.

“It might be underground…like some sort of cave, or a cavern, or…” the Doctor spun in a circle, hand tugging desperately at his hair, eyes narrowed against the falling snow.

“What is?” Hartley pressed, coming to a stop beside him, grasping ahold of his arm and tilting her head back to look at him properly. “ _What_ is, Doctor?”

But he didn't answer. “Let's try this way!” he called instead, spinning around and bolting in the other direction. Hartley and Donna hurried to keep up. The compound was still in a state of absolute chaos. Hartley felt the breeze of bullets as they flew by her face, and gasped at how close she'd come to a (however temporary) death.

The blanket of snow below their feet grew higher and thicker, and they struggled to trudge through it, shoes sinking into its fluffy surface.

So consumed by cold were they that the flash of sudden heat was stunning. Something exploded behind them and the cries they let out were swallowed by the deafening bang of the blast, all of them pushed from their feet and catapulted face-first into the snow.

The heat crackled against their backs as they lifted their heads from the powdery ground. The Doctor was instantly pushing himself up, eyeing them both with concern. “All right?” he asked them, but Hartley had to shake her head to hear, ears still ringing from the explosion.

She felt a flare of sudden emotion from behind them, a strange sort of recognition, and immediately spun around, having trouble discerning a friend from a foe in the mayhem of it all.

  
The smoke cleared to reveal an Ood standing in amongst the wreckage. His appearance was hardly familiar – they all looked practically identical – but his presence was unique. Hartley nudged the Doctor, nodding her head at the Ood, who blinked back at them serenely, his eyes free of the red that plagued the others of his kind.

“It's Halpen's personal Ood,” she told him, voice raised over the ringing in her ears.

The Ood lifted his sphere, and it glowed softly as he spoke. _“Come with me.”_

The Doctor climbed to his feet, staring at the Ood even as he stuck out a hand to help both women off the snowy ground. “Where to?” he asked the Ood carefully.

“ _The circle must be broken._ ”

The Doctor turned to look at Donna and Hartley, both of whom were already nodding their heads. He nodded back and they turned to follow the Ood through the compound. There was less gunfire now. The Ood had killed a great deal of the men, but in return, the men had killed a great deal of the Ood. Hartley resolutely refused to look down at the corpses littering the ground, crimson blood staining the snow red.

The Ood led them to a door that the Doctor didn't hesitate to sonic open. He threw himself through it and catapulted down the stairs within, Donna and Hartley close on his heels, the Ood wandering down at a much calmer pace, like it had all the patience in the world.

Below them was an underground cavern, and inside was enough to make Hartley freeze in shock.

A great, massive _brain_ sat nestled in the space beneath them. It glowed in the orange lights provided, glistening wetly, pink and so very alive. The whole room hummed with electricity, and the brain jerked every few moments, like it were in pain.

  
“The Ood Brain,” the Doctor breathed, eyeing it with wide eyes, realisation flooding him. “Now it all makes sense. That's the missing link. The third element, binding them together. Forebrain, hind brain, and this, the telepathic centre. It's a shared mind, connecting all the Ood in song.”

From the opposite side of the room there was the loud cocking of a gun, and Hartley shifted instinctively in front of Donna, who was less than pleased by the action, but knew better than to argue.

  
“Cargo,” said Halpen, a manic edge to his voice. “I can always go into cargo. I've got the rockets, I've got the sheds. Smaller business. Much more manageable, without livestock,” he added in a sneer.

  
“He's mined the area!” exclaimed the scientist behind him, a warning in his eyes.

  
“You're going to _kill_ it?” Donna gasped in sheer horror.

  
Halpen gave a waning smile. “They found that _thing_ centuries ago beneath the Northern Glacier,” he spat, slowly approaching them, barrel of his gun aimed directly at the Doctor. Hartley wanted to shift in front of him too, but he could at least regenerate – he had more than one life. Donna, on the other hand, did not, so Hartley remained where she was, nerve endings tingling, every inch of her at attention.

  
To his credit, the Doctor hardly flinched in the face of the CEO's weapon. “Those pylons...” he trailed off, leaning back over the railing to eye the pylons as they radiated the electricity. It writhed and zapped between them all, creating one large, buzzing circle.

  
Donna had realised the same thing. “In a circle,” she said quietly, sadness and compassion staining her voice. “The circle must be broken.”

  
“Damping the telepathic field,” the Doctor said, hands in his pockets, calm on the outside while a storm raged within, “stopping the Ood from connecting for _two_ _hundred_ years.”

Hartley felt her eyes sting with the kind of empathy only she could ever hold. She could feel the brain like it were a person, like it had a soul of its own. She felt it pulse and thrum with emotion, the emotion of _millions_ of Ood spread across the three galaxies of the human empire. The force of it threatened to bowl her over, and she knew she needed something to tether her to reality.

She reached out, searching for something, anything, and was filled with a strong relief when Donna slipped her hand into hers. She gripped it tightly, the two friends finding comfort in one another, bonding through their shared sorrow.

  
“And you, Ood Sigma,” said Halpen, as though the Doctor hadn't even spoken, eyeing his Ood with disappointment, “you brought them here. I expected better.”

  
“My place is at your side, sir,” said Ood Sigma through his translation sphere, walking over towards the balding man, utterly placid.

  
Halpen laughed, the sound weak and frail. “Still subservient,” he said smugly. “Good Ood.”

Hartley's throat felt dry. It was like they were on the cusp of something – in this moment, right now, they would either free a whole race from slavery, or they would doom them all to death. It was down to them – they were the only thing standing between this man and genocide.

  
“If that barrier thing's in place, how come the Ood started breaking out?” Donna asked, gripping Hartley's hand tighter, but the younger woman refused to move out from in front of her. She wasn't going to risk Donna getting hurt. Not ever.

  
“Maybe it's taken centuries to adapt,” the Doctor mused, glancing back down at the Ood Brain. “The subconscious reaching out?”

  
“But the process was too slow,” said an unexpected voice, and they looked over to the scientist, the one whose name Hartley didn't know. He had a dark but triumphant look on his face as he turned to face his boss. “It had to be accelerated. You should never have given me access to the controls, Mr. Halpen. I lowered the barrier to its minimum,” he revealed quietly, knowing this was it – this was when he succeeded. “Friends Of The Ood, sir. It's taken me _ten years_ to infiltrate the company, and I succeeded,” he said, utterly victorious.

Halpen wasn't looking so good, and his features seemed to twist with illness as much as they did contempt. “Yes,” he said, sickly. “Yes, you did.”

He grasped onto the scientist's coat, and in one movement had tossed him over the edge. The man let out a shout as he fell, down and down, and a horrified scream tore from Hartley's lips as she rushed to the railing like she might be able to help him.

But it was too late, the brain he'd landed on absorbed him, and just like that he was gone.

Donna's eyes shone with tears, and horror lingered in her heart. “You _murdered_ him,” she cried, stunned and disgusted.

  
“Very observant, Ginger,” spat Halpen, jerking the gun to the right. “Now, then – can't say I've ever shot anyone before. Can't say I'm going to like it,” he said, shaky and weak.

'Unstable' and 'holding a gun' were never things that should be put together, and Hartley shifted instantly in front of both Donna and the Doctor. But she knew, no matter how determined she might have been, not even she was faster than a speeding bullet.

“But, er, it's not exactly a normal day, is it?” Halpen continued with a nervous, sickly little laugh.

Hartley tried to figure out the best way to disarm him. He was too far away for anything useful, the only thing she could think to do was maybe run, distract him and give the others the opportunity to do something. She'd just coiled her muscles, preparing to run, when the Doctor's fingers curled around her wrist, silently telling her not to move.

  
“ _Would you like a drink, sir?_ ” Ood Sigma asked abruptly, and Halpen glanced over at his slave incredulously.

  
“I think hair loss is the least of my problems right now, thanks,” he drawled, but Hartley noticed the gun begin to tremble in his hand. Her own hands tightening into fists, she stood firm, a small but effective human shield to the Doctor and Donna.

But she wasn't the only one.

Ood Sigma appeared between them, utterly still and calm, but to a degree that was eerie.

  
“ _Please have a drink, sir_ ,” he said evenly.

  
“If you're going to stand in their way, I'll shoot you too,” Halpen threatened.

“No!” Hartley cried, pained by the possibility that he might be hurt when she could prevent it, but the Doctor gripped her tighter.

“Hartley,” he whispered, just a soft hiss, pleading with her not to react.

  
“ _Please have a drink, sir_ ,” Ood Sigma repeated, and suddenly, like a cog shifting into place, she understood. Eyes wide, she stepped back against the Doctor, feeling his cool body against hers, a solid pressure, reassuring and firm.

Halpen looked like he might be sick, growing even more pale, chalky skin beginning to sweat.

He lifted a hand to his throat, eyes wide with stunned horror. “Have, have you _poisoned_ me?” he stammered.

  
“ _Natural Ood must never kill, sir,_ ” Ood Sigma replied pleasantly.

The Doctor leaned over Hartley's shoulder, eyeing the Ood curiously. “What is that stuff?” he asked, frown knitting his brow.

  
“ _Ood graft suspended in a biological compound, sir_ ,” Ood Sigma informed him politely.

  
“What the hell does that mean?” snapped Halpen, beginning to panic, one hand held to his sweating head.

  
“Oh, dear,” the Doctor purred, a wide smirk on his lips.

  
“Tell me!”

  
“Funny thing, the subconscious,” the Doctor began slyly. “Takes all sorts of shapes. Came out in the red eye as revenge, came out in the rabid Ood as anger, and then there was _patience,_ ” he drawled, and finally Hartley understood. “All that intelligence and mercy, focused on Ood Sigma.”

“Oh,” Hartley breathed. “ _The two most powerful warriors are patience and time,_ ” she murmured in steady realisation.

“Right you are, Hartley,” said the Doctor cheerfully before leaning over Ood Sigma's shoulder to grin darkly at the trembling man before them. “How's the hair loss, Mister Halpen?” he asked loudly.

Halpen reached up to his head, and when he pulled his hand away he found a clump of frail hair in his fingers. “What have you done?” he asked, corners of his mouth pulling down as he began to cry. Hartley felt his fear, his terror and pain, and reached out again. Donna reached for her in the same instant, like she knew she needed her, and she felt better holding her friend's hand, comfort thrumming through her veins.

  
“Oh, they've been preparing you for a _very_ long time,” the Doctor told the man, impassioned. “And now you're standing next to the Ood Brain, Mister Halpen … can you hear it? _Listen._ ”

  
“What have you...? I-I'm not,” he stammered, trembling so hard that the gun slipped from his fingers, clattering to the grating beneath their feet. His face went slack, eyes hollow. There was a brief absence of emotion as he dropped his head, beginning to peel the skin from his scalp.

Hartley's hands flew up to her mouth, gasping into her palms with horror as she reluctantly watched him reveal his skull. His mouth opened, from it spilling familiar, beige-coloured tentacles.

  
He stood back up, gloved hands pressing against his now hairless skull. Hartley's jaw fell open as she stared at him, too stunned to form words.

  
“They, they turned him into an Ood?” Donna stammered.

  
“Yep.”  
  


“He's an _Ood_.”

“I noticed.”

Halpen, now fully an Ood, gave a low sneeze. A small, slimy hind brain fell from his mouth, plopping into his open hands, and he blinked down at it in surprise.

  
Hartley finally dropped her hands from her gaping mouth, pulling them down to clutch at her own throat, staring at him in shock.

  
“ _He has become Oodkind_ ,” said Ood Sigma gently, “ _and we will take care of him._ ”

There was a beat, the Doctor assessing the situation quietly. “It's weird, being with you two,” Donna said, soft and thoughtful. “I can't tell what's right and what's wrong anymore.”

Despite herself, Hartley let out a low laugh, born more of hysteria than actual amusement. She remembered saying the same, back with Nine. All those years ago on the planet Ulka, she and Rose had questioned him about the nature of good and evil, of wrong and right, when it came to their travels.

“Join the club,” she said wryly, crossing her arms over her chest, eyeing the newly born Ood with caution.

  
“It's better that way,” the Doctor sniffed. “People who know for certain tend to be like Mr. Halpen,” he said, and it was a fair point. She remembered what he'd said all that time ago, and now she knew she agreed. She'd rather to stay living in shades of grey. It was easier to be one of the good guys, that way.

There was a sharp beeping and Hartley gasped with realisation. “The explosives!” she said shrilly, but the Doctor was onto it before she'd even finished speaking.

  
He leant over the railing, quickly and efficiently deactivating the explosives threatening to destroy the Ood Brain and with it, all of the Ood themselves.

  
“That's better!” he chirped, perfectly happy as he raced over to the panel by the far wall, spinning around to grin at the Ood brightly. “And now, Sigma, would you allow me the honour?” he requested hopefully.

  
Hartley wasn't sure if it was _physically_ possible for Oods to smile, but on the inside, Ood Sigma was wearing a smile brighter than any she'd ever seen. It shone out of him like sunshine. “ _It is yours, Doctor._ ”

  
“Oh, yes!” the Doctor crowed brightly. Hartley moved over to the railing, looking down on the Ood Brain, holding her breath in anticipation. “Stifled for two hundred years, but not any more. The circle is broken. The Ood can sing!”

With a final yank of a lever the current surrounding the Ood Brain died, and the song that had remained in Hartley's head, the one of sadness and pain and sorrow, began to change. Slowly it evolved, becoming something light, happy and full of a hope so strong that it made her feel warm.

“I can hear it!” Donna cried. Hartley's eyes brimmed with tears, beyond stunned and humbled by all they had achieved there today.

* * *

“The message has gone out,” the Doctor told the Ood with a happy, proud smile. “That song resonated across the galaxies. Everyone heard it. Everyone knows. The rockets are bringing them back. The Ood are coming home.”

  
“ _We thank you, Hartley and Doctor Donna, friends of Oodkind,_ ” said Ood Sigma. The bright sun beat down on them, and Hartley winced against its light, the smile on her lips remaining. “ _And what of you now? Will you stay?_ ” asked the Ood gently. “ _There is room in the song for you._ ”

  
“Oh, I've, I've sort of got a song of my own, thanks,” the Doctor replied with a small glance down at Hartley and Donna. Hartley smiled up at him, curling her arms around one of his and holding on. She felt the Ood's happiness like it were a tangible thing. It pierced her insides, split between making her want to laugh and cry at the same time. It was wonderful and overwhelming all at once.

  
“ _I think your song must end soon._ ”

Immediately the bubble of warmth that had grown within Hartley's gut was popped. She gripped the Doctor's arm, like if she held on tightly enough he wouldn't ever be able to leave. The Doctor's happy emotions flattened out too, suddenly full of wary apprehension.

  
“Meaning?” he asked, the words careful and deliberate.

  
“ _Every song must end,_ ” was all Ood Sigma said, simple and matter-of-fact, but still chilling to hear.

  
“Yeah,” he murmured, pausing before looking down at Hartley. She blinked back up at him, and he quickly wiped the frown from his face, lest it dampen the mood. “Er, what about you?” he asked, looking over Hartley's head to Donna, who was smiling serenely. “You still want to go home?”

  
“No,” she replied warmly. “Definitely not.”

“That's so good to hear,” Hartley told her, letting go of the Doctor to wind her arm around Donna's instead, gripping onto the puffy fabric of her snow jacket, smiling happily. Donna grinned back, and she felt a thrum of warm content that made her want to curl up and go to sleep.

  
“Then we'll be off,” said the Doctor, turned back to the Ood with a smile.

“ _Take this song with you,_ ” said Ood Sigma kindly.

  
“We will,” Donna promised.

  
“Always,” the Doctor swore.

  
“ _And know this, Hartley and Doctor Donna. You will never be forgotten. Our children will sing of the Doctor Donna, and our children's children, and the wind and the ice and the snow will carry your names forever…_ ”

The inside of the TARDIS was warm, Hartley shedding her jacket once the doors were closed, sealing the heat of the ship inside. She threw it over the railing, running a hand through her loose hair, still slightly damp from the snow.

“What d'you think he meant?” asked Donna curiously, and the Doctor looked up from the console, where he'd been piloting the ship back into the vortex.

“Who?” he asked obliviously.

“The Ood. He said that your song was ending soon.”

The Doctor didn't outwardly react but Hartley felt his internal confusion and anxiety over the Ood's passing comment, the emotions he was too distracted to bother masking. “Dunno,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. “They're Ood, aren't they? Could've meant anything.”

“Do you think you're in danger?” Donna pressed worriedly.

“Nah,” he gave a wide, unconcerned grin. He turned to Hartley, who was leant against the railing, watching with curious eyes. “Why don't you go get started on dinner?” he suggested. “Just something simple?”

They didn't tend to usually stay in and cook all that often and she wondered why he was deciding to now. But one look in his eyes told her the answer – he needed a moment alone, needed her to distract Donna and give him some space to process all they'd just been through. And if that was something she could do for him, then it was something she'd do gladly.

Donna, however, was surprised by the request. “You mean we're not gonna go to some fancy outer space restaurant?” she asked, half teasing, half confused. They didn't have dinner on the TARDIS very often – why eat at home when you had every restaurant and café in the whole of time and space to choose from?

“I think we could all do with a night in,” the Doctor told her gently.

And now that he'd suggested it, Hartley knew it was exactly what they needed. A good, homemade meal and a night of movies and laughter. “There's a baked spaghetti recipe I've been wanting to try,” she offered, and he smiled.

“Sounds good.”

“Come on, Donna,” she said quietly. “Let's go get started. You can pick the music.”

She didn't argue, nodding her head and heading obediently out into the hallway.

Hartley paused in the doorway, glancing back at the Doctor. He was frowning down at the console, pensive and thoughtful. Feeling sharply like she was intruding on something private, Hartley turned away and headed for the kitchen.

Donna was already there, fiddling with the jukebox in the corner. “Think you can handle grating the cheese?” Hartley asked, a note of playfulness to her voice. Donna looked up, shooting her an unimpressed look as she hit play on the music, the jukebox spitting out a string of old-timey jazz, the kind that made you want to dance.

Hartley handed over the cube of cheese as Donna fished out the grater. They worked in companionable quiet, both of them listening to the lilting jazz coming from the speakers. Hartley could tell there was something on Donna's mind, but just silently worked on her homemade sauce as she waited for her to gather her thoughts.

“What happened last time?” Donna finally asked just as Hartley was letting her sauce simmer.

“Last time?” she asked distantly.

“The last time you met the Ood – with Rose?”

A wry smile appeared on Hartley's lips. “It's a _very_ long story,” she warned her gently.

“We've got time,” Donna said simply.

And so Hartley caved, beginning to tell her the tale of their adventure on that Impossible Planet and their encounter with what they could only call the Devil. Donna interrupted quite a lot at first, mostly with questions and her usual sassy comments, but the further she got into the story, into the terrifying events that had taken place, her friend fell quiet, hanging on every word.

“And I thought the Doctor was gone for good. I was almost sure of it. But then he appears, telling us he's towing us away from the black hole. I can't even begin to describe the relief I felt – Rose too. I think we just about cried at the sound of his voice.”

“You really thought he was dead?” Donna asked, leaning against the counter and watching as Hartley sprinkled the mozzarella onto the dish, then carefully slid it into the oven to bake.

“For a moment there,” she admitted with a nod, rinsing her hands in the sink before opening the fridge and pulling out a couple bottles of Coca-Cola for them to drink. Donna was silent again, considering what she'd said, and probably thanking the stars that particular adventure had been before her time. A question burned at Hartley's tongue, and she couldn't help but voice it, careful and curious. “Were you serious today?” she asked softly. “About wanting to leave, I mean.”

Donna paused, looking over at her with a furrowed brow, the gentle hum of a saxophone still pouring from the jukebox in the corner.

“Hasn't there ever been a moment when you've considered leaving?” Donna asked, rather than answer properly. The question was a valid one and Hartley went quiet, frowning down into the neck of her bottle, watching as bubbles danced at the surface of her drink.

Her mind went to the first logical place, and she grimaced at the influx of memories.

“During the Year That Never Was, I thought about it a lot,” she revealed quietly, tilting the bottle in her hand and watching as the liquid within swirled around and around. “Not so much leaving as just wishing I'd never been here in the first place.”

It was hard to admit, but true nevertheless.

“If I'd never met the Doctor, I'd have never been in that situation,” she said meekly. “But once it was over and I was back aboard the TARDIS, once it was back to business as usual, I knew I wanted to stay. I _needed_ to stay.”

Donna was quiet a moment, considering her words. “Today I saw the worst of the universe,” she began softly, “and for a moment there it was all I _could_ see. But then things changed, and I saw the _best_. I'm never going to give this up,” she said with conviction, and Hartley looked over to see a fierce determination on her face. “I'm going to travel with you two _forever._ ”

Hartley smiled, wide and fond. “Good,” she said brightly, bumping Donna's hip with her own, “because I don't intend to ever let you go, Donna Noble.”

Donna grinned, but before she could reply the Doctor padded into the room, rolling back the sleeves of his shirt, having shed his pinstripe suit jacket somewhere along the way. Hartley felt a flare of attraction at seeing his bare forearms, but shook herself out of it before she could begin to broadcast it on all frequencies.

“Dinner ready?” he asked hopefully.

“Still baking,” Hartley told him, watching as he moved to the sink to wash his hands. “Should be done in about ten minutes, though.”

“But you only put it in five minutes ago,” argued Donna suddenly.

“It's an oven on an alien spaceship – the cooking time is significantly shorter than back on Earth,” Hartley reminded her with a small grin.

“This is just barmy,” Donna laughed.

“Still acclimatising?” the Doctor asked, getting out his own bottle of Coke and twisting the cap off with a flourish.

“Something like that.”

“Good choice in music,” the Doctor told her, gesturing to the jukebox in the back, still spitting out smooth, ambient jazz. “You like Swing Music?”

“Gramps got me hooked as a kid,” Donna admitted.

“Tell you what; next stop'll be a jazz bar, America, circa 1930s. You need to hear it live.”

“Can we find a Louis Armstrong gig?” Hartley asked hopefully.

“Sure,” he grinned. “Sounds perfect.”

And it really, really did. Across from them, Donna was shaking her head. “Barmy,” she repeated in playful exasperation, a contented smile quirking at her lips. “Absolutely barmy.”


	53. Alienated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, so this one deals with quite a lot of adult content, so tw for abuse and abusive relationships. Also a bit of death and destruction, alcohol content and general feels. Be warned.
> 
> Quick disclaimer: The Grosvenor Hotel is a real place in London and other parts of the world – one which I do not own, nor am in any way affiliated with. Now, knowing that, enjoy!

“ _Friends show their love in times of trouble,_

_not in happiness.”_

Euripides

* * *

It all began with Sylvia Noble's birthday.

“S'good thing I'm missing it, really,” Donna was telling Hartley, stirring sugar into her tea with a little more force than necessary. “She just spends the whole day being unbearably annoying. And nothing I ever get is good enough for her. Three years in a row she asked for the receipt so she could exchange what I'd gotten her.”

But while her words were saying one thing, there was a longing in her heart. Hartley knew that despite her how irritating her mother could be at times, Donna loved her, and felt guilty about missing her birthday.

“You know, we really wouldn't mind popping in,” Hartley reminded her.

Donna scoffed. “As if the Doctor wants to be part of my mum's birthday dinner.”

Hartley smiled into the rim of her teacup. “Good point,” she said wryly. “Well, at the very least he can drop _us_ off for a few hours. I could cook, if you like. Does your mum like roast pork?”

Donna considered it for a moment, eyes wandering over the homey kitchen of the TARDIS without really seeing any of it. “Nah,” she finally said, gaze flickering down into the murky depths of her tea. “It's a nice thought, but I don't really feel like being ridiculed today.”

Sadness bloomed in Hartley's chest, and she watched Donna with an empathetic frown. She knew what that was like – her own mother wasn't exactly the maternal type, either. “You must miss them,” she said quietly. Donna glanced back up. “Just because you're living life on the TARDIS, it doesn't mean you've gotta give up everything about your life back home.”

One of Donna's eyebrows arched skeptically. “Like you did?”

Hartley was stunned into silence. “Sorry?” she finally asked, thrown by the sudden words.

Donna winced apologetically. “I just mean that, well, I never hear you talk about your life back on Earth,” she explained. “And from what little I've gathered, it seems like you just up and left.”

Hartley spooned a little more sugar into her tea, just for something to do with her hands. “It's a little more complicated than that,” she said weakly. Donna was anything but convinced. “I meet up with my dad for tea every now and then – or every few weeks, from his perspective,” she continued, suddenly feeling strangely like she needed to justify herself. “Beyond that, there isn't really anyone I need to keep in contact with.”

Donna was still confused. “Come on, I don't believe for a moment that _you_ wouldn't have had any friends.”

Hartley wasn't entirely sure what Donna meant by that, frowning thoughtfully. “Actually, I didn't have many at all,” she said with a shrug of her shoulders. “Just one that really mattered – my flatmate, Emma.”

“And what does she think happened to you?”

“Back when I very first decided to travel with the Doctor, I went and told her I'd met a guy, and I was going travelling with him,” she revealed. “You'll notice it wasn't exactly a lie.”

Donna snorted. “Leave it to you to find the loophole.” Hartley smiled, taking another deep sip of her tea. “How long's it been since you've seen her, then?”

Hartley hesitated, realised with a start that she actually felt _ashamed_ of her answer. But she knew she couldn't just ignore Donna's question. “I haven't, actually,” she confessed. “Not since I said goodbye.”

Donna didn't seem to know what to say. Hartley stared down into her tea, lost in thought.

“Why not?” Donna eventually asked, the words soft and full of care.

Hartley looked up, surprised by the question. She opened her mouth only to discover that she didn't have an answer – or at least not one worth a damn. She closed it again, gulping down another mouthful of tea, the hot liquid scalding her throat.

Donna seemed to sense that she needed a minute to formulate her answer and remained patiently silent as she waited for Hartley to put her thoughts into words.

“I guess that when I left with the Doctor, I left it all behind me,” she finally said, fingertip tracing over the rim of her mug. “I didn't want to live with each foot in a different world. I just wanted to make the most of the now.”

Donna pondered her answer. “Were you happy?”

Hartley winced at the question. “I s'pose not,” she said, lifting her shoulders in a weak shrug. “Happy people don't just up and leave their lives, do they?” Glancing up to meet Donna's eyes, Hartley was horrified to find _pity_ shining in her heart. “Don't pity me,” she said, a little harder than necessary. “Please, I couldn't handle it.”

The pity receded into a gentle sympathy. “Sorry.”

“I said goodbye to her,” Hartley continued. “I said goodbye to that life. I got my closure.”

Donna didn't look convinced. Hartley wasn't so sure she was either.

“Why don't we pop round?” Donna suggested abruptly.

Hartley looked up at her, confused. “Pop round where?” she asked cluelessly.

Donna stared at her life she'd just dribbled on her shirt. “Your mate Emma's place,” she said with a roll of her eyes. Hartley stared back at her with wide eyes, very much a deer in the headlights. “Oh, go on,” Donna huffed. “You've gotta have some sort of a life outside _this,_ ” she said with a sweep of her hand at the TARDIS kitchen.

“Do I?” Hartley asked distantly.

Donna suddenly looked less teasing and more concerned. “Come on, Hart,” she implored, apparently not above begging. “I'd like to meet this Emma; have a real good look at what it is you left behind when you decided to go travelling with the Doctor.”

But Hartley didn't want to go see Emma; mainly because it had been so long. It was rather like when you forgot to call someone back, and then by the time you remembered it had been so long that it just felt weird – only on a much larger, timey-wimey scale.

On the other hand, she couldn't find anything to justify _not_ going. She couldn't just dig in her heels and say she didn't want to; how much more childish could you get?

So she relented, silently conceding that seeing her old friend might not be such a bad thing after all. It might even be fun. And it would get rid of that nagging voice in her head, supplying guilt over ditching Emma to go traipsing across the universe with a madman in a police box.

“Okay,” Hartley relented. “I s'pose we can go see her.”

“Oh, look a little more excited about it, won't you?” Donna chided her.

She smiled, lips pulling up at the corners. “Why don't you go get changed out of those pyjamas, and I'll tell the Doc where we're going?”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” said Donna brightly, draining the last of her tea and climbing to her feet.

“Donna?” Hartley called just before the redhead could slip from the kitchen. Donna turned around in the doorway, staring at Hartley expectantly. “You're just trying to get out of going to see your mum, aren't you?” she asked critically.

“I am not.”

Hartley rolled her eyes. “You can't lie to an Empath, Donna,” she reminded her, amusement soaking her voice.

Donna huffed. “All right, fine,” she relented. “That's part of it. But I really do wanna see where you lived before all this, and meet your old friends.”

Hartley laughed. “Meet us in the control room in twenty.”

Donna called an agreement over her shoulder as she disappeared into the labyrinthine halls of the TARDIS.

Hartley washed and put away their used dishes before making her way to the control room where she'd left the Doctor once Donna had woken up. She tugged at the distressed maroon fabric of her jumper, pulling the sleeves down over her fingers as she walked, undeniably anxious.

The Doctor was right where she'd left him, sitting on the grating with his back pressed to the console, a big hunk of metal and wires in one hand, the sonic screwdriver in the other.

“Donna and I know where we wanna go today,” she said in lieu of a proper greeting.

The Doctor looked up from his busywork, eyebrows raised. “Oh, and I get no say at all?” he drawled, acting slighted.

Hartley just rolled her eyes. “You picked the last _three_ places we went,” she reminded him, taking a seat on the grating beside him, absentmindedly dropping her hand onto his knee.

“Don't pretend you didn't love meeting Elvis,” he sniffed.

“I still say you shouldn't have given him that mobile phone,” she said, firm with disapproval. “Doesn't it go against your personal code?”

“But he's _Elvis_!” the Doctor argued. “The normal rules of time travel don't apply to someone like _him_.”

“If you say so, Doc,” she smiled, unmistakably fond.

“So, where to, then?” he asked, dumping the heavy device he'd been holding onto the grating at his right. It dropped with the clang of metal on metal, but neither traveller really cared. He reached for the hand that still lay innocently on his knee, wrapping it gingerly in his. “Please don't say another _Queen_ concert. Believe it or not, there _is_ such a thing as too much Freddie Mercury.”

She gasped theatrically. “Blasphemy,” she said, slapping his shoulder with her free hand.

The Doctor laughed. “Go on,” he prompted her. “Where next?”

“Donna wants to meet Emma,” she revealed slowly.

“Who's Emma?” the Doctor asked in confusion. She slapped him again, this time not nearly as gentle as the last. “Ouch!” he cried. “What?”

“My flatmate,” she reminded him tersely. “From back in London?”

“Oh! Right, yes – _that_ Emma,” he muttered, not quite as smooth as he'd hoped. Hartley rolled her eyes, not bothering to respond. “What does she wanna go meet her for?”

“I think she thinks it'll be good for me,” Hartley admitted.

“Will it?”

She hesitated. “I don't know.”

“Last you saw her was the day you said goodbye, wasn't it?” he asked, expression pinched as he thought back. “Have you spoken to her at all since then? Even a phone call?”

“No,” she murmured, looking away with guilt churning in her gut. What kind of friend was she?

“Well, when do you want to arrive?” he asked quickly. “I doubt you'd want to go with your own linear timeline, considering that would land us at about 2013.”

“I said I was going travelling, not abandoning her for eight years,” she shuddered at the thought of reappearing eight years later, looking nearly identical to when she'd left. Emma probably wouldn't even be living in the same flat. She always had wanted to move to Paris; and Hartley hoped that one day she had.

“I'll keep it to a few months,” the Doctor agreed.

Before Hartley could say anything more, Donna reappeared in a stylish grey top and some flattering jeans. “You look nice,” Hartley said with a smile. Donna waved her away modestly.

At her appearance the Doctor began to set about piloting his ship towards London, 2005. Hartley turned to Donna, concern suddenly niggling at her insides.

“Okay, so we should get our stories straight,” she began bracingly. “You and I met on my travels – maybe in Egypt, since I know you've been before – and we became friends. I'm not immortal or in any other way special, and I've only known you two months.”

Donna frowned. “Who's he in this scenario?” she asked, jerking her head at the Doctor, who was scribbling something in Circular Gallifreyan down on a sticky note.

“My boyfriend,” Hartley said nonchalantly. The Doctor balked, looking up from his scribbling with wide, panicked eyes.

“Boyfriend?” he asked, voice small and squeaky.

“What else would we call it?” she asked, a perfectly reasonable question.

“All that snogging and sickening heart eyes, and you two haven't even had the 'what are we' conversation yet?” Donna asked them critically.

Hartley rolled her eyes while the Doctor continued to look blindsided by the topic. “We're not really the kind of people who like to label things,” Hartley explained, if only to cut the Doctor a break.

“Well, you're gonna have to have something ready to tell people,” she replied with a snort, “because 'mad about one another but refusing to label it' isn't a way humans tend to explain their relationships.”

The Doctor was blinking really hard, as if even with that huge, brilliant brain of his he were struggling to keep up. “Well, you're my companion,” he told Hartley as if it solved everything.

Donna squawked from across the console room. “You can't call her your 'companion',” she argued. “Not unless you actually _want_ people to think you're an alien.”

The Doctor stared back vacantly, well and truly out of his depth. Hartley rolled her eyes, unable to help but laugh just a little. “I think we'll stick with boyfriend,” she said decisively.

“Right,” said the Doctor, sounding just a little shellshocked. “Boyfriend. Blimey.”

“Bet it's been a while since you were someone's boyfriend, eh?” Donna teased.

“A little while, yeah,” he agreed distantly.

Suddenly concerned, Hartley reached for his hand where it hung limply on the zigzag plotter, sliding her fingers through his and holding on tight. She had to duck her head to catch his gaze, and when she did she found a storm of indecision raging in his chocolate eyes.

“Hey,” she said gently, like she was trying not to spook a wounded animal. “This is okay with you, right?” she asked. “Because if you're uncomfortable with being called my boyfriend, it's okay. We can say something else. I don't mind.”

The Doctor stared back into her eyes, silent and pensive for a long few moments. Hartley said nothing, letting him work through whatever he needed to. It was like he were searching all the pieces that made up her whole, looking for something in particular. Whatever it was, he seemed to find it, his pinched expression melting away and a sliver of warmth breaking free from behind his perpetual wall.

“It's okay,” he decided with a nod. “I think I'd quite like to be your boyfriend, actually,” he added, sounding more sure of himself with every word.

Hartley couldn't possibly dampen the smile that appeared on her lips. Something intrinsically _human_ and _young_ flickered inside of her, the kind of pleasure that only appeared in a young girl when the word 'boyfriend' was uttered.

She pushed herself slowly up, giving him plenty of warning before brushing her lips against his. It was just a gentle press, and she poured her love into him like water through a funnel. The Doctor sucked in a breath against her lips, and satisfied, she dropped back down on the flats of her feet, smiling up at him sweetly.

He smiled back, a little unsteady, and her smile grew.

“All right,” interjected Donna, sounding exasperated beyond belief, and the day had only just begun. “That's enough of that, before I get a cavity,” she muttered good-naturedly. Hartley laughed and moved away from the Doctor, awfully pleased with herself.

“Right then,” said the Doctor, just a little more squeaky than usual. He bounced back into place at the console, landing them with a familiar wheeze. “The street outside your flat, only three months after you first ran away with me.”

Hartley's cheeks went pink, having abruptly lost the upper hand. “You don't have to make it sound like we had some kind of… _dalliance_ ,” she huffed, cringing when Donna smirked.

“Didn't we, though?” the Doctor asked, genuinely curious. She supposed, if you stretched the definition a tiny bit, he wasn't exactly wrong. At least, not if their relationship today was anything to go by.

She rolled her eyes to cover the sudden shyness in them, tugging at the hem of her jumper before heading down the ramp to the doors. “Are we going to go poke around in my past or aren't we?” she asked curtly.

“She's embarrassed,” the Doctor stage-whispered from behind her. Hartley didn't bother humouring him with a reaction. She pulled open the door, slipping out into the busy London street.

She was surprised by the sudden torrent of freezing cold air that blew by, her red hair flying out with the breeze. She clutched her jumper tighter to her body, but the distressed, woollen fabric wasn't made to combat the chill. Everyone around her was bundled up in winter coats, none of them paying her or the blue box so much as a lick of attention.

But this wasn't right. When she'd left with the Doctor, it had been April. Three months later would have landed them in Summer. So why was it so bitterly cold?

She was scanning the street, searching for something that might tell her what had gone wrong, only for her eyes to lock onto something that struck a note of horror in her heart.

There, on the wall of her apartment building, was a line of obnoxious posters all reading in big, black letters, _VOTE SAXON._

Feeling strangely as if she'd swallowed her own tongue, Hartley collapsed back against the side of the TARDIS just in time for Donna to step out, the Doctor on her heels. “Blimey, it's cold,” Donna complained, shivering the moment she'd left the eternal warmth of the ship.

“Hartley?” the Doctor asked, spying her leant against the TARDIS like she couldn't hold up her own weight. “What's wrong?”

She swallowed thickly, mouth suddenly dry, and brought up a hand to point her trembling finger at the wall of posters. “You overshot,” she said weakly.

“For Rassilon sake, not again,” the Doctor groaned, glaring at the _Pull to Open_ sign of his TARDIS in accusation.

“Overshot?” asked Donna, understandably confused. “Overshot by how much?”

“He meant to only go three months,” Hartley whispered, shutting her eyes as if it would help to block out the pain. “He went three _years._ ”

Donna still wasn't getting it. “But why do you two look like someone just murdered your cat?”

“We're in the early spring of 2008,” the Doctor told her. “And that's bad, because it means we're not just here now. We were here a year ago – the time leading up to the Year That Never Was.”

Donna's eyes slid over the building again. “Saxon,” she finally recalled with a snap of her fingers. “That's that Master bloke, yeah?”

The Doctor wasn't listening. Nearby was a bus stop, the same one Hartley would stand at every morning when she needed to go into town to pay rent, or get groceries, or meet with her editor. An older man sat on the bench, a thick newspaper held in front of his face as he read.

The Doctor stopped in front of him, rather rudely ducking down into the man's personal space to get a good look at the date on the front page. The man jerked his hands back, staring at the Doctor like he were mildly concerned for the public's safety, but the Doctor paid him no mind, turning back to Hartley and Donna without batting an eye.

“April 15th,” he said with wide eyes. Hartley couldn't get a read on his feelings. Was this a good thing or a bad thing?

Her veins suddenly felt too thick, like her heart were pumping cement through her body rather than blood. “When's the election?” she asked, genuinely terrified of the answer.

The Doctor smiled, but the expression was tinged with pain. “Three days ago,” he said quietly. Her entire body sagged, relief potent and strong in her cells. The Doctor appeared beside her, arm wrapping around her waist, half for emotional support and half to literally hold her upright.

“That's good, yeah?” Donna asked, made anxious by Hartley's reaction.

“Yeah, it's good,” the Doctor assured her, but his attention was on Hartley.

She remained leant against him, drawing strength from his unyielding presence at her side. She breathed in the cool spring air and let the chill in her lungs bring her back to herself.

“It means everything that happened with Saxon is over and done with. By now, he's gone,” she said with obvious relief. She felt the Doctor tense against her, but otherwise he didn't react. She wanted to be sorry for being glad the Master was dead, but she didn't have it in her. Not after everything.

“Well, now that we know it's all safe, shall we get back in the TARDIS and pop backwards?” Donna asked lightly in an attempt to abate the tension.

“What d'you mean?”

“Well you landed in the wrong time,” she said, shooting the Doctor an scolding look for his mistake. “Hart can't go inside now, as far as Emma would know she's been gone three years.”

“Look at you, getting the hang of it,” the Doctor sang proudly. Donna wasn't impressed, and he sobered under her stare. “But we can't. We're here now; part of events.”

“What, once you've landed you can't go back in time?” she asked critically.

The Doctor tugged at his ear. “Something like that. It's complicated.”

Donna turned to Hartley expectantly. “What're we gonna do?” she asked.

Hartley blinked for the first time in about a minute, eyes stinging a little from the cool air. She was slowly beginning to believe Saxon wasn't about to leap out from behind the mailbox and attack her. It wasn't a rational fear, but then again, most weren't.

She glanced up at the window to her old flat and a swoop of terror hit her. She hadn't seen Emma that day (year) aboard the Valiant, but that didn't mean Saxon hadn't still gotten to her in other ways.

“We should go up,” she said, then without waiting for either of her friends she trudged towards the door to the building, the Doctor's arm slipping from her waist.

“Hartley, are you sure-?” he tried to ask, quick to hurry after her.

“Yeah,” she replied, barely hearing him as she input her old code into the computerised lock. By some miracle it still worked and the door clicked open. The stairs were hauntingly familiar, as if something she knew from a dream rather than her past.

She could hear Donna and the Doctor's footsteps on the stairs behind her, but they were distant and muffled, as though being heard from underwater. Her flat was at the end of the third floor hallway, and she moved towards it slowly, memories from another life entirely flashing before her eyes.

The shiny number _15_ glistened in the lights of the hallway. Hartley reached out, her fingertips brushing the silver metal. Donna and the Doctor arrived just as she tried to turn the handle, but it was locked. Without saying a word she stepped aside, giving the Doctor room to use the sonic.

It unlocked with a click and Hartley pressed a hand to the painted wood, gently pushing it open. She thought she was ready for whatever lay beyond the door, but nothing could have prepared her for what she found inside.

Chairs were overturned, all Emma's beloved knick-knacks strewn across the floor, some shattered into shards. The television screen was smashed as if someone had hit it with a bat.

Heart in her throat, Hartley walked into the room as if in a daze, thinking to herself that this couldn't be real. It just absolutely couldn't. Was she dreaming right now? Had she fallen unknowingly into some sort of a coma?

The Doctor pushed his way past her, moving towards the hallway that led to both bedrooms and the bathroom. “Emma?!” he shouted, but Hartley knew it was pointless. Emma wasn't there.

The Master had taken her; that was the bad news. The worse news was that she hadn't been aboard the Valiant during the Year That Never Was; meaning Hartley didn't have the first clue where she could possibly be hidden away – if she were even still alive.

The Master had never once, in all those days aboard that Godforsaken ship, mentioned Emma. So what had happened to her?

Donna laid a hand on Hartley's arm and she turned to look at her friend, shock tingling at her toes and fingertips. “Hart?” Donna asked carefully, as if too loud a noise might send her into an attack.

But Hartley wasn't sure how to reply. What could she possibly say?

“She's not here,” said the Doctor to no one's surprise, bursting back into the room with a frantic look on his face. In comparison, Hartley just felt numb.

“Where could she have gone?” asked Donna.

“Taken,” Hartley corrected her monotonously. Her friends turned to stare at her in confusion. “She hasn't _gone_ anywhere. She was _taken._ ”

They were silent a moment, the weight of Hartley's words settling over them like a shroud.

“What do we do?” Donna asked the Doctor, uncharacteristically timid. Hartley looked away from the remains of a shattered snow globe to blink at the Doctor, waiting silently for his answer. Her entire body felt cold, like somebody had injected her with ice water, the chill making its way through each of her veins. She shivered at the sensation.

“I don't, I don't know,” the Doctor stammered, and Hartley shut her eyes tight. The Doctor kept speaking, desperate to help, to solve the problem, but not knowing how. “We could, I don't know, phone UNIT? Or Torchwood? Maybe Jack will know something.”

But Hartley just shook her head. “If he knew anything he would have told me already.”

Donna ducked down to catch her gaze. “S'not like you to give up so easily,” she said, concern shining like a beacon. “There's always hope.” Hartley didn't answer; she just didn't have the strength. The Master had stolen that from her, too. “Maybe one of the neighbours heard something?” Donna suggested suddenly.

“Brilliant, Donna,” chimed the Doctor. “You two go ask round.”

“What'll you do?”

“Stay here; search for evidence,” he said, pulling free his sonic and holding it up for them to see.

Donna nodded vigorously. “Come on, Hart,” she said, gripping her friend's arm and all but dragging her from the ransacked flat.

They stepped out into the hall, but instead of moving straight to their neighbour's door, Donna stopped outside Emma's flat, placing both hands on Hartley's shoulders and staring deep into her eyes.

“I know you're shocked, and scared,” said Donna slowly. “But Emma needs your help, so you can't check out on us now.”

Hartley swallowed thickly. “She might not even be alive, Donna,” she said weakly.

“We don't know that. Think positive, Hart. Aren't you meant to be the optimistic one?” she added playfully.

But Hartley wasn't much in the playful mood. Still, for Donna's sake she attempted a smile. It wasn't particularly convincing but Donna appreciated the effort.

When Hartley was still living in London with Emma – three years ago to the here and now, but so much longer in her own timeline – their neighbours used to be an older couple who bred and took in injured budgies. But when the door pulled open it wasn't Mr or Mrs Chen who stood before them.

A young woman, maybe in her early twenties, was smiling at them with one hand braced over her bulging, pregnant stomach. A small, tasteful engagement ring glittered on her ring finger. “Can I help you?” she asked sweetly.

“I'm Donna, this is Hartley,” Donna began. “We're old friends of Emma, your neighbour? She doesn't seem to be home, and we can't get ahold of her. We were wondering if you might have heard anything, or seen anything?”

The young woman suddenly looked uncomfortable, angling her head out into the hall and looking down either end. Once she was sure they were alone, she waved them inside her flat. “Why don't you come in for some tea?” she offered, obviously on edge.

Hartley felt her nervousness and concern, putting aside her own anxiety to give the woman her most calming smile. “We'd love to,” she said quietly.

“I'm Natasha,” the woman told them as she shut the door after them. Her flat was beautifully decorated in deep blues and shimmering golds. It was homey but also modern, and Hartley's instinct was to say something about it. Before she could, however, Natasha was speaking. “Are you the Hartley that used to live with Emma?” she asked, heading for the kitchen.

The layout was almost identical to Emma's flat, and Hartley hovered in the doorway with Donna, watching as Natasha set about making them some tea. “I am, yeah,” she nodded.

“We – I mean, me and my fiancé, Lucas – we moved in last year,” Natasha continued. “Emma was so lovely; she brought us a housewarming gift and everything.”

Hartley smiled down at her shoes. “Yeah, that sounds like her,” she said quietly.

“She told us about you,” Natasha said quietly. Hartley looked up, struggling to breathe around the lump in her throat. “Said that you'd run off with a bloke; practically dropped off the face of the Earth. She tried to get the police involved at one point, but your family stepped in before she could, insisting you were fine and off living in bliss with your man.”

Hartley felt guilt slice at her insides like she's swallowed a razor blade. She shut her eyes tight, as if she might be able to seal out the world around her. “Sorry,” she apologised to no one in particular, but Natasha seemed to understand.

“She'll be thrilled to see you again,” she said kindly. “Well, she'll probably rip you a new one at first,” she amended wryly, and Hartley let out a startled laugh, opening her eyes to see Natasha smiling in amusement, “but after she's finished that, she'll be thrilled.”

Hartley looked over at Donna, who seemed to realise what this meant at the same time as her. “Do you know where she is?” Donna asked carefully. “Hart still had her key, so we let ourselves in when she didn't answer,” she lied smoothly, “the place is a wreck.”

Natasha winced, handing each of them a mug full of tea. Hartley took hers, the scolding heat against her palms soothing. It was a nice combat against the numbness in the rest of her body. Natasha nodded for them to take seats at the small table sat in the corner, and they did so, Natasha letting out a groan as she sank her pregnant body into a chair.

“I suppose if you haven't spoken to her in a few years, you don't know about Mason,” Natasha said slowly.

Hartley's pulse stuttered. “Mason?” she asked carefully.

Natasha nodded. “Mason Dyer. He's been dating Emma for the last eight or so months.” She paused, taking a deep sip of her tea as if she needed strength to say the next part. “They'd have these crazy fights. We'd hear the screaming and glass smashing even through the walls. We've had to call the coppers at least four times. Until...”

Hartley leaned forwards on her chair, horror gripping her. “Until what?”

Shame flooded Natasha, strong and awful. Hartley was terrified to learn why. “She asked us to stop,” she confessed. “She said they just got heated sometimes, and that calling the police only made things worse for her.”

Hartley took a sip of tea to cover the terror in her eyes. She was unfeeling even as the scolding tea seared her tongue.

“I didn't want to make things worse, so I just stopped calling.” Natasha now had tears in her eyes, and Hartley could feel her desperation; her fear. “She would always have these bruises she had to cover up with clothes or makeup, but every time I tried to say something she just begged me to leave it alone; kept insisting she was happy, and that it wasn't a big deal.”

“So you just stayed silent?” asked Hartley, voice like ice. “You just sat by and let it happen?”

Natasha cowered under the force of her glare. Donna reached out to grasp Hartley's hand in her own, squeezing tight. Natasha took a sip of tea, eyes still glittering with tears of shame. “You have to understand; Mason, he's, he's _scary,_ ” she whispered.

Hartley didn't respond, staring back without blinking. Natasha hurried to explain.

“I'm young, and Lucas – he's such a sweet man. Never been in a fight in his life. I was terrified for him, for _us,_ ” she said tearfully, one hand moving down to her large baby bump. “And with the baby coming so soon…I know it was wrong of me, but Emma made it seem like if I ever did say anything, Mason would know it was me, and, and I was just so _scared._..”

Hartley looked away, her head a storm of noise.

Emma had always been somewhat, shall we say, _promiscuous_? That was why she and Hartley had worked so well together as flatmates. She was flighty and indecisive, while Hartley was a little more grounded. They'd balanced one another out, kept each other safe from bad decision making.

Hartley wondered if, without her there, Emma had been cornered into an abusive relationship she hadn't known how to escape. Was this all her fault? Was she to blame, all because she abandoned Emma when her friend really needed her most?

And worse than that, Hartley had barely spared her a thought the last eight years. She'd been so caught up in Rose and Martha and Jack and Donna and Mickey and the _Doctor_ , that she'd barely had time to think about the friend she'd left behind.

Had Emma really meant that little to her? How could she be so selfish?

“I'm sorry,” came Natasha's sweet voice. Hartley glanced up in surprise, having forgotten where she was for a moment, as lost in her thoughts as she was.

Natasha was a mess of guilt and sorrow, and Hartley's insides twisted with self-inflicted agony. “No, I'm the one who should be apologising,” she said, pushing a wave of warmth in the young woman's direction. It was her small way of trying to make amends. “I'm just processing all of this. I didn't mean to take my emotions out on you.”

Natasha smiled tearfully. “I understand,” she said quietly. Hartley nodded, looking away.

Donna turned to Natasha. “Did anything happen between them in the last few days? Anything at all you can remember?”

Natasha frowned, her sweet, elfin features pinching in concern. “Well, actually, about three days ago they had a fight,” she said quietly. “It was late – woke me up at about two in the morning. When I realised it was just them, I put on some music and went back to bed...” she trailed off wetly, each word bringing guilt like darts hitting her heart.

Hartley reached across the table, gripping Natasha's hand in her own and squeezing, pushing comfort and reassurance across the link between their skin. Natasha attempted a watery smile, reaching up with her free hand to wipe a finger under her eyes.

“It's okay, Natasha,” Hartley told her despite the pain licking like flames at her nerves. “We don't blame you. Neither does Emma.”

Natasha attempted another smile. “I didn't hear anything once I turned the music on, but...” she trailed off again, and Hartley felt terror appear in her heart.

“Natasha?” Donna asked carefully.

Natasha cleared her throat. “It's just that I…well, I haven't seen or heard from Emma since then,” she revealed softly. “And I noticed this morning that her mail slot in the lobby is almost full, like she hasn't been collecting her mail.”

Hartley's insides swooped but she couldn't allow herself to lose control again. “It's okay,” she said again, and Natasha met her eyes meekly. “I'm back now, and me and my friends aren't going to rest until we find her and get her to safety,” she promised vehemently. Donna nodded in resolute agreement.

Natasha smiled suddenly, taking Hartley's hand in both of hers. “Emma really does talk about you all the time,” she said kindly. “You're just as lovely as she said.”

Before Hartley could reply there was an urgent knocking at Natasha's front door. Natasha flinched at the sound and Hartley immediately slid from her seat. “I'll go see who it is,” she said, taking note of the fear on the young expectant mother's face. She nodded for Donna to watch her, and Donna nodded back in agreement.

As she approached the door, Hartley reached out with her heart, searching for the emotions of whoever lay beyond. She was met with only a familiar, cool mask that hid the person away, and she sagged with relief, knowing it could only be one person.

“Doc,” she breathed as she pulled it open. His eyes were wild as they met hers, and without waiting for permission he slipped into the flat, shutting the door after him with a click.

“Find out anything useful?” he asked without pause.

“Emma was in an abusive relationship,” she relayed instantly. “Natasha – the neighbour – heard them have a huge fight three nights ago, and since then she hasn't seen or heard from Emma once.”

The Doctor was nodding, unsurprised. “Did you get a name?”

“Mason Dyer,” she told him, and he nodded with narrowed eyes. “What about you? Did you find anything?”

He opened his mouth to respond but a voice from the kitchen cut him off. “Hartley?!” called Natasha anxiously. “Who is it?”

Hartley reached for the Doctor's hand, gripping it in hers and pulling him towards the kitchen. “Natasha, this is the Doctor,” she said as they stepped into sight. “He's with us.”

“The Doctor?” asked Natasha in bewilderment, climbing slowly to her feet, one hand pressed to her aching lower back. “Are you Hartley's mystery man? The one she ran away to be with?” she asked innocently. Hartley's cheeks flushed pink.

“That would be me,” he said brightly, taking two large steps towards her, his hand held out and a friendly smile on his face. “Lovely to meet you, Natasha.”

“Did you find anything, y'know, suspicious?” asked Donna, having had enough of the pleasantries.

The Doctor latched onto it, letting go of Natasha's hand to stuff his own into his pocket, digging around for something in particular. “As a matter of fact!” he said slowly, still fishing around in his bottomless pocket. “Aha!” he cried, yanking free a small petrie dish filled with what looked like a puddle of blue slime. He held it up triumphantly.

Nobody said anything, staring at him wordlessly.

“What're we looking at, exactly?” Hartley broke the silence and he rolled his eyes like they were the slow ones for not knowing.

“It's Chahe blood,” he said plainly.

“And what's a Chahe?”

He faltered. “Ah, that's the bad news.”

Donna snorted. “There was _good_ news?”

“The Chahe are dangerous,” he began, brows furrowed into a deep frown of concern. “They're a nomad race, humanoid in appearance. Low-level empathic abilities. In High Gallifreyan, their name loosely translates to _demons of chaos_ ,” he paused, sniffing derisively. “They're not _real_ demons, of course – there's no such thing – but the word fits when you look at their general mission in life – wreak as much havoc as they can, then feed on the chaos they leave in their wake.”

Hartley still had a whole boatload of questions. “Have they ever latched onto a single person before?” she asked sharply. “Is that something they're known to do?”

“No,” he told her. “They're more bigger-picture creatures. Why bother with one little human when you can set off a bomb in a high-rise building and feed on the chaos of a thousand humans instead?”

Donna was horrified. “They actually do things like that?”

“Not often. Like I said, they're nomads, and by this point in history they're a dying breed. Only probably five of them on Earth at any one time.”

“If they look human, how can you tell them from everyone else?” asked Hartley.

“You're the only one who could do it on sight,” he told her. “Only an Empath would know them when they saw them, everyone else would have to cut them open to see them bleed blue blood. Or do an invasive surgery to find their three stomachs, but that's much harder to do than the blood thing.”

“Wait,” said Hartley, having just barely processed everything he'd just said. “You said they didn't focus on one human at a time…so then why Emma?”

The Doctor winced.

“You have a theory,” she accused, seeing through him like glass.

“You're not going to like it,” he told her.

Her expression levelled out into a glare. It was a rare day when Hartley Daniels could actually be _scary_ , but sometimes when she'd been pushed to her limits, it was possible. “Tell me anyway,” she ordered him.

He took a deep breath in, as though gathering strength. “Chahes have been known to, at times, take on very selective… _freelance_ work,” he said the word with great disdain.

Donna caught on before Hartley. “You mean they're assassins for hire?” she asked, voice hard as diamond.

“Or kidnappers, or terrorists,” he nodded grimly. “You get the idea.”

“But what does that have to do with your theory?” asked Hartley, even though deep in her gut she already knew the answer.

“Well, if a Chahe was focusing all their attention on one person, it makes sense there would be someone behind them, pulling the strings,” he told her gravely. Her heart stuttered and she sucked in a sharp breath of air. “I don't think the timing of Emma's disappearance is a coincidence,” he said quick and matter-of-fact, like ripping off a bandaid.

Hartley sank into the seat at the kitchen table, dropping her face into her hands and realising what this meant.

The Master hadn't just enslaved her dad in a year of hell; he hadn't just brainwashed her little sister and manipulated her into the darkness; he'd sent a literal _demon_ to abuse and eventually abduct one of the only people she'd been able to call a friend before her life with the Doctor.

“Um, sorry, but I'm really confused,” murmured Natasha. Hartley peeked through her fingers, grimacing when she realised the woman was still there, stood against the counter, only growing more and more confused by the conversation at hand.

They must have sounded like complete and total nutters. Hartley dropped her hands and winced apologetically.

“Right, well, to get you up to speed,” began Donna, and both Hartley and the Doctor turned to stare at her incredulously, “he's an alien, she's immortal, I'm their human companion, and we all travel around time and space together in a little blue box, saving civilisations and defeating terrible creatures.”

The Doctor blinked, flabbergasted by her heedless honesty. “Donna,” he scolded her, holding out both hands as if to ask _'what the hell?'_.

“You're the one who went blabbering on about aliens while she was still in the room,” Donna argued defensively. “What lie could I _possibly_ come up with that would explain that?”

The Doctor couldn't argue against that, and even despite everything Hartley managed a proud little smile in Donna's direction. She sobered a moment later, the reality of the situation crashing down on her.

But there was no time to bask in the hopelessness she felt; this wasn't a time for panic, it was a time for action. First thing's first, she turned to Natasha.

“Are you okay?” she asked cautiously, wondering whether they were going to have to add 'care for terrified mother-to-be' to their growing to-do list.

Natasha was blinking like there was an after-image in her eyes she wanted to get rid of. This sort of news tended to have that effect on people. “Yeah,” she eventually said, refocusing on them, meeting Hartley's eyes across the room. “Um, there's a lot to unpack there... What are-?” she began, but the Doctor interrupted her before she could ask whatever she wanted to ask.

“Yeah, there really isn't any time for us to answer questions,” he interjected, coolly apologetic. He reached out to shake her hand once more. “Thanks for your help, we've gotta be going,” he abruptly turned towards the doorway.

“Going?” asked Donna sharply. “Going where?”

He paused, narrowing his eyes back at her as if wondering how humans could survive while being as slow as they were. Hartley would have taken offence to the look, were she not swimming in a sea of desperation to find her old friend.

“To find Emma,” the Doctor said slowly.

“How're we meant to do that?” Donna demanded. “Did this Mason guy leave a note with his address before he kidnapped her?” she finished sarcastically.

The Doctor scowled at her for her tone. “No, but I have a hunch about where we might be able to find answers.”

Hartley blinked in surprise. “You do?”

The Doctor looked affronted by her shock. “Yes,” he said shortly. “I know a guy.”

Neither Hartley nor Donna were convinced. “ _You_ have a _friend_?” Donna asked skeptically.

“Less of a friend, more of a passing acquaintance.” He huffed impatiently. “Look, can we just go? We're wasting time.”

But Hartley didn't feel the same impatience. Hopelessness had taken root in her heart. “Is there even a chance she's still alive?” she asked lowly, already defeated. “If the Master really was behind this... He's gone now. There's no reason for the Chahe to keep her around.”

The Doctor paused, unused to her pessimism. Hartley watched as he carefully considered how to reply.

“Maybe you're right. Maybe Emma is gone and there's nothing we can do,” he allowed, and Donna gave a tut of disapproval for his reply. She went ignored. “But what if she _isn't_?” he whispered, surging with hope he let her feel. “What if we _can_ find her? Save her? Shouldn't we _try_?”

And Hartley knew he was right, mostly because he wasn't often wrong; not that she'd ever tell him that.

“All right,” she agreed, standing to her feet with a renewed sense of purpose. “Okay, let's do this.”

But Natasha spoke up before they could leave. “But, um, are we going to be safe?” she asked timidly, a hand held protectively over her bulging stomach.

“The Chahe will never know we spoke to you,” Hartley promised. “And we'll stop him before he ever has a chance to find out.”

Natasha smiled, small and gentle. She still eyed the Doctor a little warily, clearly wondering whether what Donna had said was true, and if he really was an alien. “Okay,” she said quietly. “Um, bring Emma back safe?” she asked hopefully.

The Doctor nodded solemnly. “If it's the last thing I do,” he swore.

Hartley gave Natasha a quick hug, sending a pulse of love and gratitude to the young woman, whose eyes went a little shiny at the unexpected sensation. “Bye, Natasha.”

The Doctor led them out into the hallway and past Emma's closed door, back in the direction of the stairs. “So, what's the plan, exactly?” asked Hartley as they made their way back down to the ground floor.

“Yeah, and who's this so-called 'friend' of yours?” Donna added dryly.

The Doctor shot her a look for her cheek, but she went easily ignored. “He's a bartender,” he said as they stepped back out onto the busy London street. The TARDIS remained untouched, tall and blue in the middle of the pathway. The Doctor fished out his key as they approached, waving them both inside and then bounding his way up to the console.

“A bartender?” asked Donna skeptically. “Are we going to a _pub_?”

“It's not your typical pub,” he replied mysteriously, already busy piloting his ship. The floor lurched beneath their feet and Hartley grabbed onto Donna, the pair using one another to keep themselves steady. The TARDIS landed with a loud groan and everything went still. “The plan,” the Doctor continued their conversation without so much as a blink, “is to go down and mix with some of the locals. Someone's bound to know something, so long as we're asking the right questions.”

But Hartley wasn't convinced. “What're a bunch of local drunks down the pub going to know that'll help?” she asked doubtfully.

The Doctor just smirked knowingly. “Like I said,” he told her, “it isn't your typical pub.”

The Doctor pulled open the doors, ushering Donna and Hartley out into their new destination. It took Hartley approximately 0.3 seconds to realise they had in fact landed inside a small storage room. A group of mops were propped up in the corner and surrounding the TARDIS were all manner of half-empty boxes full of supplies.

“Bit cramped,” complained Donna, and Hartley had to agree. She could feel the entire length of the Doctor's body pressed up against her back, with Donna at her front. It was hardly the most comfortable situation.

“I'll let you out, but before I do I have to remind you not to stare,” he warned them seriously. “This is a place of sanctuary for everyone who visits. They come to be accepted, not gawked at.”

Hartley rolled her eyes. As if _she_ was going to gawk at anyone. She'd handled Neptune in the year 18,009, and New New York full to the brim with cat-people, so she was fairly certain that she could handle whatever this pub was going to throw at her.

Donna felt the same. “Oh, just let us out already, Spaceman,” she ordered him impatiently.

Hartley felt the Doctor sigh against her back just as the hum of the sonic filled the air and there was the distinct clicking of a lock. Donna pushed the door open, inviting in a sudden wall of noise.

Rock music was playing from somewhere in the back and the hum of dozens of voices talking all at once filled their ears. There was the clinking of glasses and loud bursts of scattered laughter.

Donna was slow to move at first, and Hartley had to step around her to get a good look at what lay beyond.

It was like any ordinary pub in the whole of Britain, except almost everyone there was utterly _alien._ It was like they were on another planet all together. A plethora of multicoloured aliens filled the spacious pub, clumped into happy groups, some laughing over drinks or shouting at the TV, which playing the races. They seemed to be taking bets.

Right away Hartley could see little green men with heads too big for their bodies, and extremely tall women with the kind of muscles that would make a heavyweight jealous. In the very far corner sat two men with five separate heads between them. There were some humans – or at least, _humanoids –_ spread throughout the pub, but they were few and far between.

“It's an underground pub; a safe haven in the centre of London for all of alien-kind. _Alienated,_ it's called,” the Doctor told them, eyeing the see of extraterrestrials as he tugged absently on his earlobe. “Not particularly subtle, as far as names go.”

Donna was frozen, staring out over the sea of aliens in something of a stupor. “Are you telling me we're in the middle of London?” she breathed.

“Smack-bang,” he confirmed. “Not even that far from Piccadilly Circus, actually.” Hartley couldn't spot any windows, so she got the feeling that when he said 'underground', he didn't just mean it figuratively. She supposed that was part of its appeal.

“And all these aliens are living here, in London, here and now?” Donna pressed, still in shock. The Doctor nodded in answer. “How come we don't know about it?” she asked critically. “Wouldn't we see them walking around the city? There's no way they've gone unnoticed looking like _that._ ”

“Well, they wear shimmers,” the Doctor explained.

“What's a shimmer?” asked Hartley curiously.

“Like a disguise, a sort of advanced cloaking. Makes them appear human for as long as they need it to. Quite a fascinating piece of technology. Only downside is it's rather easy for anyone with even minimal psychic ability to spot, but here on Earth, those are few and far between.”

“Can't anyone just wander in?” Donna frowned.

“With the big, burly bouncers standing guard up on the street? Not a chance,” he shrugged. “Not to mention the whole place has a strong perception filter blanketing it. Keeps out anyone who doesn't already know it's here. It's a very exclusive pub.”

“And yet they let you in,” she teased.

The Doctor didn't have time to be offended, because Hartley remembered why they were even there in the first place. “Can we get back on task now?” she asked them quickly, a tiny hint of impatience leaking into her voice.

“Right, yes. Sorry,” the Doctor apologised, brushing back his coat to stick his hands into his pockets and making his way towards the bar. Hartley and Donna hurried to follow, each smiling a little bit woodenly at the aliens they passed along the way.

The man behind the bar looked human but Hartley knew by now that looks could be very deceiving. He had a large tattoo on his neck that disappeared down into the collar of his shirt and ashy blonde hair that swept into his eyes.

“Victor,” the Doctor greeted him brightly.

The man looked up, eyes such a dark brown they were nearly black. “Do I know you?” he asked in the tone of voice that said if he didn't, he was going to use the knife he was slicing limes with to gut him like a fish.

The Doctor faltered before realising what had happened. “Oh yes, the face,” he gave an exasperated huff.

Hartley wondered how he could so easily forget the whole regeneration thing. She supposed when you grew up surrounded by people who could do the same thing, the novelty probably wore off.

“I'm the Doctor,” he said with a charming grin. “I've regenerated; well, three or four times since we last met, actually.”

“Doctor?” the man – Victor – asked enthusiastically, a far cry from his previously frosty demeanour. He gripped the countertop, leaping over it in a single bound of impressive skill and sweeping the Doctor up into a hug.

The Doctor laughed, patting the man firmly on the back. “Good to see you too, Victor,” he said lightly.

Victor pulled back, a wide beam on his face. “What are you doing here?” he asked, hands still braced on the Doctor's wiry shoulders. He frowned suddenly, even as his eyes still danced with mirth. “You're not here to check up on me, I hope,” he said, and Hartley detected the slightest hint of an accent she couldn't quite place.

“No, no,” the Doctor waved him off, taking a deliberate seat at the empty bar.

Most of the pub's activity was hanging around the pool tables in the back and the booths along the far wall. The Doctor nodded for Hartley and Donna to do the same, and they took a seat on either side of him, watching as Victor climbed back over the bar, completely bypassing the flap that normal people would use. The action made Hartley warm to the man.

“This is my, uh, Hartley,” he stumbled a little over what to call her, and Hartley pressed her lips together to hide the smile of fondness that spread across her face. The Doctor's cheeks went just the tiniest bit pink, and she wondered whether she'd ever seen him blush before. “And our friend Donna.”

Donna extended her hand, giving Victor a sly, flirtatious smile. “Donna Noble,” she said coyly, taking his hand in hers and shaking slowly. If things weren't so dire, Hartley might have laughed.

“Victor,” the man replied with a charming grin, pleased by Donna's flirting. “Or, that's my human name, at least. One my home planet they called me Voctra,” he said with a sort of humble pride.

Hartley thought suddenly to remind Donna he wasn't _human_ , but how hypocritical would that be?

“And which planet might that be?” Donna asked keenly.

Sorrow overcame Victor, deep and potent, but the expression on his face never changed. Only Hartley knew the pain he suffered deep down inside. “Albar,” he told her, that same note of pride in his voice. “But it's gone now,” he said, bowing his head in respect to his fallen world. Donna didn't seem to know how to respond. “I was in hiding on a nearby world, eating the scraps other people left behind.”

He paused, throwing out a hand and clapping the Doctor strongly on the shoulder, a gratitude in his heart that blew Hartley away.

“This man found me; saved me from a life of dishonour and starvation. Brought me to this century of Earth and got me started running this little hole in the wall,” he said proudly. He grinned at the Doctor, revealing pearly but crooked teeth. “I am forever in his debt.”

“Yeah, speaking of that, I was actually hoping for a favour,” the Doctor said slowly.

“Name it,” said Victor. His attention was on the Doctor, but his hands began to move, setting about making them all their own elaborate looking cocktails.

“It's less of a favour, and more just some information,” the Doctor told him, lowering his voice just to be safe. “Do you know a man named Mason Dyer?”

Victor's hand paused where it was tipping clear liquor into a tall glass. Hartley felt his flare of intrigue and dismay and her heart clenched at the reaction. “Hm,” said the alien, moving once more, as if the pause never happened. “It's always with the dangerous with you, isn't it?” he asked wryly.

“Dangerous?” asked Hartley, unable to help herself. “How dangerous?”

“Too dangerous for pretty young things like you to be getting involved with,” he replied smoothly. “A creature like Dyer would snap you like a branch beneath his foot.”

Hartley remained unimpressed. “I'm more durable than I look,” she assured him flatly.

Victor smirked. “I'm sure you are.”

“We're friends of Emma Longview,” the Doctor interjected swiftly. “The woman Dyer was _tormenting_?” he snapped. “Ring any bells?”

Victor held up his hands. “I'm not the guy's friend, Doctor,” he reminded him tartly. “I barely even know him at all. Seen him in here a few times over the last few months. Spoken to him only when he's asked for a refill.”

He finished up their drinks, handing one to each of them. Donna's was red, Hartley's a deep green, and the Doctor's a glittering blue. Hartley wasn't in the mood to drink, not even for cocktails, and she discretely pushed hers away from her face. Donna, on the other hand, eagerly sipped at hers.

The Doctor was frowning deeply. “So, you don't know anything?” he asked. Hartley sagged, disappointed. This was their only lead; and it was fruitless?

But to her relief, Victor smirked. “I didn't say that.”

Hartley had had enough of these games. “Emma's my friend, and she could be in serious danger,” she said, voice colder than Donna had ever heard. “Stop playing coy and tell us what you know. Please,” she finished stonily, just the slightest bit polite. It was in her bones, she couldn't help it.

Victor's smirk widened. “Where'd you find this one, Doctor?” he asked keenly.

“Just tell us, Victor,” the Doctor was frowning, and Victor finally seemed to realise that this was no laughing matter.

“Dyer's bad news, everyone knows that,” he began, returning to his previous task of slicing up limes for the drinks. “He arrived in the city about twelve months ago. I don't tend to let Chahe into the bar – y'know, just in case they've got any explosives on them – but he was never any trouble, so I made an exception.”

“If he was never any trouble, how d'you know he's bad news?” asked Donna critically.

“He was never any trouble _in_ _here_ ,” Victor corrected her smoothly. “Out _there_?” he asked, jerking his chin at the door that led up to the surface. “That's a whole different story.”

He finished with the limes and picked up a small box of lemons that lay by his feet, starting on those next.

“I hear rumours, just whispers, of what he gets up to on the surface. Then about eight months ago the whispers stopped saying he'd been caught starting fires at service stations and instead started saying that he'd met a nice woman and settled down for good.”

“And you believed it?” the Doctor asked incredulously.

Victor snorted. “Of course not. Once a Chahe, always a Chahe, I say. It was clear he was running some kind of long game. Didn't know why, or what it was – I still don't. But I know he was getting paid handsomely to do it.”

“How?” asked Hartley, hanging on his every word, hoping the next one or the one after that might be the key to finding and saving Emma.

Victor shrugged. “He went from ordering the cheapest thing on the menu to buying the whole bar a round whenever he won at darts.”

“We went to Emma's flat; the place had been ransacked. There was a struggle, and it wasn't pretty. I found this,” the Doctor pulled out the small petrie dish of the Chahe's blood. “She must have gotten a hit in before he knocked her unconscious. It was enough to leave traces of blood on the wall – and the scissors she did it with.”

Hartley looked away, grimacing as she tried her hardest not to imagine Emma struggling for her life, fighting against the man Hartley assumed she loved. Had she been badly hurt? Was this something she could recover from in the long run? And what kind of mental scarring would this leave? By the time they got to her, would she even still be the Emma that Hartley had known and loved in her old life?

“Good for her,” Victor was begrudgingly impressed. “It isn't easy to one-up a Chahe.”

“There was no body,” the Doctor told him shortly. “We have reason to believe he took her somewhere. We need to know where.” It wasn't a request, not even slightly, and Victor seemed to pale a little in the dim lighting above the bar.

“Look, Dyer and I aren't exactly buddies,” he said warily, a knot of anxiety in his gut. It was wound so tight that Hartley felt herself tense in response.

“Victor,” said the Doctor, voice like ice. Victor winced.

“Well, he got pretty smashed a few weeks ago,” he told them, lowering his voice and sweeping the bar cautiously, as though expecting someone to appear from the shadows to clock him in the jaw for being a snitch. “When it came to last call I tried to call him a cab, but he insisted on walking. I couldn't in good conscience let him walk home alone while he was that far gone, could I?”

“He's a _Chahe_ ,” Donna reminded him as if she knew exactly what that meant. Hartley knew she didn't, but appreciated the effort anyway.

“And I'm a business owner,” Victor countered tartly. “I can't be negligent or they might take my license from me.”

“You're an alien,” Donna frowned.

He rolled his eyes. “On a visa, just like any other immigrant.”

Donna didn't seem to know how to reply, but Hartley was too eager to get the answers they were after to spend time waiting for her to figure it out. “So you took him home?” she pressed impatiently.

Victor's inky black eyes flickered back to her, narrowing slightly. “Well, I took him to a hotel,” he told her shortly. “He said it was where he was staying, but he was too drunk for me to get anything more than that outta him.”

“Which hotel?” the Doctor demanded.

Victor hesitated. “Look, Doctor, I dunno if I can go giving out these sorta details – if it gets out that I'm snitching, I'll lose business, and-”

Hartley's hand came down hard on the bar and Victor actually jumped at the sudden noise, eyes darting back to her in shock. “My friend has been abused by this man for the better part of a year, and now he's kidnapped her, doing God knows what to her against her will. You're going to tell us exactly what you know. Because if you don't, you're the arsehole who killed a woman because he was too scared of what his friends might say if he squealed,” she said slowly and deliberately.

Victor shifted uncomfortably under the weight of her frosty stare, while Donna and the Doctor gaped at her, nonplussed by the uncharacteristic reaction. She couldn't help it; the Master brought out a side of her she wasn't sure she knew how to control. And he was hurting her even now, from beyond the grave.

“The Grosvenor Hotel,” Victor said, her words having struck him as well as any slap.

Hartley was admittedly a little bit surprised that had actually worked. The Doctor leapt on the information that brought them one step closer to saving one of the Master's poor victims.

“Do you know the room number?” he asked quickly.

“No,” Victor shook his head. “I dropped him off in the lobby, I never saw his room,” he told them, and Hartley was disappointed to find he was telling the truth. Why was nothing easy?

“Right,” said Donna bracingly. “Well then, what're we sitting round here for?”

Both she and the Doctor leapt to their feet, while Hartley moved a little slower. “Thank you,” she told Victor sincerely. He just looked uneasy, waving his hand vaguely in acknowledgement.

“Come on,” the Doctor said, steering Hartley and Donna in the direction of the stairs that she assumed would take them to the surface.

“We're not taking the TARDIS?” Donna asked loudly, drawing the attention of the nearby two-headed alien, who grunted before turning back to his companion to whisper something scathing.

“Nah, the Grosvenor Hotel's only a few streets from here,” he told them as he led the way up the stairs. A door sat at the top, heavy and made out of metal. He wrenched it open and the light of day poured in, making them all wince at its brightness.

A massively burly man stood guard up on the street, and he eyed the three of them with suspicion as they tumbled out onto the street. “I don't remember letting any of you in,” he said in a crisp cockney accent.

“Different shimmer,” the Doctor explained but the words were distant, like an afterthought. The excuse was a good one, and the Bouncer couldn't argue with it. Although still tinged with suspicion, he nodded and stepped aside, letting them pass. “It's this way,” said the Doctor, leading them down the street to the right.

“How d'you know?” asked Donna critically. “You just have a map of London in your head?”

The Doctor bristled. “I have a very clever head,” he said proudly.

Hartley grit her teeth in a rare bout of annoyance. They didn't have time to wander through the streets like friends on a midday stroll. They had an innocent to save – someone who was only in danger _because_ of them. “Less banter, more running,” she told them sternly. Both Donna and the Doctor fell silent and picked up the pace, jogging in the direction of their destination.

“This is the street,” said the Doctor after about five minutes of fast walking.

It looked like any other street in London, except full of a dark foreboding that made Hartley's insides wriggle with discontent. If he really was here – this man who had a very terrible, very real connection to the Master – that meant a thread of the maniacal Time Lord had survived. Hartley felt as if he were there with her, breathing down her neck. She shuddered at the ghost of a feeling.

The Grosvenor Hotel wasn't a particularly pretty building. Large and intimidating, it seemed to loom over them like a bully in the playground. Stairs led up into the lobby and as one the trio began to climb them. In great comparison to its outside, the inside was about as fancy as it got; all expensive chandeliers and delicate mouldings.

Hartley wondered how a lowlife like Dyer could afford such swanky digs, but realised rather suddenly that of course it wasn't _his_ money paying to be there – it was the Master's. The realisation left a bad taste in her mouth, like she'd swallowed something dead.

The Doctor walked up to the reception desk without so much as a moment of hesitation. He held in him the sort of confidence that Hartley wished she could replicate. She pushed her shoulders back and did her best to look important as she and Donna followed his path through the lobby.

“Welcome to the Grosvenor Hotel,” said a perky young woman with a name tag reading _Becky._ “Are you visiting or checking in?”

The Doctor didn't answer her, lifting the psychic paper in one smooth move, holding it in front of her face. “Detective Smith,” he said stoically. “This is my partner, Detective Daniels, and special consult, Ms. Noble.”

Becky blinked in surprise, glancing over her shoulder as if looking for someone to help her. But she was alone behind the desk and wilted as she realised it. “How can I help you, Detective?” she asked warily.

“We have reason to believe a young woman is being held captive in one of your rooms,” he told her without blinking. Hartley had to marvel at his tact; a good lie always stuck most closely to the truth.

Becky's face went pale at the words, eyes widening in horror. “Oh my God,” she whispered fervently. “Are you serious?”

“Quite,” said the Doctor firmly. “We need access to your records. We're looking for a room belonging to a man, presumably under the name of Mason Dyer.”

Becky now looked even more awkward and uncomfortable than before. “Uh, I really don't think I'm allowed to give out that information, Detective,” she told him apologetically.

The Doctor pulled the psychic paper back, putting it back into his pocket. “Not unless we have a search warrant,” he said as he pulled the same paper back out as if it were a brand new document. “And look, we have one here.”

She took it from him, scanning it carefully. “Oh, uh, it seems to be all in order...” she said, wholly uncertain.

“Becky?” came a new voice and Hartley just about groaned aloud in frustration. A man arrived, dressed in a spiffy suit complete with a tie-pin. His dark grey hair and hooked nose reminded Hartley of a bird of prey. The comparison made her cringe. “What seems to be the problem?” he asked in a posh accent. Becky looked relieved to have someone with her who actually knew what they were doing.

The Doctor held back a sigh and launched into the whole thing again. Hartley tuned around, looking over her shoulder at the extravagant lobby. The glow coming from the multiple chandeliers was warm and bright – even the _light_ looked expensive – and it suddenly occurred to her that she'd never spent the night in a hotel before.

Before meeting the Doctor, she'd never even left London, was never without a home to sleep in for the night. Emma always said she'd lived a sheltered life; until running away with the Doctor, she never really knew how much that was true.

The thought of Emma was like a knife to the gut. She swallowed thickly, looking away from the glittering chandelier above to see the Doctor taking the psychic paper back from the scowling bird of prey. Becky was gone, a few metres away helping a pair of tall women on the other end of the counter.

The man – clearly Becky's supervisor – began to tap away at the computer, a scowl on his lips like he were born with it in place.

“We have a Mr. Mason Dyer staying in room 143,” he finally told them begrudgingly.

The Doctor nodded. “We'll need a key,” he said firmly.

Although the man was scowling, he didn't argue, pulling out a fancy gold keycard and making his way around the counter. “If you'll follow me,” he said, radiating resentment. If Hartley had any space left in her head, she might have wondered what his problem was.

They were led across the length of the spacious lobby and towards the marble stairs at the far wall. Donna leaned closer to Hartley and the Doctor, lowering her voice so she wouldn't be overheard by the crabby manager leading them through his hotel.

“He booked the room under his own name?” she asked critically. “Not very smart, is it?”

The Doctor frowned. “From what little we know of this Chahe, he doesn't seem like the type to believe he'll ever get caught,” he said darkly.

Hartley's hands balled into fists, her heart racing faster and faster with every step that took them closer to the one and only lead they had on Emma. What would they find in this room? Would it be only another clue, some scrap that would keep them running around London in the most gruesome kind of treasure hunt? Or would it be something even worse? Hartley couldn't deny the fear boiling like water in her stomach, anxiety whispering in her ear, telling her to prepare herself to find Emma's broken body on the floor, murdered and cast aside like she were nothing.

They came to a stop outside room 143, the door painted an off-white. The manager reluctantly swiped the keycard through the lock and it beeped softly before the whole door swung open.

“If you could just wait out here,” the Doctor said to the man who scowled but knew better than to argue with what he believed to be the police.

The Doctor stepped inside the hotel room, disappearing into the dark. Hartley was next, with Donna close behind. The curtains were drawn and the lights were off, the whole room shrouded in shadow. Hartley pressed a hand to the wall, searching blindly for a light switch.

“Mr. Dyer?” the Doctor called into the dark. “We're detectives with Scotland Yard. We just want to ask you a few questions.”

Nothing.

“Emma?” he asked carefully. “Emma Longview? Are you in here?”

Hartley muscles were painfully tense, preparing herself for the worst. Finally her fingertips brushed the small bulge of a switch and without pausing to stew in her fear she flicked it on. The room was plunged into light and they all winced at the sudden glare. What they found in the light, however, was far worse.

Emma was indeed there, sitting on the floor with her back pressed up against the end of the bed. She was wearing a small nightgown, blue and purple bruises littering her skin like the most awful kind of artwork. She was staring into empty air, her thin arms wrapped around even thinner legs, hair a mess and face sticky with dried tears.

But that was hardly the most horrifying part.

On the floor only a few metres away was the body of who could only be Mason Dyer. He was sprawled at a sickening angle, the navy stain of his blue, alien blood sunken into the cream carpet beneath. His eyes were open wide, staring unseeingly at the ceiling.

Hartley bypassed the corpse all together, making a beeline for Emma without stopping to think. Emma hadn't even looked up at them when they'd walked in, and Hartley collapsed down to her side, knees aching from the impact.

“Emma?” she whispered, careful not to spook her. She looked so fragile, like one wrong word might shatter her into a million pieces. Her emotions were shrouded by a dreamlike haze, like she were existing within a fugue state.

Hartley reached out, gently pressing a hand to her old friend's exposed shoulder. Her skin was cold to the touch and Hartley wondered just how long she'd been sitting there, exposed and in shock.

Emma startled, head snapping around to stare at Hartley with wide eyes. “Emma?” Hartley asked again, gentle as could be.

Emma's eyes narrowed, and a sense of tart confusion filled her. She peered at Hartley like she'd seen someone familiar in the street, but couldn't quite place them.

“It's me, Emma,” Hartley whispered, squeezing her shoulder softly. “It's Hartley.”

Emma blinked slowly, struggling to understand. “Hartley,” she echoed like a student in a classroom.

Hartley's eyes burned with tears, the lump in her throat making it hard to swallow. “Yeah,” she nodded. “I know it's been awhile, but surely you haven't forgotten me,” she added, forcing the closest thing to a smile she could conjure onto her face. It was more a grimace, but she figured smiles didn't come easy when there was a dead body only two metres away from you.

“Hartley,” said Emma again, and Hartley felt her flare of recognition.

“Yeah, Em. It's me,” she whispered brokenly.

The Doctor's voice washed over them, and Hartley gingerly glanced over her shoulder to find him talking on Donna's mobile, most likely on the line with the _real_ Scotland Yard. Donna was nowhere in sight but Hartley couldn't blame her for leaving – she hadn't signed up to deal with this sort of situation. It was a lot for anyone to handle, Donna included.

“Where've you been?” Emma asked quietly, and Hartley turned to see her staring at her, eyes devoid of emotion.

“I've been travelling,” she said, eyes flickering down to the corpse before them before they darted away, disgust like bile in her throat.

“Where?” Emma asked, a strange sort of naivety about her that hadn't been there before. She was in shock, so traumatised that she wasn't even trembling. Hartley began to wonder exactly what Dyer – no, the _Master_ – had done to her, but she stopped before she could get too far, knowing it would only upset her more.

The Doctor had hung up his call, appearing above them and holding out a hand to help them off the floor. “Emma,” he greeted her warmly, pulling her slowly and carefully to her feet, like she were a precious doll of breakable china.

“You know me?” Emma asked airily, blinking up at him curiously.

“I'm the Doctor – Hartley's boyfriend,” he said smoothly, seeming none the worse for the situation they found themselves in. He ignored the dead body in the room with them with almost laughable ease.

“Oh?” asked Emma, eyes and emotions equally as distant. “That's nice.”

The Doctor was allowing Hartley to feel his concern for her friend, and she gently began to steer Emma into the sitting room, from which they wouldn't be able to see Dyer's corpse. She guided her into a comfy looking chair while the Doctor moved over to a table by the wall and began to pour water from the pitcher in the centre. Hartley made sure Emma was stable before joining him at the wall.

“So?” she asked carefully.

“Torchwood's on their way,” he told her quietly.

“You mean Jack?” she asked in surprised, and the Doctor nodded his head. “Why not the police?”

“He's an alien,” the Doctor reminded her with a nod at the Chahe's corpse. “This is Torchwood's jurisdiction. Besides, I'm sure Jack would only pout if we didn't go to him.” He paused, turning to look at her properly. “Are you okay?”

“That doesn't matter,” she said dismissively. She could tell the Doctor strongly disagreed, but she didn't stop to listen to his counter argument. “What matters now is getting Emma somewhere safe,” she told him decisively.

“Torchwood will be able to rehabilitate her,” he said blithely.

Hartley whirled around on him with a glower. “She's a human, not an undomesticated animal,” she said sharply.

He opened his mouth – probably to apologise – but she wasn't in the mood, nodding for him to move with her back over to Emma to hand her the glass of room temperature water. She took it, although her movements were sluggish and slow. She moved as if she were experiencing life underwater, and Hartley wondered how she could stand not being able to breathe.

“Emma,” the Doctor began, crouching down so he was below her height – probably to make her feel safer. Hartley took a seat on the couch beside her old friend, monitoring her emotions as if it were second nature. “Can you tell me what happened?” he asked quietly.

Emma blinked, a mess of pain and shock, but she didn't answer.

“How long have you been here?” he tried again.

Emma swallowed, and Hartley reached out to press a hand to her exposed skin once more, feeling her fear pulse like it had its own heart. “I don't know,” she finally said, bringing the glass to her lips and taking a deep sip. “A few days, maybe?”

“Can you tell me what happened, Emma?” the Doctor asked once more.

Emma's face darkened, and Hartley almost wished they hadn't needed to ask. “He came at me,” she whispered. “I just… I just reacted. And then he wouldn't wake up,” she said, sad and confused, like a child who didn't yet understand the permanence of death. Hartley knew this kind of trauma could have that effect. “But he didn't bleed red,” she added, as if only just remembering.

She was suddenly alarmed, looking up at them in fear.

“He bled blue,” she told them like a confession. “How is that possible?”

Hartley didn't know what she could possibly say; how could she explain this to her? And _should_ she? Emma was in too fragile a state to handle knowing the man she'd been seeing for so many months wasn't even human; or that he'd been hired to harass and potentially kill her in the end.

The Doctor pulled a small torch from his pocket, holding it up with a smile. “Look into the light for me, Emma?” he asked, and Hartley wondered whether Emma noticed that neither of them answered her question. He checked her pupils' reaction to the light as he spoke to Hartley. “I sent Donna down to the lobby to keep the peace with the hotel staff and to direct Jack up here when he arrives.”

“The scene a bit much for her?” Hartley asked quietly.

He glanced over at her, eyes suddenly so _old._ “Can you blame her?”

Hartley inhaled deeply, forcing herself not to glance back down at the bloodied corpse that lay cooling behind them. “No,” she replied softly, “I can't.”

“Any dizziness, Emma?” he asked, switching back into doctor-mode without batting an eye. “Headache? Nausea?”

“All three,” Emma whispered.

“Well, we'll take you back to the TAR-”

“Hospital,” Hartley interjected before he could finish. “We'll take her to the hospital.”

The Doctor met her stare, questions and confusion swimming in his eyes. He seemed to see she wasn't going to relent, however, and nodded his head. “Want me to call an ambulance?” he offered.

She shook her head. “An ambulance will attract too much attention.”

And he knew she was right, agreeing with a soft hum. He dug in his pocket for a moment, finally producing a pair of white pills. “Take these for the headache,” he told Emma quietly.

Emma stared at him, still in a bit of a daze, but with more clarity returning with every blink of her eyes. “You expect me to just take a couple of loose pills you dug out of your pocket?” she asked skeptically. Hartley laughed in surprise – _that_ was the Emma Longview she remembered.

“Trust me, I'm the Doctor,” he replied with a small smile. That natural trustworthiness of him worked perfectly, and despite the ridiculousness of the situation Emma took the little white pills and washed them down with water.

There was a knocking at the door and Hartley turned to see a wonderfully familiar face in the doorway. “Someone order a house call?” Jack asked in his usual charming, American accent.

Hartley rubbed Emma on the back one last time before climbing to her feet and making a beeline for the door. There was no laughter or glee in their reunion. The pair just embraced, Hartley embarrassed to admit she was clinging to him like a stubborn leech, but he didn't seem to mind.

“Barely been three days,” he said in her ear. “Miss me that much?”

“Oh shut up,” she replied in a hushed whisper. “Been awhile longer than that on our end.”

“Why am I not surprised?” he sang. She ignored him, stepping out of his arms and dragging him deeper into the hotel room to where Emma and the Doctor still sat, the latter watching the former like a hawk, making sure she wasn't about to keel over from shock.

The Doctor looked up as he approached, meeting Jack's eyes with a stoic nod. “Captain,” he greeted him coolly.

“Doctor,” Jack replied in kind.

“Jack, this is Emma,” Hartley said with a nod at the shaking blonde. “Emma, this is my very good friend, Jack. I met him on my travels. He's here to help.”

Jack crouched down beside her just as the Doctor had, in an effort to appear as unthreatening as possible. “Hart's told me all about you,” he told her, and it wasn't a lie. Back in the 1800s there had been little to do at night but talk, reminisce about the lives they'd left behind. She'd told him all about Emma and it warmed her that he still remembered, even after all this time. “It's nice to meet you, Emma.”

Emma nodded her head, weak and unsure, and Jack smiled kindly.

“Maybe you should begin the clean-up, Jack?” asked the Doctor, growing a little impatient. He glanced back to the door as if expecting somebody to burst through. “Where's your team?”

“Just me for now,” said Jack, smiling at Emma one last time before standing to his full height. “You said it was a sensitive matter. I didn't want to bring them into the fray until I knew more,” he told them quietly.

“Are they here?”

“Downstairs, waiting for my signal,” Jack nodded. He strolled closer to the dead body staining the carpet before them. “What do we have here?” he wondered as he approached.

“Chahe,” said the Doctor shortly.

“She took out a Chahe all by herself?” asked Jack, undeniably impressed as his eyes slid across to Emma.

“Jack,” Hartley warned, and he had the decency to look a little ashamed. He cleared his throat and got back to his job assessing the body. From beside Hartley, Emma was beginning to tremble. “I think I should take her to the hospital now, Doctor,” she said softly, and with a cursory glance at Emma, he nodded.

“We'll all go,” he decided. “I'm sure Jack doesn't want us crowding his team while they work.”

“Something like that, yeah,” Jack agreed over his shoulder.

“Come with me, Emma?” the Doctor asked her gently. Hesitating a moment, Emma eventually slid her hand into his and let her pull him from the room. “I'll get a taxi. Meet us out front in five?” he asked Hartley, seeming to sense she needed a minute alone with her brother. She nodded gratefully.

“Doctor!” called Jack before he could leave. The Doctor turned back to see the Captain holding out a small handful of folded bills. “You don't carry any money,” he reminded him dryly. “You'll be needing the fare.”

The Doctor hesitated before finally taking the money, slipping it into his pocket with a contained nod before turning and guiding a glassy-eyed Emma from the room. The moment they were out of sight Hartley collapsed onto the couch, exhaling heavily. Jack joined her a moment later, sitting on the cushions with a great deal more grace.

“You okay?” he asked probingly.

“I will be once I know Emma's going to be all right.”

“She's tough,” Jack smiled. “I've never heard of anyone her size going up against a Chahe and living to tell the tale.”

Hartley didn't smile back. “Will you promise me something?” she asked softly.

“Anything.”

“Watch out for her after I leave?” she begged, voice lacking strength. “It's my fault she's in this situation in the first place. I mean, if I'd just called to check up once in awhile; or kept tabs on her at all-”

“Hart,” said Jack, stern in a way he usually wasn't. “The Doctor filled me in on the phone. This isn't your fault.”

He could tell by her expression that she strongly disagreed, and he rolled his eyes.

“You're not the one who did _any_ of this,” he continued with fervour. “You are not to blame for the Master's actions,” he said, and although she'd thought the name a thousand times since this day had begun, the sound of it said aloud still sent a thrill of terror through her heart. “This. Isn't. Your. Fault.”

“If I'd never travelled with the Doctor...” she tried to argue, stubborn to a fault.

“Then who knows _how_ many other people might have suffered?” he finished plainly.

“There are consequences for everything we do in life, Jack,” she whispered. “And these are mine.”

Jack didn't seem to know what to say. He threaded an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer into his side and pressing his lips to the crown of her head. She burrowed into him, allowing herself one brief moment of comfort before she knew she had to face reality once more.

“Knock knock,” said an unfamiliar voice from the doorway, and the two immortals looked up from their embrace to see two people watching them with matching levels of intrigue. “That her?” asked the man, short with dark hair and a plethora of freckles across his nose.

“She has a name, Owen,” drawled Jack in annoyance.

Hartley reached up to rub at her eyes, just on the off chance they'd begun leaking without her permission. Her face was dry, and she pushed her hair off her face as she faced the two newcomers. “I'm Hartley,” she said politely. “You must be Jack's team.”

“Some of,” said the woman, pretty in an unassuming way. She eyed Hartley with curiosity.

“He speaks very highly of you all,” Hartley told them kindly.

“Same here,” said the man, before pausing as if rethinking his statement. “Or, at least he has, the two times he's ever mentioned you.”

The woman smacked the man upside the head, and despite her hellish day, it made Hartley smile.

“Harts, this is Owen Harper and Toshiko Sato,” said Jack, annoyance soaking his voice. “Guys, this is Hartley. And she was just leaving.”

“Kicking me out already?” she asked him playfully.

“Kicking you out of the hotel room with an alien corpse leaking onto the carpet?” he countered incredulously. “Yeah, I am.”

Sobering, she remembered their circumstances. Jack was good at that; making her forget how abysmally awful everything was. It was nice, she realised, to forget. Even for just a moment.

“I should go meet up with the Doctor,” she agreed quietly. Jack's friends bristled with interest at the mention of the Doctor, and she wondered just what kind of things they thought they knew about him, to give them that reaction. Was he the legend to them that he so seemed throughout history, or was it Jack's stories that made them curious? “We have to get Emma to a hospital. I think she might have a concussion.” She met Jack's eyes, a frown knitting at her brow. “I'll see you later?”

“I'm sure the universe will throw us together again soon enough,” he promised her. “Tell the Doctor I'll be expecting his call about the status of the clean-up,” he added.

“Will do,” she told him. She pushed herself up onto her tows to bring Jack into a warm, however brief, embrace. He hugged her back tightly, uncaring of the eyes watching their every move. “Soon, Captain,” she vowed.

“Soon, Pretty Lady,” he promised.

With a final wave at Owen and Tosh, Hartley left the hotel room. The hallways were barren, almost scarily so, but Hartley figured Jack's team had probably put out some alert to keep people in their rooms. They seemed resourceful enough to do such a thing, especially with someone like her brother at the helm.

The Doctor was standing with Donna and Emma outside in the taxi bay. Donna nudged him at the sight of her. “Where've you been?” the Doctor complained as he spotted her heading towards them. “I said five minutes.”

“Let's go,” she replied, for once uninterested in their usual bickering routine. He seemed to understand, turning away without a word, guiding Emma into the back of the waiting taxi.

“Are you okay?” Donna whispered, eyeing Hartley with concern.

She attempted a smile, but it fell flat. “I'm fine,” she said, grateful that even though Donna could sense the lie, she didn't call her out on it. They slid into the back of the taxi after Emma, the Doctor getting in the front and directing the driver to the nearest hospital.

The ride was silent the whole way to the hospital; the Doctor lost in a swirl of hidden thoughts, Emma too in shock to speak, Hartley trying not to let grief overwhelm her, and Donna just too scared to speak up and accidentally make everything worse.

The car had barely come to a stop before the Doctor was handing over the money without stopping to count out the proper fare. Donna, however, had the foresight to pluck it back and half it, still having enough to give the driver for the ride.

The hospital was busy, and the Doctor began to lift the psychic paper to help them jump the queue, but Hartley was having none of it.

“This isn't a medical emergency,” she said, gripping his wrist and lowering his arm. “We can wait in line like everyone else.”

He was confused by the forceful demand, but didn't argue against it, falling obediently silent. Hartley could feel the shock beginning to wear off of Emma, rather like the way the morning dew evaporated off the grass come sunrise. The fog of trauma had begun to recede, leaving Emma shaking and exhausted.

“Go sit down, Em,” Hartley said quietly. “You can barely stand.”

Emma was struck with terror at the thought of going anywhere alone. Hartley understood the fear with near painful clarity. After experiencing the kind of abuse they had, sometimes the thought of being alone was too much to bear. It felt like the silence would swallow them whole.

“I've got to talk to the nurse and fill out your paperwork,” she said, quiet and apologetic, “but Donna will sit with you.”

Emma slowly nodded her head and blindly let Donna guide her to a nearby chair. Hartley sighed, rubbing her eyes to try and lessen the ache behind them, but it did no good.

The Doctor put a hand on her shoulder, and she surprised herself with the urge to flinch away. She stopped herself in time, instead reaching up to grip his hand tightly, struggling to draw the comfort from it she usually could.

“She's going to be okay,” he told her, but she couldn't help but feel the promise was an empty one.

“She's been subjected to _months_ of emotional and physical torture,” she reminded him tartly. “It's not the type of thing you can just walk off.”

“You endured the same,” he countered quietly as they shuffled forwards in the queue leading up to the admissions desk. She winced at the reminder but found herself glad when the Doctor didn't apologise. There was nothing to apologise for – it was true, and she could only hope that one day she'd be able to hear it and not feel pain like a dagger to her heart.

“That's how I know it isn't easy to recover from,” she whispered, unable to meet his eyes.

The Doctor watched her for a few minutes in silence. She couldn't feel his emotions – locked away as tightly as they were – but she could see the curiosity on his face when she glanced up at him.

“What is it?” he eventually asked, a frown pulling at his brow. She thought that he was good at that; sensing when something wasn't quite right with her. She wondered if he could do that with everyone, or if it was just her.

“It's just-” she began without knowing where the sentence was going. Something was wrong, but even she wasn't sure what. Or maybe she just wasn't sure how to put it into words.

The Doctor was silent, giving her time to gather her thoughts as they slowly shuffled further along in the queue.

“It isn't fair,” she finally whispered, the truth of it occurring to her rather suddenly. “The Master's dead and gone, and yet here he is, torturing me still.”

The Doctor looked away, and she could tell the weight of her words sat heavy on his twin hearts. She wondered what he might say; whether he would apologise now, despite it being out of place.

“You're free of him, Hartley,” he eventually told her, conviction strong in his voice. She wasn't sure she agreed, but she knew how much pain the topic caused him and she didn't want to add to it.

The memory of the Doctor crouched down over the trembling Master as he said he forgave him. Even after everything he did to her – tearing into her until she was nothing but ashes and dust – the Doctor still forgave him. The memory of the compassion in his eyes; it made Hartley's insides churn and burn.

And maybe she wasn't as healed as she'd convinced herself – and everyone else – she was.

“I think you and Donna should get a taxi back to the TARDIS,” she said quickly, staring resolutely in front of her. “I'll get Emma signed in here. You can come pick me up later.”

“Hartley.”

She glanced over to reluctantly meet his eyes. “Right now, I just need to look after her,” she said, raw like an exposed nerve. “I need to help her heal, and I need to do it alone.”

The Doctor's expression twisted in pain before he went blank, probably not wanting to hurt her with his reaction. “Okay. I understand,” he told her, but she wondered whether he did.

“I'll call Donna when I'm ready to be picked up,” she said distantly, finally making her way up to the window where a bored looking nurse sat behind the counter in pink scrubs with a pencil behind her ear.

The Doctor caught her elbow, pulling her back towards him. She met his eyes, a frown pulling her brow down hard enough to give her a headache. “I don't want to leave you like this,” he said, imploring.

The woman behind the counter called out an irritated, “miss?” and Hartley held back a sigh.

“But it's what I need,” she told the Doctor, plain and clear, and he was left with nothing to do but agree.

“Okay,” he said softly, concern shining in his eyes. “No need to call. We'll be waiting out front when you're ready to leave.”

She paused, swallowing around the lump in her throat.

“Miss?” called the nurse again, growing frustrated. The man standing behind them cleared his throat obnoxiously.

“Thanks, Doctor,” Hartley whispered hurriedly. “I'll see you later.”

He nodded, squeezing her hand once before slipping something into her palm, then heading off in the direction of Emma and Donna. Glancing down, she found it was the psychic paper. Neither were sure she would need it, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

Hartley made her way to the counter, beginning the arduous task of admitting Emma into their care.

By the time she made her way to where Emma was sitting, her old friend was alone, neither Donna or the Doctor in sight. It was what she'd asked for, but she couldn't help but admit she didn't feel any better for it.

* * *

About four hours later Emma was sitting up in the bed the hospital had provided, sipping quietly at a cup of apple juice. The doctors had come and gone, patching her up and completing an exam, just to be safe. They told the bare truth – that she'd just escaped an abusive relationship, and something traumatising had happened to leave her with a severe case of shock.

The doctors wanted to know more, but Hartley flashed the psychic paper and made up some lie about being with the police that got them off the hook. Emma had tried to sleep, but she'd woken up screaming barely a half hour later. She hadn't tried again.

Hartley was wondering when they would talk; or if they even would at all. The silence wasn't quite suffocating, but there was certainly a tension in the room, filled with all the things unsaid.

In the end it was Emma who broke the silence, much to Hartley's surprise.

“Where've you been?” she asked in a weak little whisper. Fear trembled throughout the small hospital room, and Hartley realised it was because she was afraid of the answer.

What was she meant to say? What answer could she possibly give that would make Emma feel better? That wouldn't just hurt her more?

“Please don't lie to me,” Emma breathed, shutting her eyes tight and lowering her chin to her chest, as if waiting for an attack.

Hartley's eyes began to burn as she shut the magazine she'd been pretending to read, dropping it onto the table beside her. It astounded her that Emma could still know her so well – even after so long apart. She wasn't the same person she had been when she'd left. Now she was someone else – something else – all together. But maybe some of that person still remained; an echo of the past.

She wanted to lie, she really did. She was even planning to; to make up something just barely believable and stick with it, then disappear into nothing like the ghost she'd become. But looking up at Emma now, the fragile shell of the woman she once was, she knew she deserved better than that. She deserved the truth, painful as it was to tell.

“I wasn't lying when I said I was going travelling,” she began slowly. “That's exactly where I was – travelling round the universe; through space and time itself.”

Emma said nothing, just stared into thin air. But Hartley could sense her emotions, could tell she was listening. And so she told her everything, beginning with the day she'd met the Doctor.

All up, it took her about an hour – and that was only the abridged version. She covered the weeks leading up to meeting Rose, then the relationship she'd built with her pink and blonde friend. She spoke about meeting Jack, and that fateful day on the Game Station, about how she'd disappeared from this world, only for Rose's love for her – and the power of the Bad Wolf – to bring her back permanently.

She told her all about the 1800s with Jack, living a life of boring but comfortable domesticity. She caught her tendril of amusement as she went off on a tangent about having to make her own bread, and the tension in her shoulders began to lesson.

She spoke about meeting the Doctor again, finding him in a completely new body but still the same man she so adored. About gaining the ability of empathy, and the kinds of trials that came from it. She spoke about losing Rose to Pete's world, and the storm of grief she went through after it. Meeting Martha, that strange animosity that had lingered between them, a competition in place that neither had wanted, nor knew how to escape.

She told her about meeting Jack again, and how they'd come face to face with the man who would tear the Earth apart. She glossed over the year of pain and torture, explaining how Martha had saved them all in the end. Then she spoke about how Martha chose to leave them, for her own sake, and how Hartley genuinely thought it was just about the bravest thing she'd ever seen anyone do.

She told her all about seeing herself be born in the TARDIS, and how the Doctor and her had finally caved and admitted their affection for one another on that asteroid so very far away from Earth. She spoke about the love she felt for him, burning hot and fiery in her gut. She finished with how they'd found Donna again and began travelling the universe, looking for nothing but trouble and fun.

By the time she finished her voice was hoarse from talking, but she didn't care, leaning back in her chair and watching her old friend toy with the butterfly bandage on her cheek. She wondered what she might say, what emotion she would decide to settle on out of the thousand or so warring in her gut.

“You didn't think maybe I'd have liked to come travelling, too?” Emma finally asked, and the small words were like a blow to Hartley's gut. Breathless, she looked away, guilt like a poison in her veins.

And the truth was, she hadn't. Not so much that she didn't think it was something she'd have liked, but just that it was something she hadn't even considered. How _selfish_ was that? She was handed all of time and space and instead of thinking about who else might like such a gift, she kept it all for herself, hoarding it like a dragon hoarding its treasure.

Gripping the armrest of her chair, Hartley breathed deeply, letting the stench of antiseptic burn her nose.

Maybe it wasn't so much that space and time that she'd wanted to keep to herself; but rather the Doctor. Something about him made her feel selfish, particularly back in the beginning. How could she have shared him? Martha once said she felt like she could never compare to Hartley, and maybe on some subconscious level Hartley felt the same about Emma.

But how could it have never occurred to her even once to invite Emma along, or even to go back and visit? She might not have been as close to Emma as she'd grown to Jack or Donna, or even Rose, but that didn't excuse her actions. It was thoughtless and selfish of her, and now she had to live with the consequences of her actions.

“I'm sorry,” she said, aware the words were lacking but unsure how to fix it. Was there really anything she could say that would make this any better? A Masters in literature and the entire English language at her disposal, and she couldn't think of a single word that might fix the damage she'd caused.

She thought that if such a magical word really did exist, maybe the world would be an easier place to live in.

Emma didn't react to her words. Her emotions were still clouded by a haze of numb. “Why did you come back, Hartley?” she asked after a long time of nothing but the beeping of distant machines.

Hartley took a moment to consider her answer. “It was time,” she eventually said, turning to look out the window. The sky was a dark, night having long since fallen. “I've been running long enough; my friend helped me see that.”

A stab of confusion stood out amongst the cloud of nothing “What were you running _from_?” Emma asked her quietly. “Wasn't life good? A loving family; great friends; a job you always said you were born for? Why wasn't that enough for you?” she asked, desperately wanting to know even as judgement curled in her heart. Hartley winced at the feel of it.

“I just wanted _more_ ,” she tried to explain. “Haven't you ever thought that this life of working and eating and watching pointless TV and then going to sleep only to wake up and do it all over again just isn't _enough_?”

“Yeah,” Emma admitted easily, a hint of that fire Hartley remembered so fondly sitting ready in her heart. “But then I push on, and persevere, because that's what life _is_. It's doing things even though they aren't easy; even though they're not _fantastic,_ ” she spat like it disgusted her. Hartley opened her mouth to retort, but Emma barrelled on. “You gave up; ran away like a coward.”

The words shredded her insides like knives, and Hartley flinched at the pain of it. “You think it's been easy for me?” she asked, standing sharply to her feet, eyes stinging with unwelcome tears. “It hasn't all been sunshine and daisies, Emma. I have been to _hell_ and back these last six years. I've had everything I am stripped away; I've been tortured to the brink of insanity; and I've even had the ability to _die_ stolen from me, leaving me stuck in a never ending cycle of suffering that will go on for _eternity_. I'm not even sure I'm _human_ anymore, Emma. I'm just – I'm _nothing,_ ” she broke off with a small cry, pressing a hand over her mouth to conceal her trembling lip.

It wasn't often she allowed herself to break down like this. What was the point in crying? It wouldn't change anything. It only left her tired and drained. But sometimes the fact that it was pointless wasn't enough to stop her body from betraying her, breaking down into a mess of messy emotion.

Emma said nothing, allowing Hartley to have her moment. So consumed by her sorrow, Hartley couldn't feel any emotions other than her own. It was a relief to feel only her own pain, rather than that of all those around her. Crying felt strangely good, like a release of something she didn't know had been building for quite some time.

Her sobs eventually petered off into nothing, and she used the cuff of her jumper to sheepishly wipe at the tears coating her cheeks.

“This is my fault,” she said as she sat back down in the chair beside Emma's bed.

Emma frowned. “The breakdown?”

“No,” Hartley whispered. “What's happened to you.”

“Why?” asked Emma, straight to the point.

“The Master – Harold Saxon – he wasn't … mentally stable,” she began hesitantly, voice scratchy and hoarse from her crying, but neither one of them mentioned it. “He fixated on me; became strangely obsessed with destroying my life. I wondered why for a long time; why me? Why was I so special?”

Emma was silent, letting her monologue, probably hoping answers would be coming soon.

“I think it was the legends,” she whispered, toying idly with the signet ring on her finger, head in a different place entirely. “There're these stories of me, legends throughout history. I wouldn't say I'm as well known as the Doctor, but if you dig deep enough, there I am: the Doctor's Heart.”

“He was jealous?” Emma asked, leant back against her pillows, still weak but managing to keep up. That was Emma; sharp as a tack, even in a hospital bed.

“Not of who I was to the Doctor, but of who I was to the universe,” she revealed quietly. “He wanted to know what was so special about me that it sparked legends throughout time. I'm not sure if he ever got his answer; I know I certainly haven't.”

“Where are you going with this, Hart?” Emma asked in the kind of casual way that threw her back to early 2004. The two would be sitting curled up on the lounge, Emma with a notebook in hand, making halfhearted sketches of ideas for gowns to pitch to her boss while Hartley lay upside down, working stubbornly on her eighth crossword of the night.

A little slice of peace that was impossible to appreciate until it was gone; never to be seen again.

“What I'm failing to explain,” she tried again, shutting her eyes so she didn't have to see Emma's face when she revealed the horrible truth, “is that the Master tried to get at me by using my family and friends. He brainwashed my sister; he enslaved my dad; and he sent an alien mercenary to ruin my best friend's life.”

The room fell silent, and Hartley was glad her empathy was on the fritz, sparing her from experiencing exactly what Emma was feeling in that moment. It can't have been pretty.

When Emma finally spoke, her voice trembled. Hartley kept her eyes firmly shut. “So, Mas...” she trailed off, struggling to say his name. She took a deep breath, summoning courage that left Hartley in awe of her strength. “So Mason was sent to me on purpose? As a torture device?”

Hartley swallowed around the lump in her throat, reluctantly opening her eyes to meet her old friend's. “I'm sorry,” she said again, all the answer Emma needed.

Emma's expression twisted in dismay, and Hartley couldn't take it, shutting her eyes again like a coward.

“Are you going to ask?” Emma wondered after a long few minutes of haunting silence.

“Ask what?”

“Why I let it happen.”

Hartley was gritting her teeth hard enough to give herself a headache. “You loved him,” she said, and it wasn't a question.

She realised her empathy was slowly spluttering back to life when she felt Emma's sudden spike of surprise, followed almost immediately by a tsunami of pain. “Yeah,” she whispered, ashamed of the answer.

Hartley said nothing, letting Emma sort through her thoughts in peace.

“He was charming, at first,” she eventually began, the words saturated in agonised honesty. “You'd mysteriously up and left a year or so before, and I've never been too great at making friends, so there was still this Hartley-shaped hole in my life where you used to be. He was kind of hypnotising. Dangerous in a good way; at least I thought so.”

Hartley looked up, resting her chin on her hand and watching Emma sadly. “When did it start?”

“He was smart,” Emma whispered, picking at the loose thread in the thick hospital blanket draped over her legs. “He waited until I was completely gone on him, then changed. Started knocking me about. It was little things at first, but they got bigger and bigger, started becoming bruises I had to find ways to hide. But I loved him, so it didn't really matter. He started acting like I did something to _force_ him to hit me,” her voice cracked over the word. “Like it was my fault.”

“He made you feel like you deserved it,” Hartley whispered, understanding all too well. A drop of ice ran down the length of her spine, and she shuddered at the feel of it.

Emma said nothing, but Hartley knew she was right.

“I'm sorry,” she said for the third time that night.

Emma frowned. “I'm not going to forgive you,” she told her plainly. And Hartley realised that was why she'd been saying sorry; because she wanted to be forgiven. But in her heart she already knew forgiveness was a pipe dream.

“I didn't really think you would. Or that you should.”

Emma considered this carefully, and although she wasn't looking, Hartley could feel the weight of her eyes on her like it were an anvil resting on her chest. “Was it worth it?” Emma asked quietly.

Hartley hesitantly looked up to meet her eyes. “Worth it?”

“Running away with the Doctor,” Emma elaborated, “giving up your life on Earth; was it worth it?”

Hartley knew the answer and that Emma wouldn't like what it was. But she couldn't lie, not now. “Yes,” she said, finding herself strangely ashamed of the truth. “It was worth it. It still is. Every single day.”

Emma looked away, understandably bitter. “You know, for the longest time I didn't even know whether you were even still alive,” she whispered.

Hartley opened her mouth to apologise again, but stopped herself just in time. “Yeah,” she said instead, voice breaking over the single word.

They sat in silence, letting it stretch. Hartley found it uncomfortable, but from what she could tell Emma only felt contemplative, lost in a swirl of thought.

“Are you going to leave again?” Emma finally asked, no emotion in her voice. She sounded utterly dead and it hurt Hartley, who remembered Emma as someone sharp-tongued and emotive. But she understood better than most how a year of non-stop torment could ruin who you used to be.

“I am, yeah,” Hartley said, because it was the truth. She couldn't come back; it just wasn't possible. “I can visit though,” she offered hopefully. “Drop in from time to time? You can meet the Doctor properly. I think you'd really like him if you got the chance to know him better.”

But Emma reacted only with indifference, levelling her stare onto Hartley, shards of ice sparkling in her eyes. “I'd rather you didn't.”

The lump in Hartley's throat grew larger and her eyes burned with tears. “You don't want me to come visit?” she echoed on the off chance she might have misunderstood.

“For the longest time I've left open the space in my life where you used to be,” Emma told her quietly. “There was always such mystery; where had you gone? Why?” She took a moment to swallow thickly. “Now I know,” she whispered. “And with the mystery solved, I think it's time to start filling the hole you left with something healthy.”

Hartley bowed her head, gathering herself before looking back up. “Your neighbour, Natasha – she cares about you a lot,” she said. “I think she'll be good for you; help you move on from the trauma of the last year.”

“Yeah,” Emma agreed distantly.

Hartley couldn't blame her for her distance. Once more she wished for those magic words she knew didn't exist; something she could say to make all the pain go away. But some wishes never come true, no matter how hard you begged the stars.

“You should go,” Emma eventually murmured. Hartley looked up in surprise. Emma's soft eyes were on the far wall, but the feeling in her heart was hard. Hartley being there wasn't helping at all; it was just making things worse.

“If that's what you want,” she said quietly, as if this whole situation wasn't making her insides ache with guilt. This was her fault; everything was _her fault_.

Emma still said nothing, so Hartley reluctantly climbed to her feet. She stood still, watching her old friend warily, hope that she might change her mind burning within her. But the words never came, and Emma just stared with hard eyes at the opposite wall, heart cold like a sliver of ice in her chest.

“I guess this is it, then,” she said, awkward and uncomfortable. Emma nodded her head once, and Hartley knew she wasn't imagining the way her eyes were glistening with tears.

“Goodbye, Hartley,” she told her, detached and unemotional, like they had just concluded a business meeting. Heart squeezing like a sponge, Hartley took one final look at her old friend – all dirty blonde hair and constellations of freckles, and let her go.

“Goodbye, Emma,” she replied weakly, jaw aching with how hard it was tensed.

It took everything she had in her to turn away and leave Emma behind. She knew she wasn't just saying goodbye to a friend; she was saying goodbye to a whole life. Something that for all the time travel she had at her hands, she'd never be able to see again.

Nobody paid her any mind as she made her way through the labyrinthine halls of the busy hospital. She supposed it wasn't uncommon for them to see somebody wandering listlessly, lost in a cloud of grief.

As promised, the TARDIS was parked outside the hospital, across the road on a large, grassy lawn that the more mobile patients used as a smoking area. She lifted her key from around her neck, sliding it into the lock and twisting, pushing the blue door open and slipping inside the beloved ship.

She expected the Doctor, and maybe Donna, to be there, but instead the control room was empty.

“Doctor?!” she called hesitantly, already peeling off her outer layer. “Donna?!”

Nobody answered her, the ship silent as could be. She laid her jacket over a pillar of coral before heading up the ramp towards the console. She laid a hand on the controls, glancing up into the time rotor, which sat still and quiet before her.

The TARDIS hummed gently in her mind, just a soft press to her consciousness. It was meant to be soothing, and in many ways it proved to be _too_ soothing.

The tears came suddenly but not unexpectedly. Hartley allowed herself to collapse to the floor, body going limp as she grieved. Back resting up against the console, she brought her arms around her knees and hid her face in her knees.

The TARDIS tried to help, humming a gentle tune from all around, but Hartley was beyond comfort. She just needed to get it all out; all that anger and pain, it had been building like a charge. Now somehow all that energy needed to be released, and it came out in a series of heart-wrenching sobs.

It was the Doctor who found her. Maybe the TARDIS nudged him her way, or maybe it was a happy coincidence. Either way he was suddenly there, settling down onto the grating beside her and wrapping his arm around her shoulders.

She collapsed against him, curling up into him like a small child huddling under their covers for fear of the monster under the bed. Her head burrowed in his lap, she allowed herself to cry, and he held her tight, like he alone was all that stood between her and complete desolation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed. I know this was was much heavier than usual, but it was necessary. Hartley's still healing, even despite seeming okay most of the time. That's the thing about depression: circumstances might be great as can be, but you'll feel terrible anyway. The scars the Master left won't fade for a long time to come, and even then, they'll still be there, just beneath what the eye can see. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	54. The Doctor's Daughter

“ _We never know the love of a parent_

_till we become parents ourselves.”_

Henry Ward Beecher

* * *

Martha was back, roaming the TARDIS, which hummed a different frequency with her aboard. Seeing their old friend again was brilliant – both Hartley and the Doctor had benefitted from spending time with their old companion.

The Sontarans were gone, blown into nothing but ash, the sky was drained of its poison. Things were back exactly the way they should have been, and Hartley felt relieved for it.

It was strange to have Martha back with them – however temporary. It was as though with each companion came a new chapter in their lives. To have the chapters meet, it was a little daunting. But overall good – because Hartley got to see her again. They may have had their differences in the past, but life aboard the TARDIS bonded you in ways nothing else ever could.

Martha had asked to see her old room and Hartley walked her there. Once they'd gotten inside, her old friend said she'd wanted some time alone. She didn't say why, but Hartley got the feeling it was to say the proper goodbye that she hadn't had the chance to the year before.

With a smile she let her be, wandering back through the halls of the ship which guided her to the console room, where the Doctor was fiddling idly with the zigzag plotter, his eyes and his thoughts a million miles away.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Hartley asked, voice gentle, and the Doctor turned away from the console to give her a small but sincere smile.

“Just lost in memories, I s'pose,” he replied, moving his hands from the console and instead shoving them deep into his pockets.

“Of our time with Martha?” she asked, walking up the ramp and coming to a stop beside him at the console, one hip pressed against the edge, arms crossed over her chest. He nodded with a smile. “It was a good year,” she said, a small grin on her face as she reminisced. “Well, the _first_ year was, anyway,” she added jokingly, glancing back up at him to see surprise in his eyes. “What?” she asked, suddenly self-conscious.

“I've never heard you joke about it before,” he said quietly. She needed no elaborations on what 'it' was.

“It's good to joke, right?” she asked him, voice small and wavering. “It means I'm moving on or something?”

He smiled, just a slight twitch of his lips. “Yeah,” he said, warm and strong. “Yeah, it does.”

She felt a pulse of pride from him, and her cheeks grew warm. In an effort to her the attention off of herself, she switched her train of thought. An echo of pain ricocheted through her as she remembered with an agonising stab exactly what had happened only a short hour before.

“Doctor?” she asked, voice quiet and full of that same pain. The Doctor looked up at her, concern seeping from his skin. “You were ready to die, today,” she said, the memory of it potent and painful in her head.

* * *

“ _Right. So, Donna, thank you for everything. Martha, you too. Oh, so many times,” said the Doctor, a small, reminiscent smile on his lips. “Luke, do something clever with your life.”_

_Then he turned, eyes meeting Hartley's, and she felt her heart leap in her chest with panic._

“ _Hartley,” was all he said, gentle and loving, a regretful happiness shining in his eyes._

“ _You're saying goodbye,” said Donna, strong and accusing._

“ _Doc,” Hartley said, suddenly winded, as though something had sucked all the air from her lungs._

 _  
The Doctor gave a sad smile. “Sontarans are never defeated. They'll be getting ready for war. And, well, you_ _know, I've recalibrated this for Sontaran air, so...” he trailed off, but they all knew what he meant._

_Hartley swallowed around the lump in her throat, eyes stinging with tears._

_  
“You're going to ignite them,” Martha said with a sinking realisation._

_  
“You'll kill yourself!” Donna cried._

_  
“Just send that thing up on its own. I don't know – put it on a delay!”_

“ _I can't,” said the Doctor quietly._

_  
“Why not?” Donna countered._

_  
“I've got to give them a choice.”_

_He made to press the button, but before he could Hartley leapt into the machine with him, making him pause.  
_

“ _Let me go!” she pleaded, and the Doctor's expression twisted into one of saddened pain. “I can't die – it makes sense. It's the right thing to do! Let me go!”_

_  
“I can't,” he said sternly._

“ _Can't or won't?” she demanded, jaw aching from how hard she was clenching it._

_He brought her in close, and thinking that maybe he was reconsidering, that maybe he was going to agree, she felt the fight leave her body. He pulled her in and pressed his lips tenderly to her forehead. She basked in the sensation, leaning into his hold with relief._

_But then she felt his wave of regret and gasped just as he gave her a mighty shove. She tripped out of the machine, sprawled across the linoleum floor and watching in abject horror as the Doctor disappeared in a small flash of light._

* * *

“And instead Luke was the one to sacrifice himself,” the Doctor murmured quietly, blatantly missing the point she was trying to make.

She tried very hard not to feel relieved that it was Luke to die, rather than the Doctor. But even she, with the large heart everyone in the universe said she held, wasn't a good enough person for that.

“What would I have done, if you'd died?” she asked, keeping them on track.

The Doctor looked surprised by the question. “Dunno,” he said, turning back to the console, fiddling with a small row of flashing knobs, idle and uncharacteristically meek. “Go find Jack, I s'pose. Help out with Torchwood. Saving the Earth, one Weevil at a time.”

She knew he was right on one count. She _would_ have, on a practical level, gone to find Jack. But that wasn't what she meant, and she knew that he knew it too.

“No, Doctor,” she shook her head, shifting closer, staring up at him imploringly, begging him to meet her eyes. “What would I have _done_?”

He swallowed, the sound loud in the silent control room. “Moved on with your life,” he told her, but the words lacked conviction.

“You say that like it would be possible.”

He finally met her eyes, pain filling his own. She gently pushed out with her heart, picking up the suffering he felt, the concern and sadness he held at the thought of them being separated. “You would have to,” he said quietly.

She reached out, touching his shoulder and slowly sliding her fingers down the length of his arm until she found his hand, intertwining their fingers and gripping on tight. His skin was cool and smooth as always, and she gripped on tightly, like his touch were a tether for her soul.

“Magnets exist in pairs, you know,” she told him in a whisper, the words strangely intimate to say, truer than anything else she could have told him. It wasn't just a mere fact – it was a confession. She was telling him something personal, admitting something she usually wouldn't have the guts to share.

But this was different. He'd nearly died, nearly given everything up and sacrificed himself. It was hardly the first time he'd tried as much – but this time, for whatever reason, stung more than all the rest. Probably because he'd taken the time to say goodbye.

“Yeah,” he replied, not longer fiddling with the console but staring down at their intertwined hands, the pad of his thumb gently dragging over the soft skin on the back of hers.

“Why wouldn't you let me do it?” she asked him quietly, leaning closer into him, eyes roaming over his handsome face. “If you had...” _Luke would still be alive_ , she finished in her head. But she couldn't say it – the words would only hurt him more.

Regret twisted on the Doctor's features and she gripped his hand tighter. “I couldn't do it,” he whispered. “I couldn't send you to your death.”

She wanted to argue – she couldn't die, and he _knew_ that – but she was warmed by his words. Maybe he felt the same, that sending her up there in his stead wasn't something he would have been able to live with. She understood the feeling – the reverse had very nearly killed her.

“He was a brave kid,” she murmured, thinking of Luke. He'd been a brat, self-entitled and too smart for his own good, but he'd sacrificed himself in the end, for the good of the Earth.

“Yeah,” the Doctor agreed sombrely. “He was.”

They stood in silence, letting the events of the day wash over them.

Deciding she didn't want to leave them in such a solemn atmosphere, Hartley tugged on the Doctor's hand, gently moving him so he stood directly in front of her. “I have a bone to pick with you,” she said, interjecting playfulness into her voice. He cocked a single eyebrow, looking down at her with curiosity.

“What's that?” he asked, bewildered.

She smirked, letting go of her hold on his hand to wrap both arms around his neck, pushing herself up onto her toes so their noses brushed. “If you're ever going to go get yourself blown up, the very least you could do would be to kiss me properly,” she said coyly, a wicked smirk on her face.

He blinked in surprise at her brashness, but then a responding smirk grew on his lips, one that lit a fire in her belly. “You're right,” he told her, voice low and rumbling, pleasantly rough. It made her skin tingle. “I should fix that.”

“Yeah,” she breathed, swaying closer into him like they were the magnets they so often claimed to be. He swooped down in an instant, like he couldn't bear for them to stay apart any longer, and claimed his lips with her own.

She sighed into the kiss, moving her hands from where they were crossed behind his neck, threading her long fingers through his wild, wonderful hair, using it for traction as they kissed. His hands were at her waist, but slowly they crept down to her hips, pressing against the sharp juts of her hipbones, gripping tightly.

He took a step forwards, automatically pressing her up against the console. The zigzag plotter stabbed uncomfortably into her lower back but she was too caught up in the drag of his lips against hers to care.

She felt his aura pulse with contentment and happiness, relief that he was there, alive, with her. She ate it up, soaking in his pleasure and sending back pulses of her own. The first one made him jump in surprise, but then he relaxed and fell deeper into her, their connection easy and languid.

Hartley wasn't sure how long they stood there snogging, but eventually they were pulled from their daze by a sharp gasp from the doorway.

Pulling apart as though being caught doing something they shouldn't, Hartley reached up to cover her kiss-swollen lips with her hand, cheeks flushing a soft pink. The Doctor cleared his throat and readjusted his tie, but it didn't fix the way his hair was even more wild than usual, spiking up like he'd stuck his finger into a wall socket.

Martha stared at them in shock, mouth ajar as she struggled to process what she'd just walked in on.

“Find everything okay?” the Doctor asked, voice high and squeaky and not at all convincing as he shoved his hands into his pockets in an attempt to look casual.

Martha didn't seem to know how to react. She stared at them for another few moments of uncomfortable silence until finally she smiled, the expression a mix between rueful and amused.

“Well,” she eventually said, a small smile quirking at her lips, “took you long enough.”

She laughed, low and genuine, and Hartley felt the sound warm her from the inside out. “You're not...” the Doctor trailed off, unsure.

“Jealous?” Martha supplied, one eyebrow cocked up in wry amusement. The Doctor looked uncomfortable at the implication, but Martha seemed fine, smiling away. “Engaged, remember?” she said, lifting her hand to show off the flashy ring sitting on her finger. “Sorry to say, I'm over you, mister,” she told him, meeting the Doctor's eyes with the sort of confidence that Hartley had always known she'd been able to wield.

“Good,” he said sincerely, smiling back gladly. “That's good, Martha.”

“Tell me about him,” Hartley said, sweeping her hands down the front of her green knitted jumper, the material soft under her skin. “What's he like? How'd you meet?”

“Ah ah ah,” tutted Martha quickly, striding confidently up the ramp and coming to a stop at the console beside Hartley, “you're not getting out of this that easily. What's happening here, then? The two of you are together now?”

It wasn't exactly a conversation they'd had; they hadn't sat down and had the whole What Are We To One Another discussion. It wasn't something Hartley had ever felt pressed to initiate. But now, with Martha staring at them both expectantly, she wished she had a proper answer.

They'd toyed with the word _boyfriend_ , back with Emma and the Chahe, but somehow it didn't quite feel right. It was simultaneously too much and not enough. They needed to find a better word.

The Doctor glanced over at her in the same instant that she looked over at him. Their gazes met, questions swimming in both, ones neither could answer. As one they turned back to Martha, who was watching on with raised eyebrows.

“––technically, I suppose so––”

“––I mean, I'm not a fan of labels––”

“––sort of just happened, really––”

“––likes to call us magnets––”

“Guys!” Martha exclaimed, and they both stopped babbling, sealing their mouths shut to keep the torrent of words from spilling out. She laughed again, and Hartley felt her cheeks go warm once more. “ _Whatever_ it is you're calling it – I'm happy for you,” she told them, shining with sincerity. Hartley breathed out a sigh of relief, both at Martha's acceptance and the fact they didn't have to supply a proper answer.

It did, however, make her think that maybe that awkward conversation wasn't one they could put off any longer. With great reluctance Hartley told herself she was going to set aside some time once Martha was gone and Donna was distracted, where she and the Doctor could talk about, ugh … _labels._

“For the record, I always knew it was coming,” Martha continued blithely, leaning her hip against the edge of the console and grinning at them broadly, reminding Hartley starkly of the Cheshire cat. “The two of you; it was inevitable.”

Hartley glanced at the Doctor from the corner of her eye. He was shyly fidgeting with the controls on the console, refusing to meet either of their eyes. She smiled fondly at his boyish charm.

Before she had the chance to say anything at all however, the door opened with a loud creak, and Donna was striding up the ramp, wiping gently at the tears still wet on her face.

“How were they?” Martha asked, blessedly letting the whole thing go, turning her attention to her new friend.

Hartley eyed Donna in concern, knowing it couldn't have been easy, seeing her family after all they'd experienced together, only to have to leave again. But she'd wanted to say a proper goodbye; let them know she was okay, and she was happy. She understood better than most what that was like.

  
“Oh, same old stuff. They're fine,” Donna waved a hand dismissively, sniffling once before looking at Martha with a hint of hope. “So, you going to come with us? We're not exactly short of space,” she laughed.

  
“Oh, I have missed all this,” Martha trailed off, looking up at the time rotor with nostalgia in her heart. She swallowed, giving a small, private little smile. “But, you know – I'm good here, back at home. And I'm better for having been away,” she said, and Hartley felt the Doctor's flare of curiosity from where he was stood. “Besides, someone needs me,” Martha continued, oblivious as she flashed her engagement ring again at Donna. “Never mind the universe, I've got a great big world of my own now.”

But before she could so much make it onto the ramp the doors slammed shut with a great bang, and the TARDIS lurched sideways, nearly sending all of them to the floor.

Hartley yelped, grasping onto a level of the console, struggling to remain upright. “What?” the Doctor cried, scrambling for the controls. “ _What_?” he demanded, as if the TARDIS would answer.  
  


“Doctor, don't you dare!” Martha ordered, grasping the edge of the console and glaring at the Time Lord warningly from across the room.

  
“I didn't touch anything!” he insisted, moving with the jerks of the ship as it began to tremble from beneath them. “We're in flight. It's not me!”

“Then who is it?” Hartley shouted over the wheezing of the time rotor.

“I-I don't know!” the Doctor replied, stupefied.

  
“Where are we going?” Donna shouted over the chaos.

  
“I don't know!” he yelled back, staring at the monitor with hard eyes. “It's out of control!”

The room gave another great tremble and Hartley yelped out again, this journey more violent than most. The ground vibrated so harshly under her feet that she struggled to stay upright, holding onto the console in a white-knuckled grip.

  
“Doctor, just listen to me. You take me home. Take me home _right now_!” Martha was screaming at the Doctor over the TARDIS' loud wheezes and groans. “Hartley!” Martha shouted, turning her focus to her once it was clear the Doctor's wasn't paying any attention.

“This isn't us, Martha!” Hartley insisted shrilly just as the whole ship gave another violent lurch, sending her careening to the floor.

  
“What the hell's it doing?” Donna demanded, one hand braced on the console while the other reached down to Hartley, helping her to her feet.

  
“The controls aren't working!” the Doctor replied in a hurry, and he threw themselves backwards as a sudden burst of white-hot sparks exploded from the console. Hartley let out a small scream, pulling back her singed hand with a wince.

“I don't know where we're going,” began the Doctor over all the noise, bent down underneath the console, “but my old hand's _very_ excited about it.”

  
“I thought that was just some freaky alien thing!” Donna exclaimed, voice shrill and shocked. “You telling me it's yours?”

  
“Well...” the Doctor replied vaguely, readjusting his grip on the console as the room gave another lurch.

  
“It got cut off – he grew a new one,” Martha called over the TARDIS' tantrum.

  
“You are completely impossible!” Donna responded in sheer exasperation.

  
“Not impossible. Just a bit unlikely,” he replied proudly The TARDIS gave one final, violent jerk, sending all four travellers sprawled across the console room.

Donna and Martha were shoved back into the grating of the floor, while the Doctor had collapsed onto the jump seat, a dazed Hartley thrown haphazardly into his lap. He gripped her, making sure she didn't fall.

Everything was silent and still. They'd arrived at wherever the TARDIS had taken them, and they all peered at one another, wondering what to do. Then the Doctor was moving, tossing Hartley off of him almost carelessly in his haste to get to the door. She let out a yelp, catching herself on the edge of the jump seat, glaring across at him in disgruntlement.

“Everyone okay?” she asked, standing to her feet and glancing down at her slightly burnt hand, the skin near her thumb singed and tender.

“All good,” Martha called back, grunting as she used the console to pull herself to her feet.

“I'll live,” mumbled Donna, standing too, casting the bubbling container holding the Doctor's hand a wary glance.

Over by the doors the Doctor was already busy stuffing his arms into the sleeves of his coat, and he didn't even wait for them to catch up before shoving open the door and bursting his way outside.

Hartley exchanged an exasperated look with her friends before darting out after him, refusing to let him get into any trouble without her. Stepping out into the brave new world, she found it was chilly, pulling her jumper further down her hands, bunching the fabric up in tight fists.

Above them she found only rocks and dirt instead of sky. They were in a tunnel or a cavern of some kind, surrounding them all manner of miscellaneous junk. Bits of broken fencing, barbed wire and half-built machinery were thrown about like somebody had set off a garbage-bomb.   
  
“Why would the TARDIS bring us here, then?” the Doctor wondered, strolling over to a large chunk of rusted metal. Hartley followed, letting Martha and Donna mutter amongst themselves from behind her.

She watched as the Doctor brushed his fingers through a small pile of dust on the hunk of rubbish, then brought his fingers up to his nose, sniffing delicately. “Where are we, then?” she asked him curiously, hoping he'd know.

“I have...no idea,” he admitted, bemusement on his face as he stared at the planet around them.

“Is the TARDIS okay?” she asked, glancing back at the beautiful machine behind them. She didn't seem to be sick or hurt in any way, but concern still lingered in her mind like a cloud.

“Seems fine,” the Doctor said, frowning at their surroundings pensively.

  
“Don't move!” a voice bellowed, sharp and unexpected, and they all jumped, spinning around to look at the oncoming group of soldiers. “Stay where you are! Drop your weapons!” the same voice ordered them shortly.

There were three of them, their eyes wide with shock at seeing them there – like their existence didn't make any sense. It was hardly the first time that had happened to them, Hartley mused distantly.

The soldiers held large rifles, all of them aimed at her and her friends' heads, ready to make a kill shot. Hartley saw the others holding their hands up in surrender and hurried to do the same.

  
“We're unarmed,” the Doctor told them in a strong, confident voice. “Look, no weapons. Never any weapons. We're safe.”

  
“Look at their hands. They're clean,” hissed one of the soldiers, eyes narrowed at their blemish-free skin. Hartley thought it was a rather strange thing to notice, but she didn't have time to ponder it. The strangers were talking quickly, like they were working on a clock. Hartley couldn't help but be worried about whatever it was they were worried about.

  
“All right, process them,” said the one in front, presumably the leader. “Him first.”

Hartley flinched as two of the men leapt at them, but they ignored her with ease, lunging for the Doctor, grasping both his arms and forcing him forwards. “Oi, oi. What's wrong with clean hands?” he demanded as they walked him across the small space between the mounting piles of junk.

“Let him go!” Hartley shouted, fear and fury warring for pride of place in her chest. “Oi – don't _touch_ him!” she yelled, starting forwards.

“Hartley – it's okay!” the Doctor hurried to assure her even as the two soldiers forcefully stuffed his hand down inside of some kind of large machine. The Time Lord yelped and Hartley lunged forwards. “Don't worry!” he insisted even as he winced, something happening to the appendage inside the large, metal sphere.

She wondered why he wouldn't let her help, but then quickly saw the guns aimed at her face and backed off. Getting herself shot would do nobody any good. She was no help to them dead.

“Something tells me this isn't about to check my blood pressure – _argh_!” the Doctor exclaimed loudly in pain. Hartley flinched at the sound but knew better by now than to intervene.   
  
“What are you doing to him?” Donna demanded, voice taut with panic.

  
“Everyone gets processed,” replied one of the soldiers, flat and almost robotic.

  
“It's taken a tissue sample,” exclaimed the Doctor in surprise. Hartley watched on with a mounting sense of anxiety. Would he be okay? Was this some strange form of execution? Were they in more danger than they realised? “Ow, ow, ow,” the Doctor was muttering, free arm flailing about as he dealt with the pain, “and extrapolated it. Some kind of accelerator?”

Then with a low grinding sound, like metal being scraped together, the sphere released his arm and the Doctor fell back, holding his hand out at an awkward angle.

Hartley didn't hesitate, flitting to his side and taking his hand, looking down at it in concern. She knew Time Lord DNA was an incredibly precious commodity – one that was downright dangerous in the wrong hands. Was that what this was? An attempt to steal the Doctor's DNA for their own nefarious purposes?

“Doc?” she asked anxiously, but none of his attention was one her, far too busy blinking down at the small, bloodied graze on the back of his hand.

“What on earth?” he muttered, and Hartley's lips twitched upwards at the typical Earth-saying. But she didn't have time to tease him for it.

Across from them doors to a chamber she hadn't even realised was there opened with a pressurised hiss. The group spun around, eyeing the chamber warily. The inside was full of steam, but slowly a figure emerged. A blonde girl about Hartley's height, with elfin features and the clothes of a soldier stood before them, eyeing the world around her like she were experiencing it for the first time.

  
“Arm yourself,” said the lead soldier, handing her a large weapon, which she took with an old familiarity.

  
“Where did she come from?” Martha asked in surprise.

  
The look in the Doctor's eyes may have been hollow but he was full of a pain that he was too distracted to hide from her. The force of it made Hartley's eyes water and she had to swallow back tears, blinking up at him, waiting for an answer. “From me,” he finally muttered, jaw loose with shock.

  
“From you?” Donna repeated, incredulous. “How? Who is she?”

  
Hartley stared at the Doctor, anxiously awaiting his reply.

  
“Well, she's, well,” he stammered, staring at the young woman, dazed and surprised and still holding that small echo of pain that just about tore Hartley in half, “she's my daughter.”

  
The girl smiled, wide and bright, holding a childlike innocence that was honestly rather endearing. “Hello, Dad,” she said simply as she cocked her weapon, and Hartley swallowed around the lump in her throat.

But they barely had time to process this bombshell, because suddenly the main soldier was bursting between them, steering the young woman away from them, already talking about military protocols and being in peak physical health – it was all a little shocking.

  
“I'm sorry – _daughter_?” Hartley repeated, a little bit stuck on the concept.

  
“Technically,” the Doctor murmured, staring after the blonde girl in something of a stupor.

  
“Technically how?” Martha pressed.

  
“Progenation. Reproduction from a single organism. Means one parent is biological mother and father,” the Doctor explained like a professor might at a lecture; clinical and removed. “You take a sample of diploid cells, split them into haploids, then recombine them in a different arrangement and grow. Very quickly, apparently.”

  
“Something's coming!”

The sound of heavy footsteps against the ground met their ears, and as Hartley glanced to the end of the tunnel she realised with a sinking horror that large shadows were moving towards them, far too quickly for her tastes.

  
“It's the Hath!” shouted one of the soldiers, and like it were a command the tunnel was filled by the thunderous roar of gunfire.

Already resigning herself to probably getting shot at least once on this adventure, Hartley threw herself in front of both Donna and Martha. She pushed them backwards, acting as a shield while they moved, pressing them back towards some of the larger pieces of idle junk, where they'd be safe from the bullets flying dangerously close to their heads.

Once she was sure her human friends were okay and she'd checked that the Doctor had made it to cover, Hartley peeked her head up over the sheet of metal they'd ducked behind, catching a glimpse of these _Hath_ that the soldiers seemed to be battling against.

They were pretty much gigantic, humanoid fish, with pink and purple skin and breathing masks that seemed to be full of water, rather than air. As far as diversity in the universe went, this really went above and beyond.

  
“We have to blow the tunnel! Get the detonator!” shouted one of the human soldiers.

  
“I'm not detonating anything!” the Doctor snapped back. A bullet ricocheted off the metal Hartley was using as a shield and she yelped, ducking back down just in time to save herself a bullet between the eyes.

“Man down!” cried the blonde girl, and Hartley didn't hesitate to launch herself through the gunfire to the man's side, the Doctor close on her heels. She bent down, hoping to avoid injury, getting a good look at the wound at the man's stomach, which was leaking blood as a concerning rate.

“Is he alive?” the Doctor shouted over the loud roar of the miniature war happening just above their heads.

Hartley pressed her fingers to the man's neck, searching desperately for a pulse. She couldn't find one, although it was hard to concentrate with bullets whizzing so close to her face that she could feel the air they brought with them as they brushed past.

  
“Blow the thing!” someone was shouting, but she was too focused on the bleeding man before her that the only thing that broke her from her stupor was the Doctor screaming out Martha's name.

Whirling around, Hartley's insides turned to ice as she laid eyes on one of the Hath carting Martha away, one hand over her mouth to keep her from screaming.

“ _Martha_!” Hartley screeched, abandoning the injured man and flinging herself to her feet. Arms caught her around the waist, forcing her to a stop and then beginning to drag her in the opposite direction. “Let me go!” she ordered her captor shrilly, struggling in his arms. She had to get to Martha, had to save her. She couldn't get hurt – she just couldn't. Not after everything they'd been through together.

The loud, near deafening crash of an explosion met her ears and the person grabbing her shoved her to the side just as a barrage of rocks were knocked loose from the ceiling above them. Hartley let out a small cry, ducking down to avoid being hit by the falling debris.

“Hart?” the Doctor asked in her ear, and she realised he was the one with his arms coiled around her and wilted with relief.

“I'm okay,” she promised, sliding her hands down to grip his for a brief moment, drawing comfort from his cool skin, before pulling back and standing up properly. “Martha!”

She and the Doctor hurried back around the bend to the place they'd last seen Martha, but instead of the long tunnel there was now a wall of solid debris. There would be no easy way to get through, and it would take time they simply didn't have.  
  
“You've sealed off the tunnel,” the Doctor hissed at his 'daughter' angrily. “Why did you do that?”

  
“They were trying to kill us,” the blonde girl replied, utterly calm.

  
“But they've got my friend!”

  
The young girl stared back without feeling. “Collateral damage,” she said flatly. “At least you've still got them,” she told him, nodding her head at Donna and Hartley. “He lost both his men,” she added, glancing down at the soldier panting beside her, his hands on his knees, “I'd say you came out ahead.”

  
“Her name's _Martha,_ ” Donna spat back, full of ringing conviction. “And she's not collateral damage, not for anyone. Have you got that, GI Jane?” she asked scathingly. The girl didn't quite look ashamed, but she was certainly taken aback, blinking in surprise before turning away in dismissal.

It stopped them from seeing her face but it didn't keep Hartley from feeling her emotions. She was confused, questioning something – but Hartley wasn't a mindreader, so she couldn't have said what.

  
“I'm going to find her,” announced the Doctor sharply, turning to leave.

  
The loud cock of a gun interrupted him, and all three companions paused, turning to look at the man wielding the weapon warily. “You're going nowhere,” said the surviving soldier. His hands didn't shake, he seemed confident, but there was pain and exhaustion echoing inside of him. “You don't make sense, you three. No guns, no marks, no fight in you. I'm taking you to General Cobb.”

Hartley knew she couldn't get through the wreckage behind her physically, but that wasn't the only way she had at her disposal to find out whether Martha or not was alive and okay.

“Can you just give me a few moments?” she begged the soldier.

He bristled. “No, I can't.”

“Please, just let me…say a prayer for my fallen friend,” she said, improvising on the spot. She didn't know anything about these people, and the last thing she needed was to be arrested for witchcraft because she could connect to her friend's emotional signature from behind a tonne of rubble and dirt.

“I can't let you-”

“Let her say her prayer,” the blonde girl spoke up, unexpected compassion in her heart. The other soldier looked like he wanted to argue, but still he conceded, reluctantly nodding his head and taking a step back.

Hartley turned to glance at the Doctor who nodded, understanding what she was trying to do. Donna just looked confused, but by now she knew when not to ask questions.

Hartley stood and bowed her head, putting extra effort into making it look like a prayer. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply and trying not to cough at the lingering dust in the air from the explosion.

She reached out with a muscle she'd only just barely begun to be able to use. It was easy to search past the rubble and dirt between them, on this plane of existence – the emotional one – it was like it wasn't even there at all.

She pressed and prodded, searching desperately for Martha's unique signature, and when she found it she sighed with relief. Martha was confused and frustrated, but she wasn't scared and she didn't seem to be in any pain. Hartley supposed that was as much as she could ask for.

Lifting her head, she turned back to the others. They were staring at her carefully, and the male soldier still held his weapon up to her face, a silent but pressing warning. “Now, move,” he ordered her, and this time she went without complaint.

As they moved through the dark, underground junkyard, the Doctor gently grabbed onto Hartley's hand. It wasn't a move of affection but rather one of necessity. He squeezed once and she knew what it meant as well as if he'd spoken the words aloud.

_Is she okay?_

Hartley thought back to Martha's calm, assured aura, the courage that sparkled in her heart like burning coals, and squeezed his hand back twice in reply.

_She's fine._

“I'm Donna,” their companion spoke up. Hartley glanced over and saw that she was looking at the blonde soldier. It was difficult to think of her as the Doctor's daughter, even if that really was who she was. It wasn't exactly easy to wrap your head around. “What's your name?” Donna asked softly.

  
“Don't know,” the girl replied easily, like they were discussing the weather. “It's not been assigned.”

  
“Well, if you don't know that, what do you know?”

  
“How to fight.”

  
Donna blinked in surprise. “Nothing else?”

  
“The machine must embed military history and tactics, but no name,” the Doctor supplied before the girl had a chance. “She's a generated anomaly.”

  
“Generated anomaly,” Donna parroted thoughtfully. “ _Generated..._ ” she paused, turning to the girl with a smile. “Well, what about that? _Jenny._ ”

  
“Jenny,” the girl echoed, tasting it on her tongue and letting a smile bloom on her face. “Yeah, I like that. Jenny.”

  
Hartley couldn't help but smile at the innocence of it all. “What do you think, _Dad?_ ” Donna goaded the Doctor, and like the words were a command he pulled his hand away from Hartley's, tucking them securely into the pockets of his jacket. She couldn't help but feel the loss starkly, his walls a hundred times more fortified than they'd ever been before.

  
“Good as anything, I suppose,” he muttered, unfeeling.

  
“Not what you'd call a natural parent, are you?” Donna sang.

  
“They stole a tissue sample at gunpoint and processed it,” he argued smartly. “It's not what I call natural parenting.”

  
“Rubbish. My friend Nerys fathered twins with a turkey baster. Don't bother her.”

  
“You can't extrapolate a relationship from a biological accident.”

  
“Er, Child Support Agency can,” Donna countered, and despite herself, Hartley had to smile.

  
“Look, just because I share certain physiological traits with simian primates doesn't make me a monkey's uncle, does it?” he snapped.

  
“I'm not a monkey!” exclaimed the newly dubbed _Jenny_ , but the Doctor ignored her, walking on ahead as though she hadn't spoken. “Or a child,” she added with just a hint of petulance, and Hartley found the words endearing.

“He's always like that,” Hartley told her before she'd even realised she'd spoken. It wasn't strictly true, but it seemed like the thing to say. She felt for the girl – she couldn't help how she'd come into being. None of this was her fault. “Takes awhile for him to warm up to new people,” she added in a playful undertone.

“Who're you, then?” Jenny asked curiously. “His wife?”

Hartley blanched, thrown by the question, but she quickly recovered, shooting the girl a thin smile. “Well, my name's Hartley – why don't we start there?” she said, a non-answer if he'd ever given one, but it was better than stumbling through an explanation of her and the Doctor's relationship.

“If the two of you are together, does make you my mum?” Jenny continued on obliviously. Hartley choked on her own saliva.

She opened her mouth, hoping something intelligent might fall out, but instead all that came was a torrent of barely-intelligible stammering. “Well, I mean – that is to say – of course it really depends – I don't know if I'm – you see, it's rather-”

But Jenny just rolled her eyes and grinned a bright, brilliant grin, and it was then Hartley knew she was off the hook. She exhaled, relief like a drug as she smiled back, thinking that Jenny even looked a little like the Doctor – her smile all sunshine and mischief.

“So, where are we?” the Doctor's voice floated over them. Hartley shot Jenny another smile before speeding up to catch up to him and the soldier leading them through the maze of underground tunnels. “What planet's this?”

  
“Messaline,” said the soldier in a flat, monotonous voice. “Well, what's left of it,” he added darkly.

They were led into a large, cavernous room that held a strange air of familiarity. It only took a moment for Hartley to place why.

She'd spent a lot of time in the theatre, growing up. Her mother liked to take her to see the ballet and Shakespeare and all manner of productions – but not musical theatre. No, that was far too frivolous for someone like her mother to waste any time on.

But for Hartley the theatre had always head a realm of creativity and possibility. It was the same for any storyteller; the wonder of a narrative being played out before your eyes – it was exhilarating. It took you to far off worlds, let you live lives other than your own. It was, in a single word, magical.

But not this theatre. This one was home to bloodied soldiers, boxes of rations and crates full of weapons. Above them a voice was speaking over a loud speaker. In a matter-of-fact tone it was listing the dead, but rather than names or ranks, it was announcing _generations_.

“ _Generation six six seven two, forty six deceased…Generation six six eight zero, fourteen deceased…_ ” the voice called monotonously. The sound of it sent chills down Hartley's spine.

“But this is a theatre,” Donna said, eyeing the decorative, intricately carved moulding and the large, open place where the stage lay.

  
“Maybe they're doing Miss Saigon,” the Doctor quipped dryly, no amusement in his voice. His walls stayed firmly sealed, utterly impenetrable. She wouldn't have been able to get through them if she had a tank and a million years to try.

  
“It's like a town or a city underground. But why?” Donna continued, spinning in a slow circle, eyeing the bustling soldiers and weaponry being passed around as though it were bread.

“What I wanna know is: what do they mean _generations_?” Hartley asked, eyeing the ceiling from which the faceless voice spoke. Something about the wording wasn't sitting right with her, and she knew it would bother her until she figured it out.  
  


The same soldier from before appeared, this time with an older man in tow. He looked stern and hardened but there was still the possibility for laughter there, she could see it, buried deep down within.

  
“General Cobb, I presume,” the Doctor greeted him, climbing to his feet and giving a respectful nod.

  
“Found in the western tunnels, I'm told, with no marks,” began Cobb in a low, rumbling voice. “There was an outbreak of pacifism in the eastern zone three generations back, before we lost contact. Is that where you came from?”

  
“Eastern zone, that's us, yeah,” the Doctor nodded, going with the flow as per usual. “I'm the Doctor, this is Hartley, and that's Donna,” he said, gesturing to each person in turn.

  
“And I'm Jenny,” Jenny interjected when it became obvious the Doctor had left her out. The Doctor shot her a side eye that went ignored. Hartley frowned at him in sharp disapproval.

  
“Don't think you can infect us with your peacemaking,” said General Cobb seriously. “We're committed to the fight, to the very end.”

  
“Well, that's all right,” the Doctor told him with a casual shrug, itching to get back out there and find Martha. “We can't stay, anyway. Got to go and find our friend.”

  
“That's not possible. All movement is regulated. We're at war.”

  
“Yes, I noticed,” the Doctor drawled in reply, unable to help himself. “With the _Hath._ But tell me, because we got a bit out of circulation, eastern zone and all that … so, who exactly _are_ the Hath?”

  
Cobb exchanged a look with the soldier at his side. “Walk with me,” he said then, jerking his head towards a corridor leading off to the left. Hartley and Donna both glanced at the Doctor, who nodded in approval, hands still shoved deep in his pockets as he headed after the stern-faced man.

Cobb led them down a narrow corridor in what Hartley assumed was once the path to the backstage of the theatre.

  
“Back at the dawn of this planet, these ancient halls were carved from the earth. Our ancestors dreamt of a new beginning. A colony where human and Hath would work and live together,” Cobb began to explain, his voice rumbling with the ancient past of his people.

  
“What happened?” the Doctor asked quietly.

  
“The dream died,” said Cobb with a tiny, bitter chuckle, like the words themselves had become nothing but a joke. “Broken, along with Hath promises. They wanted it all for themselves. But those early pioneers, they fought back. They used the machines to produce soldiers instead of colonists, and began this battle for survival.”

“So, the humans were the one to start the war?” Hartley asked before she could even think to censor herself.

Cobb's expression shuttered with irritation, and she immediately regretted everything. “My ancestors did what they _had_ to do to ensure the survival of our people,” he told her, voice sharp as a dagger and eyes like chips of ice.

Attempting to backtrack, Hartley inclined her head respectfully. “I'm sure they did,” she said, and at her effort he looked less likely to try and stab her with the knife he had strapped to his leg.

  
“There's nothing but earth outside, why's that?” Donna asked suddenly, her voice cutting through the tension, much to Hartley's relief. “Why build everything underground?”

  
“The surface is too dangerous,” explained the first soldier, the one who'd survived the encounter with the Hath in the tunnels below.

  
“Well, then why build windows in the first place?” Donna countered smartly. “And what does this mean?” she asked, tapping a finger against a plaque on the wall in front of her. It held a sequence of numbers, and Hartley had a feeling it was something important.

She quickly scanned her impressive memory, searching for some meaning to attribute to the numbers 601707, but nothing came to mind.

  
“The rites and symbols of our ancestors,” said Cobb in a grave voice, like the numbers deserved great respect. “The meaning's lost in time.”

  
“How long's this war gone on for?” the Doctor asked, a very good question.

  
“Longer than anyone can remember,” Cobb replied. “Countless generations marked only by the dead,” he said, and his grim words made Hartley shiver, a frown knitting at her brow.

“What, fighting all this time?” Donna pressed.

  
“Because we _must_ ,” said Jenny suddenly, eyes wide and imploring. “Every child of the machine is born with this knowledge. It's our inheritance. It's all we know. How to fight…and how to die.”

The Doctor turned away from his daughter – which was a strange sentence to be thinking, Hartley thought – looking at Cobb expectantly. “Do you have any sort of schematics for the city? Some kind of map we can look at?”

Cobb was immediately suspicious. “Why?” he asked carefully.

“I think I could help,” said the Doctor. “If I knew more, I really could.”

Cobb stared back at him, contemplating the Doctor's words – and his sincerity. “General, you can't honestly think-” the soldier beside him began to argue, but Cobb just lifted a hand, and instantly the man fell silent, like a trained dog.

“All right,” Cobb finally said, careful and calculating even as he led them all over to a table where a small, flat sort of disc sat, lights on it glowing a pale, steady blue. He waved a hand over its top and a hologram flickered to life, appearing in the air before them.

Not for the first time in her travels with the Doctor, Hartley was stunned by the magnificence of the human race's advancements in technology. She wondered when they'd have the means for real holograms to exist in her own time – the mid 2000's.

  
The Doctor pulled out his glasses in more of a habitual move than anything else, slipping them onto his nose and leaning in to peer more closely at the schematics flickering before them.

“Oh, don't start,” Donna muttered in Hartley's ear.

“What?” she asked, turning her head to frown at the redhead in confusion. “What am I doing?”

“Every time the Doctor puts those pointless specs of his on, you go all gooey-eyed and pathetic looking,” she replied in a murmur, the words only for the two of them to hear.

“I do not,” Hartley gasped, jabbing her friend in the gut with her elbow for the words.

“Do so.”

Smartly avoiding the oncoming, childish debate that was sure to ensue, Hartley spun back around with enough force to smack Donna in the face with her hair, focusing on the Doctor and what he was saying.

“Does this show the entire city, including the Hath zones?” he asked Cobb, and she could practically see the cogs turning behind his eyes, entire plans forming in the time it took for her to blink.

  
“Yes. Why?” the General responded, perfectly cool.

  
“Well, it'll help us find Martha.”

  
“We've more important things to do,” said that same soldier from before – the one whose name she still hadn't learnt. “The progenation machines are powered down for the night shift, but soon as they're active, we could breed a whole platoon from you three,” he continued with a smug look on his face, like with this alone he'd won the war.

Hartley scowled indignantly. If he thought for one second they were going to help him wage war on an entire species, he had another bloody thing coming.

  
Apparently Donna felt the same, although perhaps not for quite the same reasons. “I'm not having sons and daughters by some great big flipping machine,” she said sharply. “Sorry, no offence,” she added to Jenny apologetically, “but you're not – well, I mean, you're not _real._ ”

Hartley winced, not sure she agreed.

Jenny let out a bell-like laugh of disbelief. “You're no better than _him_. I have a body, I have a mind, I have independent thought. How am I not real? What makes _you_ better than _me_?”

“Well said, soldier,” Cobb praised her genuinely. “We need more like you, if ever we're to find the Source.”

  
“Ooo,” the Doctor sang immediately, “the _Source_. What's that, then? What's a Source? I like a Source. What is it?”

  
“The Breath of Life.”

  
“And that would be?”

  
“In the beginning, the great one breathed life into the universe,” the still unnamed soldier said, a reverence in his voice and in his heart that astounded the sensitivities of Hartley. “And then she looked at what she'd done, and she sighed.”

  
“ _She,_ ” Jenny echoed with a smile. “I like that.”

  
“Right,” the Doctor said, low and placating. “So it's a creation myth.”

it was clear he'd already written it off, and Hartley wondered how someone like him could hold so little faith – in _anything_.

  
“It's not myth. It's real,” Cobb insisted adamantly. “That sigh – from the beginning of time it was caught and kept as the Source. It was lost when the war started. But it's here, somewhere. Whoever holds the Source controls the destiny of the planet,” he explained, nearly breathless from his belief in the tale.

But the Doctor had stopped listening long ago. “Ah!” he cried triumphantly as he toyed with the holographic map. “I thought so. There's a suppressed layer of information in this map. If I can just––”

Fishing free his sonic, he aimed it at the hologram device. It whirred and spun until finally a new layer of tunnels appeared over the top of the old ones, revealing much more to the city than anyone knew was there before.

  
“What is it?” asked Donna immediately, not understanding its significance right away. “What's it mean?”

  
“A whole complex of tunnels hidden from sight,” the Doctor explained, hint of a cocky smirk on his lips. He was good and he knew it.

“That must be the lost temple. The Source will be inside,” said Cobb, staring at the Doctor reverently. “You've shown us the way. And look, we're closer than the Hath. It's _ours._ ” He turned away, striding down the hall and into the open area of the theatre with purpose. “Tell them to prepare to move out. We'll progenate new soldiers on the morning shift, then we march. Once we reach the Temple, peace will be restored at long last,” he told his lead soldier sternly.

  
“Er, call me old-fashioned, but if you really wanted peace, couldn't you just _stop fighting_?” the Doctor interjected, catching the General by the arm, staring at him imploringly.

  
“Only when we have the Source,” he replied, hatred dripping from his voice. “It'll give us the power to erase every _stinking_ Hath from the face of this planet.”

“Hang on, hang on,” the Doctor said hastily. “A second ago it was 'peace in our time' – now you're talking about genocide!”

  
“For us, that means the same thing.”

“Then you need to get yourself a better dictionary. When you do, look up genocide. You'll see a little picture of me there and the caption will read, _over my dead body_!” the Doctor snarled.

  
“And _you're_ the one who showed us the path to victory,” exclaimed Cobb with a great, oily smirk. “But you can consider the irony from your prison cell. Cline, at arms.”

The soldier, whom she now knew to be named Cline, lifted his gun, aiming it once more at the Doctor. Hartley shifted without a moment's thought, putting herself between the barrel of the gun and the Doctor's body. A flash of surprise passed across Cobb's eyes. He seemed shocked she was so ready to die for the Doctor; as if sacrificial love wasn't something they had on this planet.

  
“Oi, oi, oi. All right,” Donna barked, restless with a gun aimed at her friends, even _if_ one of them happened to be immortal. “Cool the beans, Rambo.”

  
“Take them,” Cobb ordered Cline. “I won't have them spreading treason. And if you try anything, Doctor, I'll see that your woman dies first,” he said, glancing down at Hartley with a warning in his eyes. He wasn't lying, he really would pull the trigger on her if he thought it meant winning this war. “She seems eager to die in your place, as it is.”

“You won't lay a _finger_ on her,” hissed the Doctor, the words not a promise, but a warning. It didn't matter that she'd revive; if she got hurt, there'd be hell to pay.

  
“Come on,” said Cline, the barrel of his rifle pressing into Hartley's gut, heedless of the Doctor's threat. “This way.”

  
“I'm going to stop you, Cobb,” the Doctor told the General, sincerity ringing in his voice. “You need to know that.”

  
“I have an army and the Breath of God on my side, Doctor. What'll you have?” asked Cobb derisively.

  
“This,” the Time Lord replied, tapping a finger against his temple. Cobb didn't look scared, but he should have been.

  
“Lock them up and guard them,” he snapped at Cline.

  
“What about the new soldier?” the soldier asked quickly, and Jenny hurriedly stepped forwards.

  
“Can't trust her. She's from pacifist stock. Take them all.”

“Come on,” said Cline again, jabbing at Hartley once more with his rifle. “Move.”

Hartley reluctantly began to walk. The Doctor moved with her even as he glowered at the soldier – Cline – enough so that the boy swallowed nervously under his dark, weighty stare.

“We're not going to actually let this happen, are we?” Hartley whispered to the Doctor as they were marched off through a side corridor, Donna and Jenny close behind. “They're talking about _genocide._ ”

“I know,” breathed the Doctor, frustrated by their circumstance. “We'll stop them,” he promised her, hand moving across her back to press gently against her spine, a cool, comforting pressure.

They were led into a small, nondescript cell with iron bars and a single, long wooden bench to sit on. Hartley made a beeline for the bench, taking a seat and dropping her head, stretching out her sore neck. The Doctor sat down beside her with a huff of frustration.

“More numbers,” Donna murmured, but Hartley didn't look up to see, able to guess well enough for herself. “They've got to mean something...”

  
“Makes as much sense as the Breath of Life story,” muttered the Doctor in reply.

  
“You mean that's not true?” Jenny asked, shocked. Hartley could only imagine; born already with a story in your head, only to be told it was nothing but a tale. Something her people told themselves to help them sleep at night.

  
“No, it's a myth. Isn't it, Doctor?” Donna asked.

  
“Yes, but there could still be something real in that temple. Something that's _become_ a myth,” he mused. “A piece of technology…a weapon.”

  
“And if it _is_ a weapon, then _that's_ the man we've just handed it to,” Hartley sighed, finally lifting her head, waving a hand at the cell door, in the direction they'd just left General Cobb. “This just gets better and better,” she huffed, sitting back up straight and turning her eyes to the ceiling above them.

  
“That's why we need to get out of here, find Martha and stop Cobb from slaughtering the Hath,” said the Doctor gravely. Then he caught sight of Jenny's stare, blinking warily. “What? What are you staring at?” he asked, irritated by the weight of her eyes, so similar to his own.

  
Hartley looked over in time to see Jenny smiling, not quite in amusement, but something like it. “You keep insisting you're not a soldier, but look at you, drawing up strategies like a proper general,” she said lightly.

  
“No, no – I'm trying to _stop_ the fighting,” he argued.

  
“Isn't every soldier?” she countered, and Hartley couldn't help the smile that spread upon her lips.

  
“Well, I suppose, but that's, that's … technically – I haven't got time for this,” he stammered out the weak reply, and Hartley didn't bother trying to hold back her laughter, chuckling along with Donna at the way Jenny held her own. “Donna, give me your phone. Time for an upgrade,” he snapped, holding out an expectant hand, his other one fishing out the sonic.

  
“And now you've got a weapon!” Jenny exclaimed gleefully.

“It's not a weapon,” he snapped again as Donna handed over her phone, letting the Doctor give her the same universal roaming every traveller in the TARDIS got to have.

  
“But you're using it to fight back,” Jenny argued smartly. “I'm going to learn _so_ _much_ from you. You are such a soldier!”

The Doctor didn't know what to say. “Donna, will you tell her?” he begged her hurriedly.

  
“Oh, you are speechless. I'm _loving_ this. You keep on, Jenny,” Donna laughed.

“Hartley?” the Doctor whined.

“What? Tell her how you're _not_ a soldier?” Hartley asked with a frown. “That's a conversation too big for the amount of time we have,” she huffed, and he sent her a sour look before quickly dialling Martha's mobile and pressing Donna's to his ear.

“ _Doctor_?” Martha's voice echoed down the line.  
  


“Martha, you're alive!” cheered the Doctor brightly. “I mean, Hartley said you were fine, but she's only just getting the hang of her empathy as it is, and I didn't want to take any chances-”

“ _Oh, am I glad to hear your voice – even if you are rambling_ ,” Martha said happily from the other end. “ _Are you all right_?”

“I'm with Hartley and Donna. We're fine. What about you?”

  
Donna quickly slapped the Doctor's shoulder. “And Jenny. She's fine too,” she hissed in reprimand.

  
“Yes, all right. And, and Jenny. That's the woman from the machine. The soldier. My daughter –– except she isn't, she's, she's … anyway, where are you?” he stammered.

Hartley shot Jenny a sympathetic smile, but the young blonde only rolled her eyes in response.

“ _I'm in the Hath camp. I'm okay, but something's going on. The Hath are all marching off to some place that's appeared on this map thing._ ”

  
The Doctor gave a guilty grimace. “Oh, that was me,” he admitted, glancing over at Donna, who winced back mildly. “If both armies are heading that way, there's going to be a bloodbath.”

“ _What do you want me to do_?”

  
“Just stay where you are,” the Doctor said immediately. “If you're safe there, don't move, do you hear?”

  
“ _But_ ––” Martha tried to argue, but abruptly the cell was filled with a pitchy sort of tone and the Doctor pulled the phone away from his ear with a frustrated groan.

“Her mobile died,” he said, huffing as he handed the phone back to Donna, who took it and held it up to the light, probably wondering exactly how he'd managed to make a phone call in a totally different _galaxy_ – let alone a different planet. “She'll be fine,” he sniffed, but Hartley knew it was nothing but an attempt to convince himself. “She'll stay exactly where she is, and we'll go find her after this is all over.”

Hartley eyed him skeptically. “You don't actually believe that, do you?” she asked wryly. He grimaced again.

“Well I'd _like_ to,” he muttered.

She patted him consolingly on the arm. “Wouldn't we all?”

From down the corridor and in the main room of the theatre they could hear a chant beginning to pick up momentum.

“To war! To war! To war!” the soldiers were all crying out, gaining volume with every cycle.

  
“They're getting ready to move out,” the Doctor hissed, knowing they needed to act, and they needed to act _now_. “We have to get past that guard.”

  
“I can deal with him,” said Jenny confidently, climbing to her feet and moving towards the door. The Doctor grabbed her by the arm, forcing her to a stop.

  
“No, no, no. You're not going anywhere.”

  
Jenny blinked, full of confusion. “What?”

  
“You belong here with _them_ ,” the Doctor said shortly, jerking his chin towards the chanting soldiers as though they were somehow less than he was. Hartley's insides clenched at the wrongness his words were evoking. When had this become him, she wondered? Why was his view of this world clouded by darkness and pain?

  
“She belongs with us _,_ ” Donna barked, sweeping between the pair and meeting the Doctor's stare with a scowl of her own. Hartley held back, standing beside Jenny whose eyes were wide with bewilderment. “With you. She's your daughter.”

  
“She's a _soldier._ She came out of that _machine_ ,” the Doctor said, words laced with disgust.

“So?” Hartley asked. The Doctor's eyes flickered over to her, begging her not to argue with him, not now. But she wasn't about to let him treat Jenny like crap just because he was in some kind of a mood. She deserved better. “If you can handle what _I_ am, then why not Jenny?” she wondered sharply, eyes demanding his answer.

And it was a fair enough point. If he could deal with Hartley's inability to die, as much as it went against everything he'd been taught and believed in, then why couldn't he look past Jenny's unconventional beginnings?

But the Doctor didm't seem capable of answering, pain gleaming in his eyes, and suddenly Hartley was struck with guilt. She shouldn't have been pressuring him – they'd landed smack-bang in the middle of a war. He was always patient with the symptoms of her PTSD, she was being a right twat for not doing the same.

She sent him a soft look in apology and the Doctor swallowed loudly, nodding once but then looking away.

“Why? What are you?” Jenny asked Hartley, eyes wide and confused, unable to stem her curiosity.

Hartley glanced over at the girl. It was difficult to explain – and not something she took lightly. It wasn't the sort of thing she felt like getting into while they were locked in a jail cell in the middle of a war between two peoples they knew almost nothing about.

  
Donna swooped in like a guardian angel and saved her from having to formulate a response. “Listen, have you got that stethoscope?” she asked the Doctor abruptly. The Doctor looked like he very much wanted to groan aloud. “Give it to me. Come on,” she ordered, holding out her hand impatiently.

He sighed like a moody child, reluctantly handing the stethoscope over and stepping away as though he couldn't stand to be so close to Jenny. Like it caused him too much pain.

  
“What are you doing?” Jenny asked warily as Donna approached.

“It's all right. Just hold still,” Donna murmured soothingly, sticking the buds in her ears and pressing the end to the right of Jenny's chest, pausing, then moving it over to the left. Hartley's own heart was in her throat, eyes wide as she alternated between staring at Jenny and staring at the Doctor, who looked rather like somebody had just sucker-punched him in the gut. “Come here,” Donna ordered the Doctor. He moved reluctantly, crossing the space between them and taking the stethoscope for himself. “Listen, and _then_ tell me where she belongs.”

The Doctor glanced at Hartley, fear in his warm brown eyes. She nodded encouragingly, putting all her energy into sending him a wave of comfort and love. He didn't react as though he'd noticed it, but she hadn't expected him to. It was just for the two of them, quiet and private.

The Doctor listened to Jenny's hearts, the shine to his eyes grave and holding a pain that went back longer than any of them could imagine. She could feel that pain, that gut-wrenching sorrow. It was so potent that it leaked from the minuscule cracks in the carefully constructed walls around his hearts, washing over her like waves at the beach.

A long moment passed in silence, and then he slowly took out the buds of the stethoscope, walking backwards until his spine hit the wall, then staring sadly at his daughter, struggling to process it all. “Two hearts,” he said grimly, like the words were a death sentence.

  
“Exactly,” Donna smiled.

“Doc,” Hartley breathed, eyes wide. “But that means she's...” she trailed off, feeling like saying it aloud might only make things worse. Might just make this all that much harder for him.

  
“What's going on?” Jenny asked, frustrated by the things she couldn't understand.

  
“What do you call a female Time Lord, anyway?” Donna asked lightly, not able to sense the storm in the Doctor's hearts, unable to see the agony he was in. It was wretched, yanking at everything Hartley was. His pain was her pain; and it always would be.

A burden wasn't so heavy when it was shouldered by two.

  
“What's a Time Lord?” Jenny pressed, curiosity piqued.

When the Doctor spoke, it was in a voice so wrecked with emotion that it nearly hurt Hartley to hear. “It's who I am. It's where I'm from,” he whispered.

  
Jenny stood up straighter. “And I'm from you.”

  
The Doctor flinched. “You're an _echo_ , that's all,” he spat, like she disgusted him. That same sorrow reared its head, loud and wracking with ancient pain. “A Time Lord is _so_ much more. A sum of knowledge, a code, a shared history, a shared _suffering_ ,” he snarled, the agony of the memory of his home leaving him in tatters. “Only it's gone now, all of it. Gone forever,” he swallowed thickly.

Hartley felt tears well in her eyes and looked away, unable to bear the pain she could feel clinging to the Doctor like it were a second soul, an agony latched onto him, sucking the happiness from his hearts.

  
Jenny finally seemed to realise the gravity of what he was saying. “What happened?” she asked quietly, almost afraid to know.

  
The Doctor's didn't answer for a long few moments, eyes faraway, seeing something Hartley doubted she ever could. Part of him wasn't there with them; it was back in the past, with the people and the home he'd lost forever. “There was a war,” he finally said, toneless.

  
Jenny blinked. “Like this one?” she asked, so, so innocent.

  
The Doctor began to laugh, but the sound was tinged with rueful darkness. “Bigger. Much bigger,” he scoffed.

  
“And you fought, and killed?”

The Doctor's eyes flashed. “Yes.”

“Then how are we different?”

The Doctor didn't seem to know how to reply. He looked away, saying nothing.

Hartley couldn't stand all the emotion filling the room. It was stifling, making it hard to breathe. She knew she had to change the topic, do something to lift the haze of grief that had fallen over the Doctor, nearly potent enough to drown her.

“You say you can distract the guard?” she asked Jenny quietly, voice low enough to keep the guard outside from overhearing.

“Don't worry. I've been trained in espionage since birth,” she said, and all three travellers fell silent at the words, none of them knowing how to react.

“Was that a joke?” Hartley finally asked, a smile slowly gaining traction on her face.

“Maybe. I don't know, it's the first one I've ever tried to make,” she admitted softly.

Hartley giggled and Donna joined in, and although the Doctor's aura was still dark with the memory of the greatest war the universe had ever known, Hartley felt Jenny and Donna's amusement like a beacon through the gloom and used it to draw herself to freedom.

“Go on then, Doctor,” said Donna quietly, turning to smile at the Time Lord. “Let Jenny do her thing with the guard, and we'll all get out of here. Together.”

The Doctor was reluctant, very much still wanting to disagree, but finally he nodded, a small bop of his head. “We'll wait back here while you use your...womanly wiles,” he said, grimacing around the word, like left a bad taste in his mouth.

“Womanly wiles?” Hartley repeated teasingly.

“Shut up,” he replied, rolling his eyes and reaching out to grasp her hand, tugging her into his side. She certainly wasn't complaining, moving with him and letting him tuck her around the corner where the guard wouldn't be able to see them.

Hartley caught his hand in hers, threading their fingers together and holding tight. The Doctor sighed silently, letting his eyes flutter shut as he relaxed his muscles from where they'd tensed while he'd talked.

Donna shuffled after them, eyes locked onto Jenny as she did her thing. They watched as she ran a hand through her hair, cleared her throat in preparation and then sauntering up towards the bars, a wicked little grin on her face that again made Hartley think of the Doctor's usual mischievous spark.

“Hey,” she said lightly.

  
“I'm not supposed to talk to you,” came the guard's voice – Cline, Hartley reminded herself again. “I'm on duty.”

  
“I know. Guarding me,” Jenny replied coyly. “So, does that mean I'm dangerous, or that I need protecting?”

  
“Protecting from what?” the boy chuckled.

  
“Oh, I don't know,” Jenny giggled. “Men like you?” she asked, turning the flirty dial up to maximum. If it wasn't so disgusting, Hartley might have been impressed.

And then he got close enough for her to grab the lapels of his jacket and pull him in for a kiss, sufficiently distracting him. It went on for a longer than was comfortable, but finally there was the low cock of a pistol and Jenny broke away with a sweet, smug little grin.

“Keep quiet and open the door,” she ordered him cutely.

  
“I'd like to see you try that,” Donna muttered to the Doctor, who grimaced at the very thought.

“Now, Cline,” Jenny prompted the boy, who'd frozen in surprise at the unexpected betrayal. The others didn't bother to hide any longer, stepping back out into the light.

Cline was frowning and Hartley knew he was angry at himself for being so easily tricked, but he was also scared – probably of what the General would do to him when he found out. He slid the key into the lock, opening the door with the low creak of its hinges.

“What now?” Jenny asked, the gun still aimed at Cline's heart, a silent threat.

“There's some rope down here,” suggested Donna, moving out of the cell and into the corridor, where there was a small crate of supplies sat against the far wall. “We could tie him up?”

She returned with the rope and the Doctor took it from her as Hartley grasped Cline's shoulder. “Sorry about this,” she said sincerely. The boy soldier only glared at her angrily in response. Deciding he wasn't going to accept an apology no matter the form, she merely smiled apologetically once more and pushed him down to his knees.

The Doctor crouched behind him, swiftly tying both his wrists and his feet.

“Nice knot work,” Hartley complimented, then gave a goading little grin. “Were you a Boy Scout?”

“I'm an alien,” he reminded her dryly.

“What, the Time Lord's didn't have Boy Scouts?”

“Hartley, we were billions of years ahead of Earth and its silly rituals...” he trailed off, turning his head to look her directly in the eye. “We called them Time Scouts.”

Hartley laughed, delighted that he was playing along, at the very least making an effort to be lighthearted. That was all she needed, really. For him to make an effort.

Unbeknownst to them, Jenny and Donna stood at the doorway, watching the pair of them interact, one with a smile, the other in confusion.

“Are they married?” Jenny asked the older woman curiously, watching as the Doctor said something that made Hartley smile brighter than the sun.

“It's new, this thing they have,” Donna replied quietly. “I think they're still figuring it out.”

Jenny paused, considering. “But they're in love?” she asked. She knew what it was, but she hadn't yet seen it in her short life. Watching the Doctor and Hartley now, she wondered whether this was what it looked like.

“Yeah,” Donna smiled. “Yeah, they are.”

The Doctor climbed to his feet then held out a hand for Hartley, more out of habit than conscious thought. “We should go,” he said, making a beeline for the door, only to stop when he saw Jenny quickly checking whether the pistol was loaded. “You're not bringing that thing with you,” he said with a sinking horror.

“You want us to go out there _unprotected_?” Jenny hissed. “They will shoot – and they will shoot to kill.”

“I hate to say this Doctor, but for once, I'm in favour of the gun,” Donna told him apologetically.

He turned to Hartley, hoping he wasn't about to be outnumbered. “If it makes you three safer, I vote gun,” she admitted reluctantly. The Doctor huffed, but even he couldn't argue against the results of the consensus. He turned, storming from the cell and out into the open, very nearly stomping his feet as he went. “He's usually like that,” Hartley assured Jenny, whose eyebrows were raised so high they brushed her hairline.

Thankfully the Doctor had enough sense to pause at the next corner to wait. They all remained silent, knowing it wasn't wise to go flapping their jaws while in what really amounted to hostile territory. The last thing they needed was to get caught and go straight back to square one. She doubted they'd get lucky a second time.

Jenny went first. It made sense – she was trained, agile, and holding a weapon she actually knew how to use. The others trailed after her, trying to keep their footsteps silent as they moved.

They walked along a narrow hallway, through a long corridor, then down two flights of stairs, until suddenly the Doctor jerked Jenny backwards, hissing, “that's the way out.”

Hartley heard a faceless person cough from around the corner and gathered there was a guard stationed at the next flight of stairs. Jenny lifted the pistol in her hand, turning off the safety with a muted click.

  
“Don't you dare,” the Doctor snarled, gripping the gun to stop her from acting. Jenny's eyes were wide at his sudden ire. She didn't know him, didn't yet understand his aversion to guns. The tension built, but before Hartley could do anything to alleviate it Donna was sticking her head between the two of them, a wicked, scary sort of glint to her eyes.

  
“Let me distract this one,” she whispered haughtily. “I have picked up a few womanly wiles over the years.”

Hartley's eyes went wide but the Doctor was already on it, grasping Donna and dragging her back into place before her 'womanly wiles' got them all killed. “Let's save your wiles for later,” he said generously, glancing over at Hartley. “In case of emergency,” he tacked on awkwardly.

Donna nodded, accepting this at face value and making Hartley love her all the more. She realised suddenly that she was the only woman left and her eyes went wide with panic. “You don't want _me_ to do it, do you?” she hissed in alarm. “Don't you remember that one time with that psychotic time-traveller, Axton?”

Her attempts at using her 'womanly wiles' against the guy had gone horribly, horribly wrong. She wasn't cut out for that sort of thing, and she intended to never give it another try.

“Unfortunately, I do,” he drawled, eyes narrowed at the memory. “Which is why we're using...” he trailed off, rummaging frantically in his pockets until finally he pulled free what looked like a wind-up toy in the shape of a small mouse. “Aha,” he whispered, triumphant.

He eagerly began to twist the little silver key on its side, and Hartley glanced over at Donna with a frown. “I have _so_ many questions,” she murmured, not the least of which why that was in his pocket in the first place. Donna nodded vehemently in agreement.

He leant down, letting the toy mouse touch the floor, then letting it go. With a series of loud, high-pitched squeaks, the mouse took off, rolling on its lone wheel across the landing. They knew it had caught the attention of the guard when they heard the sound of heavy boots hitting the concrete steps.

The guard approached, oblivious to them hiding around the corner. He bent down, picking up the little mouse and eyeing it in confusion. Hartley took a step forwards, preparing to sneak around him while his back was turned, but then Jenny swept towards him and landed a solid karate-chop to his back.

Hartley barely seemed to blink and he was sprawled on the floor, unconscious. “I was going to distract him, not clobber him,” the Doctor growled in frustration, but Jenny only blinked back, bewildered by the reaction.

  
“Well, it worked, didn't it?” she asked, perfectly innocent.

He exhaled sharply but by now knew better than to press the point. He ducked down, a scowl on his face as he rummaged through the guard's pockets, pulling free the small, clear map of the tunnel system he had on him.

  
“They must all have a copy of that new map,” said the Doctor, giving the small piece of clear material a narrow-eyed look before turning to Jenny who watched on curiously. “Just stay there. Don't hurt anyone,” he ordered her sharply, and although her features dropped into an expression of great offence he merely turned away and began marching down the hall.

Jenny huffed, rolling her eyes, irritated with her 'father' and his surly attitude. The girls all moved to follow the Doctor, who was striding down the corridor with renewed purpose. Deciding she couldn't help herself, Hartley sped up so she was in stride with the taller alien, whose eyes were locked onto the map like it held the secrets to the universe. But Hartley knew it was just a distraction, something to keep his brilliant mind occupied so he could avoid thinking about Jenny, or his bloodied past.

But Hartley knew he couldn't run from it forever. Sooner or later he was going to have to face it, look this echo of his people – this echo of _him_ – in the eye, and talk.

“You shouldn't shut her out,” she said to him, voice low so the girls trailing behind them wouldn't hear. They were talking anyway, murmuring between one another. Donna was saying something more about the numbers that sat above all the doorways.

“Oh, and you're an expert on parenting now, are you?” the Doctor bit back. At some point he'd slipped his glasses back on, peering down at the map through them even though Hartley knew his memory was just as sharp as hers – if not more so.

“There's no need to snap at me, Doctor,” she said, calm and just a little bit scolding.

“Can we just focus on finding Martha and putting a stop to a war? Please?” he asked, a plea. He didn't want to talk about it, but she knew he couldn't just ignore it.

“You can't just stick your head in the sand this time,” she argued delicately. “If you let it fester-”

“I'm sorry, did you get a Doctorate in Psychology while I wasn't looking?” he interjected, unnecessarily sharp, the words cutting like a knife. “Stay out of it, Hartley.”

Bristling, Hartley fell back, hurt blooming in her chest. The Doctor just kept on walking, consumed by his own emotions and memories of a much darker time.

“Are you okay?” Jenny asked Hartley, falling into step with her as they followed the Doctor, navigating the tunnels without interruption. She supposed all the soldiers were too busy off getting themselves killed to worry about the whereabouts of the four peace-loving prisoners.

“Did the Doctor say something?” Donna asked, coming up on her other side. Hartley didn't know why she'd ask that until she became aware of the way her eyes were prickling with tears.

Hartley swallowed, reaching up to rub stubbornly at her wet eyes. “The Doctor always says something,” she replied, voice dull, her eyes fixed on the Doctor's back. His shoulders were hunched, his gait just a little bit off.

Concern born from love rippled in her chest, powerful and intense. She sniffled and looked away, forcing herself to regain control.

She kept tight hold of the emotion, refusing to let it out of her chest, locking it away in a box where nobody would ever be able to reach it – especially not the Doctor.

Love was something she knew he felt – for his TARDIS, for travelling, for Rose at one point, for the universe and its beauty.

She and the Doctor shared a mutual connection, one that she knew went beyond physical, even beyond emotional. She might even call it cosmic. But she still wondered whether it were as strong on his end as it was on hers.

She wished, not for the first time, that he wasn't telepathic – that he was like everyone else in the universe, incapable of hiding his emotions from her. Maybe it was selfish, but she felt lost, like she was looking at only half of a map. She needed to know how he felt; whether what he felt for her was real or a fleeting attraction.

She wondered whether his skin tingled when she touched him, or if his hearts raced just that little bit more whenever she thoughtlessly glanced in his direction. Was it wishful thinking to hope he did? He was a Time Lord – was he was above those sorts of things?

She wished he would just _talk_ to her, tell her how he felt. But that wasn't who he was, he didn't express his love through words; he expressed it through actions. She just wished that could be enough for her.

“You've got that look again,” Donna said from beside her. Hartley jerked her stare away from the Doctor like she'd been caught doing something she shouldn't.

“What look?” she asked flatly.

“That lovesick you get sometimes – which is stupid, by the way. Why pine for something you already have?”

“I'm not and never have been _pining,_ ” Hartley replied, grimacing around the word that had left a bad taste in her mouth. “Nor lovesick.”

Donna shot her a pitying kind of look that made her want to say a nasty word in reply. Instead, she put aside her pride and tried being honest about her emotions. It wasn't as easy for her as people tended to believe. An ironic quirk of fate, considering her abilities as an Empath. Maybe her and the Doctor weren't so different in that way after all.

“Sometimes he's right here with me, and yet I just can't reach him,” she told Donna and Jenny in a low voice that the Doctor hopefully wouldn't overhear.

“He _does_ seem like he can be distant,” Jenny agreed, eyeing her father's back contemplatively.

“There's so much I don't know...” mused Donna thoughtfully. “And you've been with him for – God knows how long – and not even _you_ know everything.”

Hartley was quiet, considering. “I don't think anyone ever will,” Hartley confessed, a little sad about the fact. In many way he was like the stars he so adored; magnificent yet untouchable.

“Wait!” the Doctor cried suddenly and all four of them came to an abrupt halt. “This is it. The hidden tunnel,” he said, stuffing the stolen map deep into the pocket of his coat and fishing out the sonic instead. “There must be a control panel,” he muttered, the buzz of his beloved screwdriver echoing throughout the debris-scattered corridor.

  
“It's another one of those numbers,” said Donna, walking on ahead, eyeing the plaque with the sequence of numbers on it, cogs spinning behind her eyes. “They're everywhere.”

  
“The original builders must have left them. Some old cataloguing system,” the Doctor said dismissively.

“Or maybe some kind of mapping? Like plot points in orienteering?” Hartley added, leant beside Jenny, watching the Doctor work on finding a control panel.

“No, that's not it…” Donna muttered, turning to the Doctor. “You got a pen? Bit of paper?” she asked him. He quickly handed the sonic off to Hartley, who took it and held it tightly as he hurriedly rummaged around in his bottomless pockets for a pad and pen. “Because, do you see, the numbers are counting down,” Donna murmured thoughtfully as she took the proffered items, beginning to scribble down the numbers on the plaque. “This one ends in one four … the prison cell said one six…”

  
“Always thinking, all of you,” said Jenny suddenly, wonder mixing with confusion in her heart. “Who are you people?”

  
“I told you. I'm the Doctor,” he told her distractedly, crouched down by the wooden panelling of the wall, scanning it for technology.

  
“The Doctor. That's it?” she asked, unimpressed.

  
“That's all he ever says,” sang Donna with just a hint of frustration.

Hartley had a smile. “He's fond of his secrets,” she told Jenny in a stage whisper.

  
“So, you don't have a name either? Are you an anomaly, too?” Jenny asked him, gaining enthusiasm.

  
“No,” the Doctor replied, deadpan.

  
“Oh, come off it. You're the most anomalous bloke I've ever met,” Donna scoffed from where she was still working on the numbers.

  
“Here it is!” the Doctor cried triumphantly as he ripped off a piece of wood that had been blocking the controls from view. It was lost on none of them that he'd blatantly ignored the question.

  
“And Time Lords!” Jenny exclaimed, never one to give up. “What are they for, exactly?”

  
“For?” he repeated incredulously. “They're not _for_ anything.”

“So what do you do?” she pressed.

  
“I travel,” he told her through a grunt as he struggled to make the control circuits work, “through time and space.”

Jenny frowned, not yet understanding. “He saves planets,” Donna explained with a fondness in her voice, “rescues civilisations, defeats terrible creatures. He and Hart both – they sort of tag team their way through the universe. And they run a lot. Seriously, there's an _outrageous_ amount of running involved,” she laughed. Hartley grinned, warm from the affection in her friend's heart.

  
“Got it!” the Doctor said brightly, leaping to his feet just as a section of the wall slid open to reveal a passageway that had just previously been hidden.

  
“Squad five, with me!” shouted the familiar voice of General Cobb from only a corridor away.

  
“Now, what were you saying about running?” the Doctor asked, unable to smother the bright, eager grin that bloomed on his face, turning and sprinting down the passage. Hartley chuckled, winking at Donna and Jenny playfully before bolting after him, staying close on his heels. The sound of their feet hitting the ground followed her, and then they were all running, blind but rightful faith in the Doctor as he led them through the maze of tunnels that made up these soldiers' world.

Hartley could hear the sound of the troops following them, but they grew distant and she nearly believed they were going to make it until they ran into an unexpected complication.

A series of bright, criss-crossing red lasers stood in their way. The quartet came to a stop, staring at the obstacle in varying degrees of dismay.

“That's not mood lighting, is it?” Donna asked with just a hint of lingering hope. The Doctor grabbed the little wind-up mouse he'd used to distract the guard and threw it into the dangerous tangle of lasers. It was disintegrated into nothing as soon as it touched the light, erupting in a shower of bright sparks that had them all flinching away. “No,” said Donna grimly. “I didn't think so.”

  
“Arming device,” the Doctor muttered, spinning in a circle, looking for such an object.

“Looks like a fuse box?” Hartley ventured, and he glanced over at her, eyes lighting up when he saw her standing beside the very device he needed. He darted to her side, crouching down and beginning to work at it with the sonic.

  
“There's more of these,” said Donna thoughtfully, catching sight of another string of digits. “Always eight numbers, counting down the closer we get.”

  
“Right, here we go,” the Doctor said, springing back to his feet.

  
“You'd better be quick.”

  
From the other end of the tunnel they could hear the sounds of the troops getting louder as they approached, much too quickly for any of their liking. “The General,” breathed Jenny, not hesitating to spin around, heading directly in the direction of the oncoming army.

  
The Doctor followed, gripping her arm to stop her. “Where are you going?” he hissed.

“I can hold them up.”

  
“No, we don't need any more dead.”

  
“But it's them or us.”

  
“It doesn't mean you have to kill them.”

  
“I'm trying to save your life!”

  
“Listen to me,” the Doctor said, voice a low growl. “The killing – after a while, it infects you. And once it does, you're never rid of it,” he told her, the words a promise.

  
“We don't have a choice,” she argued, and Hartley felt the girl's anxiety and desperation to save them all flash like a flare on the face of the sun.

  
“We always have a choice,” he said, words ringing with sincerity.

  
She didn't stop to consider the weight of the words. “I'm sorry,” she said, gripping her gun tighter and spinning around, darting around the corner and out of sight.

  
“Jenny,” he called, dismayed.

But then the soldiers were on top of them and they began to shoot at Jenny, who responded with gunfire of her own. The Doctor ducked back down to finish overriding the arming device for the lasers.  
  
“I told you,” he spat in Hartley and Donna's direction. “Nothing but a soldier.”

  
“She's trying to help,” Donna insisted, but the Doctor wasn't listening.

Hartley's anxiety grew the longer Jenny was out of sight, no way to tell if she was harmed. She felt each fire of the guns like they were bullets to her head, cutting at a scar left by the Year That Never Was. She grit her teeth in frustration, refusing to let her PTSD rule her. There were more important things to focus on – like getting everyone out of this alive.

  
“Jenny!” she shouted over the near deafening bangs of gunfire. Jenny didn't immediately reply, and fear gripped Hartley like a hand clasped around her heart. “Jenny!” she yelled again, desperation tinging her tone.

“I'm coming!” Jenny shouted back, and the relief was like a shot of morphine to Hartley's system. She sighed, relaxing just that little bit.

  
“Cease fire! Cease fire!” Cobb's husky voice shouted, and the violent gunfire finally came to a stop.

  
The red glow from the lasers abruptly disappeared, and Hartley and Donna shared a look of relief. “That's it!” Donna cried happily.

  
“Jenny, leave it! Let's go!” the Doctor shouted.

He turned, reaching out a hand for one of them to take. Donna grabbed it, and the two began to run. Hartley didn't move. She wanted to wait for Jenny, just to be sure she was okay.

“Hartley!” the Doctor shouted from the other end of the corridor.

“She'll be here in a moment!” she called back, mouth dry with anxiety.

“Please, Hartley,” he said, quieter, eyes begging her to listen, to come to him. She wanted to wait, but he was looking at her so fiercely, with such unadulterated _fear_ , that she swallowed her pride and bolted down the corridor.

The Doctor caught her, bringing her to a stop. One arm threaded around her waist, holding tightly, and she leant into the contact like he were the drug and she were the addict.

It took a beat, but she realised Jenny had still yet to appear. “Jenny!” she shouted, pulling away from the Doctor, taking a step towards her direction, fingers trembling with anxiety.

  
“Jenny, come on!” the Doctor yelled, just as Jenny appeared around the corner, running at them, full pelt. “That's it!”

  
“Hurry up!” Donna added, but like the words were a cue the lasers switched back on, trapping Jenny on the other side.

“Jenny!” Hartley yelled, panic gripping her.

“No, no, no, no, no, no,” the Doctor cried angrily. “The circuit's looped back!”

  
“Zap it back again!” Donna demanded.

  
“The controls are back there!”

  
“They're coming!” Jenny cried, the gunfire getting closer, shouts of the soldiers growing louder.

“Doctor, do something!” Hartley begged him, staring across the field of lasers at Jenny, praying to whatever god would listen that this wouldn't be the last time she saw her. It couldn't be. In the very short time they'd known one another, losing her had become unthinkable. She was _their_ responsibility now.

  
“Wait – just, there isn't – Jenny, I _can't ––_ ” the Doctor yelled back to her, gripping his hair in panic. Hartley felt his despair like a tangible thing but barely had the space in her heart to process it. Her own dread was so strong and potent in her chest she felt like she might drown in it.

  
But Jenny didn't seem to think all was lost. “I'll have to manage on my own,” she said in the same tone someone might say 'if you want something done, do it yourself'. She tossed aside her gun like it were rubbish, wiping her hands on her pants and taking a moment to peer at the Doctor through the lasers separating them. “Watch and learn, father,” she said cheekily before lifting her arms, taking a deep breath in and throwing herself forwards.

The trio of travellers could do nothing more than watch on in silent, astounded shock as she flipped and somersaulted her way through the deadly minefield before her. Hartley's eyes went wide, staring at the girl who navigated the lasers like they were nothing, like one brush wouldn't render her to nothing but ash.

“No way,” Donna breathed. “But that was impossible.”

  
“Not impossible,” the Doctor said immediately, a grin the size of Mars stretched across his face. Relief flooded him and the force of it nearly made Hartley sink into a puddle on the floor. “Just a bit unlikely. Brilliant! You were brilliant. _Brilliant_!” he cried, sweeping his daughter up into a tight embrace. She laughed, hugging him back gladly, and both Hartley and Donna watched on with a smile.

  
“I didn't kill him,” Jenny gushed the moment they'd pulled apart. “General Cobb, I could have kill him but I didn't. You were right. I had a choice,” she beamed, and the Doctor couldn't have possibly looked prouder.

  
“At arms!” Cobb appeared at the other end of the corridor, nothing but the lasers to separate them.

“Go,” the Doctor ordered, pushing Jenny off to the side, Hartley and Donna both following close behind. Nothing was going to happen to her – not while Hartley was still breathing.

  
The Doctor lagged behind but after a few moments he caught up to them, straightening his coat with a huff.

“All right?” Hartley asked him as they all began to walk, slower now that they knew the platoon was stuck behind that field of fatal lasers.

“Yeah,” he confirmed, but it was enough. Hartley turned to face the way they were moving, tucking her hands into the pockets of her jeans.

He moved on ahead, head still swimming with his own universe of thought and feeling, the likes of which Hartley could barely enter. She sighed, hating that the Doctor had closed off, not knowing how to fix it. Since she'd become an Empath, everyone around her had become transparent. But not him, he remained almost as much of an enigma as the day they'd first met.

“So, you travel together, but you're not _together_?” Jenny spoke up, surprising Hartley with how sudden it was. She glanced over to see her watching Donna, curiosity shining in her eyes.

  
“What?” Donna blinked in surprise. “No. No way. We're friends, that's all,” she said quickly, before casting a sly smile over at Hartley. “Besides, I think Hart mightn't be so kindly if I pursued her man,” she said with a devious glint to her eyes.

“Please don't refer to the Doctor as _my man_ ,” she begged, distaste curling at her lip.

Donna chuckled and Jenny joined in, both finding amusement in Hartley's discomfort. “But you're together?” Jenny pressed, and Hartley knew the girl was desperate to learn more, learn everything there was to know about the mysterious Doctor and his companions.

“...It's new,” Hartley said awkwardly, scratching at the back of her neck self-consciously.

“Oh, come off it,” scoffed Donna. “Don't act coy. Seems like every time I turn around the two of you are all over one another like my friend Esther on the ham at Christmas.”

Hartley bristled. “ _What_?”

“All I'm saying is,” Donna continued ahead without elaborating on the strange comparison. “The two of you _fit_. You couldn't ask for better parents,” she added to Jenny slyly.

Hartley just about swallowed her own tongue in shock, but Jenny only laughed, the sound bright and delighted. “And what's it like, the travelling?” she asked eagerly, wistfulness in her eyes and in her soul.

  
“Oh, never a dull moment,” Donna said with a small, contented smile. “It can be terrifying, brilliant and funny, sometimes all at the same time. I've seen some _amazing_ things though. Whole new worlds,” she told Jenny happily.

  
“Oh, I'd love to see new worlds,” sighed Jenny, a yearning in her heart. Hartley supposed that was what everyone wanted, deep down; to _see_ and to _know._ And there was no reason why Jenny shouldn't. She turned to Donna, who'd come to the conclusion a moment before herself.

  
“You will,” she told Jenny emphatically. “Won't she, Doctor?” she called up ahead to the Time Lord, whose head was bowed, lost in a little world of his own.

  
“Hmm?” he hummed, picking his head up and turning to look at them curiously.

  
“Do you think Jenny will see any new worlds?” Donna asked, sly and knowing.

  
“I suppose so,” the Doctor replied, a smirk stretching across his lips.

  
Jenny's eyes widened with shock. “You mean,” she cut herself off, struggling to get the words out. “You mean you'll take me with you?” she asked, barely letting herself believe it, voice thin with glee.

  
“Well, we can't leave you here, can we?”

  
“ _Oh_ , thank you, thank you, thank you,” Jenny cheered shrilly, leaping onto the Doctor, pulling him into a tight hug that he reciprocated with only a brief moment of hesitation. “Come on, let's get a move on!” she continued, turning and barrelling on ahead down the corridor.

“Careful – there might be traps!” the Doctor yelled after her anxiously.

Hartley laughed, watching the Doctor's expression pinch with exasperation. “I'll go keep an eye on her,” she said, reaching down to grasp the Doctor's cool, smooth hand. She squeezed, smiling up at him brilliantly before darting after his daughter, leaving he and Donna behind.

Jenny was bouncing happily on her feet as she walked, eyeing everything with a renewed appreciation. She turned her head when she heard Hartley approach, the grin on her face like an energy source in and of itself.

“Oh, I can't believe he's letting me come travelling with you!” Jenny squealed excitedly. “How does it work? Do you book seats on ships and travel from planet to planet that way?”

“Not quite,” she said, meeting her stride, the pair wandering directionless through the halls. A haze of happiness hovered around them, emanating entirely from Jenny, making it difficult to remember that there was a platoon of soldiers on a direct mission for their heads, or the impending war they alone could put a stop to. “He has a ship, a sort of machine, that can take us anywhere in the whole of space and time,” she explained.

“Anywhere?” Jenny repeated, sounding dubious, as if skeptical such a thing could exist.

“ _Anywhere_ ,” Hartley promised, and Jenny bounced again in excitement. “Where would you like to go first?” Hartley asked her, pleasantly curious, wondering vaguely where they'd be off to next.

But Jenny didn't look sure, didn't look like her mind was alight with possibilities. Instead she was frowning, a little crease appearing between her brows. “I – I dunno,” she said slowly, meeting Hartley's eyes again. “All I _know_ is this one little planet and its history. I don't know anything else about the universe. I wouldn't have the first clue where to go,” she admitted, suddenly lost.

Hartley smiled, the expression waxing as she considered how to reply. “How about I take you to Earth?” she offered with an impish little grin.

“Earth?” Jenny repeated cluelessly. “What's that?”

“Home,” she replied, and Jenny's eyes lit up with curiosity. “Well, home for Donna and I, anyway. It's a brilliant planet with the most amazing history. And that's only one tiny little planet in one tiny little corner of this entire, _unthinkably_ massive universe. Jenny, I swear, you're gonna have the time of your life!” Hartley said brightly, and now she was the one bouncing on her toes in excitement.

There was a certain thrill to it – picking people up along the way and bringing them along to witness the universe – one she hadn't really understood until that moment. She got it now, the warm glow the Doctor always felt when he took her somewhere that made her eyes wide and her breath short.

Jenny was a blank canvas – even more so than usual in a companion – and Hartley's skin was just about buzzing with enthusiasm, telling her to get them back on the TARDIS and start the adventure of a lifetime. To begin showing this girl her world. To begin teaching this girl how to truly _live._

“You're happy to have me come with you?” Jenny asked, eyes bright with relief. She said it like she had expected Hartley to have a problem with it, and it made her eyebrows shoot upwards in surprise.

“Beyond thrilled,” she promised the younger girl sincerely. “So's Donna, and the Doctor. He's a little conflicted, feeling a lot of confusion and shock, but he'll wade through it and come out the other side.”

“Did he say that?” Jenny asked curiously, probably wondering when he'd had the time.

“No, I can just tell,” Hartley replied, deciding they had plenty of time to go into the specifics later. For now they just had to get through this one adventure, and then they could be well on their way to a thousand more just like it, but better.

Before Jenny could reply, the loud sound of gunfire pierced their peaceful haze and both women glanced at one another with wide eyes before doubling back as one and making a beeline to the Doctor and Donna.

As they approached Hartley was filled with a sharp stab of sorrow from the Doctor before it disappeared like smoke in the wind, replaced by that cool emotional mask he was was so good at putting into place.

“They've blasted through the beams. Time to run again. _Love_ the running,” Jenny piped cheerfully, taking to their lifestyle like a duck to water. Hartley idly thought that it was rather perfect, like the universe had seen a hole in their little family and taken steps to fill it.

  
“Love the running,” the Doctor agreed with a grin, and so they ran.

The tunnels all looked completely the same, but they trusted the Doctor to lead them through the maze. It wasn't until they came to a seemingly dead end that Hartley began to feel fear intrude on the warmth in her gut.  
  
“We're trapped,” Donna exclaimed.

  
“Can't be,” the Doctor replied, spinning in a circle, searching desperately for a way out. “This must be the Temple. This is a _door_ ,” he said, pressing his hands to the sheet of red metal behind them.  
  
“And again,” said Donna, distracted by yet another sequence of numbers above the doorway across from them. “We're down to one-two now.”

The Doctor knelt down by a panel beside the door, cracking its casing open and pulling out the sonic, using it on the insides.

  
“I can hear them,” Jenny called back from where she'd moved over to the mouth of the corridor, the direction from which they could hear the angry platoon approaching.

“Doc, they're coming,” Hartley breathed, fear for her friends like an anvil in her chest.

  
“Nearly done!” the Doctor called back over the soldiers' war cries.

  
“These can't be a cataloguing system...” Donna was murmuring to herself about the numbers.

  
“They're getting closer!” Jenny warned. Hartley moved to her side – she couldn't be of any use to the Doctor, but she could act as a human shield for Jenny if need be.

  
“Then get back here!” the Doctor ordered.

  
“They're too similar. Too familiar,” Donna continued, distracted.

  
“Not yet,” Jenny argued.

  
“Now!” her father commanded sternly. “Got it!” he cried just as the platoon of soldiers appeared, rushing towards them with alarming speed, large guns held in their hands. Hartley grasped Jenny's arm, forcefully tugging her backwards, away from the oncoming barrage of gun-wielding men.

The door had slipped open and she pulled her through without hesitation. “They're coming! Close the door!” Jenny called, and immediately the door slid shut in front of them, a barrier between them and the soldiers. “Oh, that was close,” she said around a bright, cheerful grin.

  
“No fun otherwise,” the Doctor admitted, and Hartley couldn't help but notice once again the resemblance she'd seen before, suddenly stark and obvious.

They spun around to eye the temple they'd arrived in, but instead of it being anything like they'd pictured they were met with a massive room full of metal and steam. It seemed more like a factory than a temple, but Hartley supposed she hardly had a frame of reference.

“It's not what I'd call a temple,” Donna said, thinking the same thing.

  
“It's a fusion drive transport,” muttered the Doctor, putting away his screwdriver and wandering deeper into the room.

“Transport?” Hartley repeated, following after him, eyeing everything they passed. She could see what it was now – and she felt silly for thinking it anything but. “You mean like a spaceship?”

  
“What, the original one?” Donna asked in surprise. “The one the first colonists arrived in?”

  
“Well, it could be, I s'pose,” the Doctor mused.

“But this ship's still running,” Hartley observed. “I can still feel the vibration of the engine beneath my feet,” she added thoughtfully. “How could a ship from that long ago still be in perfect working order if nobody had been around to maintain it?”

“You're right,” he agreed, leaning his hands against the railing, eyeing the ship more closely. “The power cells would have run down after all that time. This one's still powered-up and functioning. Come on!” he said, turning and darting off to the side, navigating his way through the ship like he'd done it before.

Hartley wondered whether these sort of things were standardised, and that was how he knew his way around so easily. She supposed that with nine hundred years of space and time came a tendency to see things repeat themselves, perhaps even mechanical architecture.

  
They came to a stop on the next landing up only to find a door like the one they'd just come through. This one, however, was being cut through with a laser of some kind, a thin line appearing in its shiny red metal surface.

  
“It's the Hath,” breathed Jenny. “That door's not going to last much longer. And if General Cobb gets through down there, war's going to break out,” she said gravely, but the Doctor was already moving.

  
“Look, look, look,” he was saying hurriedly, making his way over to a small computer sat in the corner. “Ship's log,” he said gladly, beginning to switch it on and type. “First wave of Human/Hath co-colonisation of planet Messaline,” he began to read off the screen.  
  
“So it _is_ the original ship,” Jenny gasped.

“How is that possible?” Hartley asked curiously as she glanced warily at the door, the only thing separating them from the Hath. She knew they hadn't harmed Martha, so they couldn't be all that bad or bloodthirsty – but at the same time, they were now standing clearly between them and victory. Who knew what that kind of motivation could bring out in them?

  
“What happened?” Donna asked, less concerned with the looming threat the Hath presented.

  
“Phase one, construction. They used robot drones to build the city,” the Doctor read off the screen in a hurry.

  
“But does it mention the war?”

“Final entry,” he continued to read, “mission commander dead. Still no agreement on who should assume leadership. Hath and humans have divided into _factions_!” he exclaimed, gripping his hair at the force of the realisation. He stopped reading, turning to look at Jenny and Hartley, who had been looking over his shoulder curiously. “That must be it! A power vacuum. The crew divided into two factions and turned on each other. Start using the progenation machines, suddenly you've got two armies fighting a never-ending war.”

  
“Two armies who are now both outside,” Jenny reminded him.

His excitement at figuring something out dimmed slightly with this reminder, but then Donna was speaking, holding that little pad and pen in her hand. “Look at that,” she said, and they all turned as if commanded.

Hartley saw there was a display above her, screens showing maps of the core of the planet they were stood on, as well as that same long sequence of numbers.   
  
“It's like the numbers in the tunnels,” the Doctor stated needlessly.

  
“No, no, no. But listen, I spent six months working as a temp in Hounslow Library, and I mastered the Dewey Decimal System in _two days flat_. I'm _good_ with numbers,” Donna told them, a simple fact, and Hartley wondered how she didn't know that about her friend yet. “It's staring us in the face,” she said, but Hartley still wasn't getting it.

Apparently Jenny felt the same. “What is?” she asked, staring up at the numbers helplessly.

Donna spun around, eyeing them all with a satisfaction in her eyes. “It's the _date,_ ” she said, slow and full of pride. Hartley's eyes widened, and she shifted aside as the Doctor ducked past, taking off the glasses he'd slipped onto his nose to read the ship's log. “Assuming the first two numbers are some big old space date, then you've got year, month, day. It's the other way round, like it is in America,” she explained.

  
“Oh!” the Doctor cried in realisation, slapping himself on the head like he was chastising himself for not noticing sooner. “It's the New Byzantine Calendar!”

  
“The codes are completion dates for each section. They finish it, they stamp the date on,” she continued quickly. “So the numbers aren't counting _down_ , they're going _out_ from _here_ , day by day, as the city got built.”

  
“Yes! Oh, good work, Donna,” he crowed proudly.

  
“Yeah,” she grinned, then frowned. “But you're still not getting it. The first number I saw back there, was 60120217. Well, look at the date today.”

  
“0724,” he read, then gasped in shock. “ _No._ ”

  
“What does it mean?” Jenny asked in confusion.

“Yeah, I'm still not getting it,” Hartley agreed mildly.

  
“Seven days,” the Doctor hissed, steel reeling from his realisation, whatever it was.

  
“That's it. Seven days,” Donna added.

  
“Just seven days!”

“You're not making sense,” Hartley frowned.

  
“Yeah – what do you mean, seven days?” Jenny asked forcefully.

  
“Seven days since war broke out,” the Doctor told them, wide eyes flickering between them both.

  
“This war started seven days ago,” Donna added emphatically. “Just a week. A _week_!”

  
Hartley was beginning to understand, but the reality of it was difficult to swallow. Jenny on the other hand was just bewildered, pressed beyond mere confusion. “They said years,” she argued, struggling to make sense of it in her head.

  
“No,” Donna corrected her gently, “they said _generations._ And if they're all like you, and they're products of those machines ––”

  
“––They could have twenty generations in a _day_!” the Doctor finished for her, eyes alight with glee. “Each generation gets killed in the war, passes on the legend. Oh, Donna, you're a genius!” he told his companion, gripping her arms and grinning down at her proudly.

  
“But all the buildings, the encampments – they're in ruins!” Jenny argued again.

“No, they're not,” Hartley said, spinning around to face her, all the pieces slotting into place in her head, like some kind of morbid puzzle. “They're empty. The only reason they look ruined it because of the war – which, if it's only lasted seven days, the source…” she trailed off, eyes wide as she looked over at the Doctor. “They must have mythologised everything. Their entire history!”

“And the Source must be part of that too,” he breathed, turning abruptly, as he so often did, and bolting off in the other direction. “Come on!” he called back to them needlessly, because they were all already sprinting after him, their footfalls heavy and loud on the grating below.

  
They were barely running for a full minute before Hartley felt a familiar presence slip into place in her mind.

“Martha!” she shouted abruptly.

The Doctor came to a sudden stop just in time to hear Martha's voice to shout, “Doctor!”

  
“Martha!” he replied joyously, leaping forwards and sweeping her up into a tight hug. “Oh, I should have known you wouldn't stay away from the excitement,” he said, beaming ear to ear as he let her go.

“Hart!” Martha continued, her happiness and relief filling Hartley like water in a glass. She grinned back widely, pulling Martha into a firm embrace.

“Glad to see you in one piece,” she said into her old friend's ear, and Martha pulled away with an even bigger grin as she leant in to give Donna a quick hug.

  
“Oh, you're filthy,” Donna said blithely. “What happened?”

“I, er, took the surface route,” Martha explained, pointing upwards. A stab of sudden sadness swept through her, but before Hartley could ask if she was okay there was a loud bang as the soldiers below finally got into the rocket.

  
“That's the General. We haven't got much time,” the Doctor said quickly.

  
“We don't even know what we're looking for,” Donna replied, scanning the room in search of some sort of clue, something to tell them where to go or what to do.

  
“Is it me, or can you smell flowers?” Martha asked suddenly, and they all paused to sniff.

  
“Yes,” the Doctor said in clear surprise. “Bougainvillea. I say we follow our nose.”  
  


The stairs were steep and many, but Hartley was plenty fit from all the other running their rather unconventional lifestyle involved and managed to make it to the top only a little out of breath and with only a tiny stitch in her side.

As they finally came to a stop, the stairs levelling out into an even surface, Hartley gasped at the sight they were met with.

Around them was a botanical garden. Everywhere she looked was a different type of tree or fern. Everything was so beautiful and green, it was like coming up for air after being trapped in the tunnels these people currently lived in.  
  


“Oh, yes,” the Doctor sighed happily, walking deeper into the plentiful garden, wide smile firmly in place. “Yes. Isn't this brilliant?”

There was a small clearing in the centre of the stunning room, and in the middle of it a sort of glowing globe that sat on a pedestal with wires and cables running from it. Nearby sat a small panel with a keyboard and a screen.

  
“Is that the Source?” Donna asked quietly.

  
“It's beautiful,” Jenny breathed.

  
“What is it?” Martha asked the Doctor curiously.

  
“Terraforming,” he replied surely. He knew what it was at a glance. “It's a third generation terraforming device.”

  
“So why are we suddenly in Kew Gardens?” Donna asked critically.

  
“Because that's what it does. All this,” he said, gesturing to the paradise around them, “only bigger. _Much_ bigger. It's in a transit state. Producing all this must help keep it stable before they finally––”

All of a sudden the garden was flooded with soldiers, Hath and human alike. They said nothing, but the sound of them all cocking their guns filled the room, making an unpleasant chill run down her spine.

  
“Stop!” the Doctor ordered them.

“Don't shoot!” Hartley added, throwing herself between the two groups.

“Hold your fire!”

  
“What is this, some kind of trap?” spat Cobb, who stood on the frontline of his people.

  
“You said you wanted this war over,” the Doctor hurried to say.

  
“I want this war _won_.”

  
“You can't win. No one can,” the Doctor countered, calm and collected but also somehow desperate. He needed to make them listen. He had to, there was no alternative. “You don't even know why you're here. Your whole history, it's just Chinese whispers, getting more distorted the more it's passed on. _This_ is the Source. This is what you're fighting over. A device to rejuvenate a planet's ecosystem. It's nothing mystical. It's from a laboratory, not some creator,” he told them seriously.

Hartley knew they were doing the right thing, but there was still just a glimmer of uncertainty in Hartley's gut. She wasn't sure ruining a culture's entire belief system was fair – what right did they have? But at the same time, that belief system was causing war. She supposed, in a way, it evened out. They were doing the right thing.

“It's a bubble of gases,” the Doctor continued, spinning to talk to every single person watching on, “a cocktail of stuff for accelerated evolution. Methane, hydrogen, ammonia, amino acids, proteins, nucleic acids. It's used to make barren planets habitable. Look around you. It's not for killing, it's bringing life. If you allow it, it can lift you out of these dark tunnels and into the bright, bright sunlight. No more fighting, no more killing.”

  
The Doctor picked up the globe where it lay on its pedestal. He lifted it high above his head, excitement and hope in his hearts as he spoke to the gathered soldiers, human and Hath alike.

  
“I'm the Doctor, and I declare this war is _over_!” he cried, throwing the globe to the floor. Its glass casing smashed and the gases and energy within began to drift upwards, a dance of beautiful colour.

Hartley moved over to the Doctor's side, gripping his arm and smiling up at the gas cloud happily as everyone around them began to lay down their weapons, a universal sign of peace.

  
“You did it,” she whispered to the Time Lord, looking away from the life energy above their heads and meeting the Doctor's eyes with pride. He glanced back down at her with a smile that took her breath away, and she couldn't have stopped the wave of affection she sent him even if she'd wanted to try.

Because this was what he did – what he always did – he healed what was broken. He was a doctor. Her Doctor.

  
“What's happening?” Jenny asked, slipping closer to them, smiling up at the sight above them.

  
“The gases will escape and trigger the terraforming process,” the Doctor explained patiently.

  
“What does that mean?”

“It means a new world.”

“No!” Jenny cried, so sudden it made Hartley jump, and she saw the Doctor's daughter begin to move in front of him.

Like everything slowed down, Hartley turned her head, realising that Cobb hadn't let go of his gun. He was still holding it, and now it was aimed at the Doctor – at Jenny.

These two people she cared so much about – she wasn't going to let either get hurt. She pushed Jenny out of the way with enough force to shove her to the floor. The deafening bang of a gunshot echoed throughout the room, and for one moment she didn't feel anything.

She was horrified – had it not worked? Had Jenny – or worse, the Doctor – gotten hurt?

But then the pain started, blossoming from her chest outwards through her body. Her weight was suddenly too much for her to hold up and her legs gave out. But the Doctor was there. The Doctor was always there.

He gripped her, his hands large and cool on her back as he gently lowered her to the ground. She blinked up at the gases above them, thinking that they looked kind of like the Northern Lights. She remembered the time her and the Doctor had gone to see them, sharing hot chocolate in the snow and watching the lights dance. The memory made her smile even despite the pain.

“Hart!” Jenny's cried shrilly, and her elfin features appeared in Hartley's vision, tears leaking down her face.

Martha dropped down beside her too, pressing fingers to her throat even despite knowing it was pointless given her 'condition'. “It's – it's ok-kay,” Hartley tried to reassure a distraught Jenny.

She felt her grief and pain rushing over her, only adding to her discomfort. She looked away, using more effort than she should have needed to turn her eyes to the Doctor. His eyes were pained but he was keeping his emotions hidden. She usually hated when he did that, but this time it was a blessing.

“Never – never been shot in the – in the heart b-before,” she stammered out, each breath in like razorblades in her lungs.

  
“You'll be okay,” he said, but it was more of a reminder to himself than it was to her.

“Use m-me,” she stuttered, one hand reaching up to grip at the lapel of his wonderful blue suit.

“Use you?” he repeated, confused.

“Let me...die...to them,” she gasped out, her pain spiking with every word. “Use me,” she begged in a near whisper, beginning to feel her body shut down.

And finally the Doctor understood. Eyes grave and full of anger and pain, he nodded, leaning down and brushing his lips against her forehead. She heard Jenny's cries but they were distant, like they were coming from the other end of a long tunnel.

She was reminded of something Jenny had said earlier. “ _Does that make you my mum_?” she'd asked, so innocently curious. She'd denied it, or hadn't answered, at the least. But now she reconsidered.

She may not have been the Doctor's wife, or in any way Jenny's biological mother, but she felt a pull to the girl. A kinship with her that she couldn't quite explain. Maybe it was because she was so innocent, so untouched by the world, but she felt like it was somehow her responsibility to keep her safe. Her responsibility to protect her. And it was one she happily accepted.

She'd saved the Doctor – saved _Jenny_ – and so for maybe the first time she surrendered willingly to the darkness. Because if that was the price she had to pay for their lives, it was one she would gladly give.


	55. Jenny's Resolve

**JENNY'S RESOLVE**

“ _And what was the song which she sang? Ah, my little man,_

_I am too old to sing that song, and you too young to understand it.”_

Charles Kingsley, _The Water Babies_

* * *

Coming back to life was painful, but then again, wasn't it always?

Her heart restarted with a great pump and she inhaled sharply, the air burning on its way down into her lungs. There was a small, uncomfortable lump in her throat and so she coughed, pushing herself up onto her elbows as the object in her oesophagus travelled up. Without another cough it dropped into her hand and she collapsed back onto the floor beneath her, dazedly holding the little lead bullet up to the light.

It took another moment for her hearing to kick in and then suddenly people were saying her name, none louder than the Doctor. It took another moment for her eyes to properly focus, and when she did it was to see the Doctor hovering over her, relief sparkling in his chocolate brown eyes.

“Hartley? You with me?” he was asking fervently.

“Yeah,” she said, throat sore and scratchy, voice coming out hoarse.

“How do you feel?” he asked, holding out a hand. She took it gratefully, letting him pull her slowly to her feet. She was back inside the TARDIS, and the ship gave a low, satisfied pong, as if welcoming her back to the land of the living.

“Like I just died.”

“How is this _possible_?” Jenny demanded from where she stood a few feet away beside Donna. Martha was stood on her other side, arms crossed over her chest as she assessed Hartley for damage like the doctor she now was. “Hartley – you were dead,” Jenny said – as though she needed reminding.

“It's a long story,” the Doctor said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Then shorten it,” Jenny countered sharply. Her father was chastised, clucking his tongue and nodding for Hartley to explain.

“I'm immortal,” she told Jenny evenly even as she rubbed the spot in her chest where the bullet had entered her skin. It had healed, but there was still just the slightest tingling sensation there, mind struggling to keep up with her body. “I can't die.”

This didn't seem to clear anything up for Jenny, who frowned in confusion, pain sparking in her veins. “But you were _just were_ ,” she argued. “Just now, you were dead on the floor.”

“Okay – I _can_ die, but I always heal and come back,” Hartley amended, and though Jenny's eyes were still narrowed, she didn't look scared anymore. Instead she was full of a blooming sadness, and a relief so intense it made Hartley's knees shake. “Hey – I'm okay,” she promised, pulling at the collar of her shirt to show her the smooth, unblemished skin over her heart. “See, totally healed.”

“You took a _bullet_ for me,” Jenny breathed, barely able to believe it.

“Of course I did,” Hartley replied confidently, as though that was the end of it. Jenny's eyes still held just a slight sheen to them, and Hartley was swarmed with compassion that was entirely her own. She smiled, moving across the console room until she was stood in front of the girl, wasting no time in bringing her in for a warm hug.

Jenny clutched her back tightly, not crying but still overcome by emotion in her own, quiet way. Hartley rubbed her palm up and down her back soothingly until finally Jenny pulled away, giving a tentative smile.

“You're a little bit impossible, you know?” she said with just a hint of teasing.

“Not impossible,” the Doctor chimed from behind them and when they turned he was wearing a wide, happy smile, “just a bit unlikely.”

Hartley grinned back. “So, how long was I out this time?” she asked the group at large, looking over at Martha and Donna to include them in it.

“Only about ten minutes,” Donna supplied, still a tiny bit shaken from what had just happened, but mostly just relieved Hartley was okay. “Did you really just spit out the bullet?” she added with a morbid curiosity.

Hartley realised the bullet was still clutched in her left fist and held it out for Donna to take. Despite herself she reached out and plucked it from her grasp, eyeing it in the light with interest.

Hartley turned back to the Doctor, who was now fiddling with the controls on the console for something to do with his hands. “Where are we?” she asked, glancing at the doors pointedly.

“Still on Messaline,” he told her. “Needed to get you back to the TARDIS before anyone saw you reanimate, but I don't think we're ready to leave quite yet.”

“What was all that about 'using' you, anyhow?” Martha stepped forwards, brow crinkled as she struggled to understand. “And why couldn't they see her come back? Wouldn't it be better for them to at least know she was okay?”

The Doctor paused, taking a rare moment to consider his answer. “Death can be a powerful motivator,” he began slowly, exhaling noisily as he leant back against the pillar of coral behind him. “Using Hartley's death as a shared tragedy will help bring human and Hath together. They'll build their new society on a foundation of hope and repentance.”

“Isn't that kind of manipulative?” Martha asked skeptically.

“It's necessary. They're going to succeed. They _have_ to succeed,” Hartley answered her in reply. “Besides, I die so often and there's never any _reason_ to it. This time it was for a cause, for a _purpose._ It _meant_ something. And that's a good thing.”

Martha chewed on the words for a long moment, considering, before she nodded her head and gave a gentle smile. “I'm glad you're okay,” she said and Hartley shuffled closer, throwing an arm around her shoulders and bringing her into a side hug warm with camaraderie.

They were all quiet for a moment before the Doctor spoke up. “Best we go out there, make sure they're doing alright unsupervised,” he said idly.

“Actually, Doctor,” Martha said, pulling away from Hartley and wandering closer to him, arms crossing over her chest once more. “I was hoping you could take me home now.”

The Doctor nodded, accepting of her decision. “S'pose we could pop out for a few minutes,” he said, but turned to Jenny before he moved. “Want to take your first trip to another planet?” he asked with a smile.

Jenny lit up, her blue eyes sparkling happily. “To Earth?” she asked hopefully.

The Doctor didn't question how she knew, just smiled. “To Earth.”

“It's usually a bumpy ride,” Hartley warned her as the Doctor began to pilot his beloved ship. “I'd hold onto something if I were you.”

Jenny blinked, not immediately moving, but then regretting it as the whole room lurched to the side. She let out a squeal as she was thrown into the railing and the Doctor laughed loudly, giddy on their win for the day.

Jenny quickly got used to the strange method of travel, giggling happily as she clung onto the jump seat for dear life, treating it like a rollercoaster.

The ride came to an end and the time rotor gave a low bong, signalling that they'd landed. Martha eyed the interior of the TARDIS like it might be the last time she ever saw it, and Hartley could only hope that wouldn't be the case.

“I'm home?” she asked the Doctor, voice thin and just a little sad.

“You're home,” he promised after a quick glance at the monitor just to be sure.

“Come on,” Donna said, smiling at Martha and leading her towards the doors. Hartley and the Doctor hung back with Jenny, who was staring at the doors with wide eyes. Donna and Martha stepped out onto the Earth while Jenny just stayed stock-still.

Both the Doctor and Hartley waited with her, letting her acclimatise to her new reality. “That's an alien planet out there,” she said, the words quiet.

“Every planet you're gonna go to will be an alien planet,” the Doctor reminded her, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “It's something you'll have to get used to.”

“Yeah, but does that sense of wonder ever really fade?”

He considered the question and then smiled, wide and honest. “Nah.”

She grinned, bouncing on her toes once in a way that reminded Hartley starkly of the Doctor before darting for the doors. Hartley smiled warmly, turning to look at the Doctor whose eyes were alight with affection. She reached out and grasped his hand, skin smooth and cool against hers, and gently tugged him in the direction of the doors.

Outside in the late afternoon air Jenny was staring at the plain, nondescript street Martha lived on in pure wonderment.

There was nothing particularly wonderful about it, but Hartley imagined that for someone who'd barely been alive a full five hours – and had spent all of them in an network of underground tunnels – it was rather astonishing.

“Look at the sky,” Jenny murmured – whether to herself or to them, it wasn't clear – staring upwards in unadulterated awe. The sun wasn't even shining, nor was it raining. The sky was overcast, the day dreary. But Jenny stared at it like it were the most wondrous thing she'd ever seen. “The air...” she whispered, inhaling the cool breeze deeply.

Hartley glanced up at the Doctor to find him smiling at his daughter with such indescribable tenderness that it made her heart throb with affection. “I'll give you two a moment,” she whispered to him and he nodded at her gratefully, eyes still on Jenny as she let go of his hand and moved away, heading for Donna and Martha a few metres down the street.

The two women were hugging, and Hartley didn't want to interrupt. She hung back, but as they pulled apart Martha spotted her and smiled, telling her it was okay to approach.

Donna nodded at the two, having already said her goodbyes, and drifted off to the side, letting the two old friends talk. “I was so happy to get your call,” Hartley began as they slowly ambled their way further down the street.

“Blimey, that whole Sontaran crisis seems like a lifetime ago, doesn't it?” Martha mused with a tiny laugh. Hartley chuckled in agreement, and the pair faded back into silence. “I really am happy. For you and the Doctor, I mean,” she continued, and Hartley looked back over at her in mild surprise. “It was inevitable, really. The two of you were made for one another.”

Hartley thought that might have been overstating it a tad, but she didn't want to bother with that now. “I'm really happy for you and your husband-to-be, too,” she said lightly. “I'm sure he's a great guy – you deserve the best.”

“And I've got it,” Martha smiled.

“I'd love to meet him one day,” Hartley continued eagerly, “maybe we could come round for tea like normal people do? The Doctor might need some convincing to do the whole 'domestic' thing, but I'd get us there in the end,” she chuckled, only for the sound to peter off when she noticed Martha wasn't smiling with her.

“I don't want to come off as cold, or rude, but...” she began awkwardly.

“You don't want us coming round for tea,” Hartley deduced, a sinking feeling in her gut that she quickly identified as disappointment.

“It's just, it's – I mean, he's something that's just _mine_ , you know?” Martha tried to explain delicately. “You're my past. He's my future. And I don't know if I want them to collide.”

“I understand, Martha,” she assured her gently, smiling calmly to ease her old friend's worry. “Really, it's okay. I'm glad you're moving on. I've seen what this life can do to some people,” she added thinking fondly, but also sadly, of Sarah Jane Smith. “You've actually done it. You're maybe the first one who has.”

“Done what?”

Hartley smiled, the expression a little wry. “Let the Doctor go.” Martha swallowed loudly from beside her, eyes focused on the concrete beneath their feet. When Hartley spoke next, her voice was quiet and pensive. “I'll be honest, Martha – I don't think that's something I'll ever be able to do,” she admitted, like the words were a secret for just the two of them.

Martha considered the words, then looked up from the pavement, meeting Hartley's eyes. “I'll be honest too, Hartley,” she said, voice ringing with sincerity. “I don't think you're ever going to have to.”

The sound of chucks slapping against the footpath broke the quiet, secretive atmosphere they'd unknowingly created. Glancing up, they saw the Doctor heading towards them, smiling at Martha happily, oblivious to their sombre atmosphere.

“I'll leave you to say goodbye,” Hartley murmured as she swooped her into one final embrace, unable to help herself. When she pulled back Martha smiled at her with a sad kind of happiness, the kind that was warm with closure, and Hartley smiled back, turning and sidestepping the Doctor. She headed for Donna and Jenny who were hanging back near the TARDIS.

“And what are these large, square things for?” Jenny was asking Donna curiously, eyeing the car closest to her with caution.

“It's a car,” Donna explained, perfectly patient. “A vehicle. It's like a ship, but it doesn't fly. It rolls on the ground – a mode of transportation.”

“You're rubbish at this,” Hartley laughed as she approached, and Donna sent her a disgruntled look at the sound.

“Well they really need a _Welcome To Earth_ handbook or something, don't they?” she complained, and Hartley laughed again.

“They don't have one of those?” Jenny asked. “Does the Earth not get visitors often enough?”

“It does, but the humans wouldn't know it,” Hartley explained, leaning back against the TARDIS, the feeling of it, firm and steady against her, calmed the parts of her she hadn't realised were so loud. “They know about aliens – but they don't have a clue how many really walk among them. Although I think it'd be utter chaos if they did,” she admitted.

“Why?” Jenny asked, naturally inquisitive. She got that from her dad.

“They're just not ready. One day they will be – I've seen it. But in this century, I think it's best for all of us to keep our heads low.”

Hartley looked back over her shoulder, watching as the Doctor and Martha said their goodbyes, pulling one another in for a final hug before the Doctor moved away, heading back towards his TARDIS and his companions – his _family._

“Come on,” he said, pushing open the door to his big blue box and waving the others in.

Hartley turned around to wave a final goodbye to Martha, only to find her already gone – back inside the safety of her house. Hartley smiled, the feeling in her chest bittersweet, and stepped inside the TARDIS, relaxing against the railing as the Doctor took them away.

“Where to now?” he asked them cheerfully, taking off his coat and laying it over the back of the jump seat, beginning to pilot the ship with all of his usual enthusiasm.

Donna answered with a loud yawn. “Bed, for me,” she said once she was done. “It's been a big few days.” She turned to Jenny with a smile. “I'll see you later, yeah?” she said, and Jenny nodded. Donna cast Hartley a smile, and she responded with one of her own, watching as Donna wandered off deeper into the TARDIS in search of her room.

“What about you, Jenny?” the Doctor asked his daughter gently.

“Me?” she blinked in surprise.

“Do you want to go have a rest?”

She considered the question, thoughtful eyes on the arched ceiling above them until she looked down again, meeting his gaze. “Not just yet,” she said, the words soft. “I don't think I'd be able to sleep, anyway.”

“You wanna try something that always helps calm me down after a big day?” Hartley offered.

“What is it?”

She turned to the Doctor with a hopeful smile. “The Medusa Cascade?” he asked. The fact that he already knew what she was going to ask for made warmth spark in her chest like the embers of a growing fire.

“The Medusa Cascade,” she confirmed with a smile almost as bright as the cascade itself.

“What's the…Medusa Cascade?” Jenny asked, as inquisitive as ever.

“You'll see,” said the Doctor mysteriously, a small smile on his lips as he piloted the TARDIS to Hartley's favourite lookout spot in the whole universe.

With a great, mechanical groan the TARDIS materialised, and Hartley immediately moved over to the doors. Jenny was close on her heels, curiosity brimming. “Ready to see one of the official Sixteen Wonders of the Universe?” Hartley asked her eagerly.

But Jenny wasn't vibrating with excitement like Hartley had thought she would be. Instead she stood still, she was excited, yes, but there was a war happening inside of her. A conflict between her head and her heart. Hartley didn't say anything, keeping quiet and merely opening the doors for Jenny to see the brilliance of the Cascade.

She knew the girl would work through it, and she was smart enough to know to ask for help if she needed it.

The doors opened and the light of the many nebulae that made up the Medusa Cascade poured into the TARDIS, bathing them all in a rich, ethereal glow. Jenny's eyes lit up and she was filled with the sort of wonderment that made grown men weep.

“Go on,” Hartley said with a smile, gently pushing her forwards. Jenny seemed to know what to do without needing to be told. She wandered forwards, utterly transfixed on the view as she slowly sat herself down on the edge of the TARDIS, her feet dangling out into open space.

Hartley was still for a long moment. She eyed Jenny who now sat peacefully on the edge, staring silently out into the universe's humbling majesty.

Hartley knew to give her some much needed space. She could sense the girl's tumultuous thoughts, the swirl of warring emotion deep in her gut. She stood with the Doctor, who was idly toying with the controls, distracted and quiet. Things were silent for a good few minutes, but Hartley knew the quiet couldn't stretch on forever.

The Doctor was the one to break the silence in the end. “You should go talk to her,” he said gently, but the sudden words still surprised her. She looked up at him, a small crease between her brows.

“No,” she said, gentle but full of conviction. Maybe she was the one with the knack for comforting those in need, but Jenny was the _Doctor's_ daughter, not hers. If she took the reins now, what sort of precedence did that set for their relationship? Jenny needed to know the Doctor cared, needed to talk to him, establish a connection that went beyond biology. “It has to be you.”

The Doctor looked reluctant to agree, but he seemed to sense the same things Hartley did, understanding what she did. He'd had children before, and as far back as that was, Hartley imagined it was something like riding a bike. You never really forgot. Besides, he and Jenny had a connection, anyone with eyes could see it. He'd do great.

Hartley watched as he warily drifted closer to his daughter. She smiled, stepping back and meandering back into the endless maze of corridors that filled the infinite TARDIS.

She considered going to her room but she wasn't tired enough to sleep. Deciding to head for the kitchen, she changed course, hoping a nice cup of tea would help soothe her enough to try and get some quality rest.

Once there, she found herself hungry, too. Putting the kettle on to boil, Hartley moved over to the pantry, pulling it open and scanning the contents idly. Eventually she pulled out some cinnamon biscuits, finishing up her tea and taking a seat at the table. The TARDIS always kept a stack of magazines and newspapers handy for them to read over meals, but she'd soon figured out that Hartley much preferred literature of the novel variety and began supplying those, too.

It only made Hartley's affection for the big, blue, sentient ship all the more strong.

Today the TARDIS had an old, unappreciated classic on the table. Hartley picked it up, munching on a cookie and sipping her tea, getting lost in the world created by Charles Kingsley in his famous piece of work titled _The Water Babies._

She was no more than a few chapters in, her tea long since finished, when there was a knock at the kitchen's entrance. Hartley looked up in surprise to see Jenny standing there, a hesitant smile on her face.

“Dad sent me back here,” she told her. Hartley smiled widely at the casual use of the word 'dad'. “He said something about you making dinner?”

“Did he, now?” Hartley asked in vague amusement, a single eyebrow cocked.

Jenny gave a tiny little grin. “I am rather hungry, actually,” she admitted a little sheepishly, and then Hartley was out of her chair, already moving over to the sink to leave her dirty dishes before heading for the fridge to see what they had. She flicked the switch on the side of the jukebox as she passed and the room filled with a soft, unobtrusive music that made her smile.

“What do you like?” she asked the younger girl curiously.

Jenny didn't answer right away and Hartley looked back over curiously to see her face scrunched in deep thought. “Well, I dunno,” Jenny confessed quickly. “I've never eaten anything before.”

“That's right, you haven't,” Hartley blinked in surprise. It was hard to believe this fully grown woman was barely even a full day old. Their lives were so _weird._

“What's your favourite?” Jenny asked curiously.

“Pasta.”

“I'd like to try it.”

“Coming right up,” she said, already pulling out the necessary ingredients to begin cooking. “So, how'd your talk with the Doctor go? I imagine there was a lot to cover.”

“To be honest, so far I think we've barely even scratched the surface,” Jenny admitted, but she didn't seem bitter about it. Rather she seemed excited, like she was thrilled that there was still so much left to come. “But it'll have to wait, I'm afraid,” she added, her brilliant smile dulling just a little.

“What do you mean?”

Jenny took a deep breath. “I've decided to go back to Messaline,” she said quickly, very much like ripping off a bandaid.

To her credit, Hartley didn't react badly. Her hands paused where they were tipping the pasta into the pot of water, but a moment later they were moving again, as though they had never faltered at all. “Really?” she asked, keeping her voice light and curious. She was glad her back was turned to the younger girl, making it possible to hide the sudden dismay and confusion spread across her face. “And why's that?”

Jenny sighed quietly from behind her. “As much as I want to come with you now – what dad said back on Messaline, after you appeared to die – it struck a chord with me.”

Hartley's eyebrows pinched down into a frown. “What did he say?”

“That they should rebuild in your memory. Make the foundation of their society a woman with a heart so large that she sacrificed herself for someone she barely even knew,” Jenny whispered, a reverence in her voice. Hartley's chest warmed, able to imagine the Doctor's earnest speech – she'd heard ones just like it countless times before – but something about it being made in her honour...

It made her heart beat that little bit faster.

“But I'm fine,” she said, swallowing down the fluttering feelings and instead struggling to understand why Jenny would rather go back to Messaline than travel the stars with her family. “You don't have to do it for me,” she added, just in case Jenny thought any differently.

“I'm not,” she insisted patiently, watching on as Hartley stirred the pot full of pasta in slow, methodical movements. “I think … I think I'm doing it for myself,” she admitted quietly. Making sure her features were schooled, Hartley turned to look at her curiously, urging her on. “Biologically, the Doctor is my family,” she began, slow and unsteady but gradually gaining confidence. “But I was born with a whole world's history, a whole _people's_ loyalty already written into my DNA. I need to help them rebuild, to help Messaline become the beautiful society it was always meant to be.”

“But you don't _have_ to,” Hartley assured her. “They have plenty of people back on Messaline to help with the rebuild.”

Jenny gave a tiny smile. “I don't think that's really the point,” she said gently, and Hartley had to wonder how someone so young could be so wise. “If I don't do this it'll always hang over me, like a sort of unfinished business,” she explained, a warm sincerity shining in her soul. Hartley smiled at the sheer purity of it.

“You're right,” she conceded, feeling a sudden flare of surprise from Jenny who had apparently expected her to put up more of a fight. She smiled in vague amusement, leaving the pasta to cook while she moved over to the counter to prepare the sauce. “We may be your family, but they're your _people_ ; your _world._ You have every right to want to go back and help them rebuild.”

“It won't be forever,” Jenny said quickly. “I just want to stay a few weeks – months at the most – to make sure they'll be okay without me. And then…well, then I guess we'll just go from there.”

Hartley smiled down at her hands, a warm affection merging with a soft pride in the girl that genuinely took her by surprise. She thought it was an incredibly mature decision, one only someone with exceptional inner strength could make.

They were quiet, lapsing into silence as Hartley cooked and Jenny enjoyed the warm atmosphere, the delicious aroma of freshly cooked pasta in the air and the soft threads of music leaking from the jukebox.

“D'you think I'm making the right decision?” Jenny finally asked as Hartley began to set the table, pouring them all tall glasses of homemade lemonade.

“Do you? Because that's the only part that's really worth a damn,” Hartley told her strongly. Jenny smiled and Hartley was full once more of that inexplicable warmth that could only be described as _happiness._ “Shall we invite your dad in for dinner?” she asked her, and Jenny nodded her head.

Hartley moved to the comms unit on the wall near the refrigerator, pressing the button until the light blinks.

“Kitchen, Doc,” she said into the microphone. “Dinnertime.”

There was a beat, then a crackle of static before the Doctor said, “ _be right there!_ ”

Hartley went back to setting the table. Jenny was watching her, eyebrows raised in surprise. “This ship has comms?” she asked curiously.

“You've seen how big it is, and that's barely even a fraction of its real size,” she said lightly. “It's the only way we'd hear one another.”

Jenny nodded, still adjusting to this magnificent new life. Before she could ask any more of the questions no doubt burning a hole in her tongue, the Doctor traipsed into the room, sniffing loudly. “You made your pasta!” he said cheerfully as he made a beeline for the open seat at the head of the table. “I love your pasta!”

Jenny smiled at the sight of him. “Should we invite Donna in, too?” she asked quickly, casting a glance at the empty doorway.

“Neither of us are brave enough to be the one to wake Donna Noble from her sleep,” said Hartley in a conspiratorial sort of whisper. “Best let her rest. She'll wander in when she's ready.”

The Doctor had already tucked into his food, and the girls did the same. “This is brilliant!” Jenny said in a shrill shock, staring down at the saucy pasta with wide, adoring eyes – as though if it weren't profoundly weird, she might very well have proposed to it on the spot. “Wow, I had no idea food would be this good!”

“Not a bad first meal, is it?” the Doctor asked around a grin, enthusiastically spinning his fork into his pasta with one hand, using the other to take a deep sip of his fresh lemonade.

“Do you cook often?” Jenny asked, eager to learn more about the enigmatic pair who made up her new family.

“Sometimes,” Hartley replied, lifting her shoulders in a shrug. “We usually prefer to go out for dinner, though. I mean, a little hard not to when you have every restaurant in the whole of space and time to choose from,” she added with a tiny grin over at the Doctor.

“Where's your favourite place to eat?” Jenny asked eagerly, not even waiting until she'd swallowed her mouthful to speak, too excited to learn more.

The Doctor snorted from between them. “Every place I take her becomes her new favourite,” he told Jenny in a conspiratorial kind of voice. “Asking Hartley what her favourite _anything_ is, is like asking a parent to choose between their children.”

Hartley sat up with an indignant hum, prepared to defend herself. “It's just so hard to choose!” she exclaimed. “There's something wonderful about all of them! Could _you_ really decide between a restaurant on a spaceship that serves the universe's best pancakes, and a little restaurant nestled in the heart of an asteroid that makes _the_ best smoothies you'll _ever_ taste in your _life_?”

The Doctor and Jenny were sharing a wide, amused smile. “She can get rather passionate about the majesty of the universe,” he explained fondly, and Hartley made sure to kick him in the shin for the smirk that clung to his lips.

Jenny leapt into her next question, and Hartley doubted she was going to run out of them any time soon. “Where else have you been?” she asked them eagerly before stuffing her mouth with another forkful of pasta.

Hartley turned to look at the Doctor, who met her eyes and as one they considered where to name. “Well, we've been to the Library – it's a whole planet that is, in itself, a giant Library!” Hartley began, figuring she'd start with the best first.

But Jenny made a face. “A planet made of books?” she asked, not sounding even half as excited about the whole thing as Hartley did. “I'm all for new worlds, but how much could you really enjoy a _library_?” she asked around a grimace.

Hartley gaped at her as if she'd just sprouted sacrilege. The Doctor laughed like he were watching a particularly amusing skit. Jenny was confused. “Hartley's a writer,” the Doctor explained with that stupid little smirk still firmly in place. “Books are kind of her bread and butter.”

Jenny cocked an eyebrow in a look that reminded Hartley so much of the Doctor it nearly winded her. “It's understandable,” she said, keeping her shock and dismay to a minimum. “Jenny's never even seen a book before – how can she understand them without having read one?” She turned back to Jenny earnestly. “I'll give you a stack to read when you go back to Messaline,” she promised.

Jenny grinned, but the expression was more amused than it was grateful. “So, where else, other than the Library?” she pressed eagerly, taking a healthy sip of lemonade and eyeing them both with an unwavering curiosity.

“Loads of places,” the Doctor replied. “The Scattered Moons of Diganzore. The Anti-Gravity Fields of Hilu. The planet Ulka in the Cigar Galaxy. The Asteroid Belt of Venkusm – we met the Prince, actually. Remember that, Hartley?”

“How could I forget?” she asked with a hint of a sardonic edge, leaning back in her chair and rolling her eyes as she brought her glass of lemonade to her lips. “He tried to coerce me into a marriage,” she told Jenny dryly.

“Really?” the young girl asked, eyes wide with interest.

Hartley looked over, unable to help but share a grin with the Doctor before the pair of them launched into the tale, Jenny finishing up her meal and leaning back, listening to them in a state of near-rapture.

They kept talking even as they cleared their plates, moving from that story to the one with the gas-mask zombies in WWII, then onto the one where Rose's face had been stolen, then the Judoon on the moon, then their time on Platform One when the Earth had been incinerated, and their tale of Neptune and its fatally addictive seaweed.

Jenny listened, eyes wide as she eagerly soaked in what only amounted to a small fraction of their adventures. Hartley made them tea, and they moved through to the recreation room where large, squishy lounges filled the space. They all sat around the coffee table, talking and holding onto their hot mugs of steaming tea.

The stories finally came to a gentle stop when Hartley and the Doctor's voices began to grow hoarse, and Jenny's lids began to droop with exhaustion.

“I think it's time for bed,” said the Doctor softly, gathering all their empty mugs and sliding them safely onto the table to be dealt with later.

Jenny was abruptly less sleepy and more alarmed. The Doctor seemed bewildered by the reaction, but Hartley understood immediately. “Come on,” she said, gently hauling Jenny to her feet and wrapping an arm around the younger girl. “You can spend the night in your room, then we can talk about what happens next, come morning,” she assured her, and Jenny's tense posture relaxed.

“I have a room?” she asked, curious.

“The TARDIS isn't only infinite, she's telepathic, too,” the Doctor explained as they wandered out into the hallway. “She makes a room for almost everyone who comes aboard. _Well,_ those she likes, anyway.”

“I am rather tired...” she murmured, and Hartley smiled.

“Come on,” she said easily. “I'll help you find it, then you can have a shower and get some sleep.”

Jenny was still for a few moments, shifting her weight from foot to foot.

Then she turned around, shocking the Doctor with a sudden, tight embrace. Hartley smiled at the bemused expression she could see over the top of Jenny's blonde hair, the expression only growing when he gripped her back, feeling a strong rush of affection for his daughter that he couldn't deny.

“Night, dad,” she said sweetly as she pulled away, and the Doctor smiled down at her, the expression a little weak, but only from his shock.

“Night, Jenny,” he replied, then glanced up to meet Hartley's eyes. “See you in the morning?” he said, though it sounded like a question.

“In the morning,” Hartley promised, and he nodded, watching as she led his daughter down the hall and out of sight. “How're you doing?” she asked Jenny as they walked, keeping a close eye on the plaques on the passing doors, looking for one with Jenny's name.

“I'm still a little bit in shock,” she admitted.

“That's understandable,” Hartley assured her with a hint of a cheeky smile. “You are only one day old.”

Jenny rolled her eyes, and after a moment the pair came to a stop outside of a soft brown, wooden door. “This is me?” she asked slowly, reaching out to brush a finger over the pretty, shiny brass plate with her name etched into it in an elegant cursive.

“Ready to take a look?” Hartley asked, and Jenny nodded her head once, reaching for the handle and pushing her way into the room.

It was a simple room, almost vintage in appearance, the colours soft and feminine. It was lit as though real sunlight streamed in through the fake windows. The whole room smelled of lilacs and perfume, and Hartley's muscles relaxed at the lovely scent.

“Do you like it?” she asked Jenny after a long few moments of silence.

“Yeah,” Jenny breathed, the first breath she'd taken since stepping inside. “Yeah, I do.”

Hartley grinned, moving over to a door off to the left. She opened it, revealing a bathroom much like her own. “Here's your bathroom,” she said, and Jenny poked her head through the doorway, curious. “Which means that door over there is your wardrobe,” she added, pointing at the door on the opposite side of the room.

“But I don't have any clothes,” Jenny frowned.

“The TARDIS will already have it stocked,” she said before opening the door, revealing a walk-in wardrobe full of beautiful, practical, sturdy clothes. “See?”

Jenny still looked to be in a state of shock, blinking at everything in sheer reverence. Hartley understood the feeling. The TARDIS was a brilliant, impossible, awe-inspiring thing. It was easy to be swept away by its splendour.

“This is incredible,” Jenny eventually whispered. “I can't even...I mean, I don't...” she stammered.

Hartley swooped in to save her, grinning at the girl's wide-eyed wonderment.

“I know the feeling,” she assured her gently, squeezing Jenny's thin shoulder, sending her a wave of comfort and reassurance that made her slouch, exhaustion beginning to overtake her. “Have a shower, change into something other than those military fatigues and then get some well deserved rest.”

She moved towards the door, intent on winding her way back to her room and climbing into her own bed, the call of her duvet nearly deafening.

“Hart?” Jenny spoke up before she could reach the door.

“Hm?” she hummed, turning back around to see her twisting her hands together in front of her anxiously.

“I'm doing the right thing, aren't I?” she asked, self-conscious and unsure. It was the second time she'd asked. Hartley knew she as desperate for guidance. Decisions were so much easier to make when you weren't the one making them at all. “Going back to Messaline? It's the right thing to do?” Jenny asked hopefully.

Hartley smiled, small and sympathetic. “The only one who can say for sure is you,” she said quietly, the words ringing with truth.

Jenny's shoulders slouched. She wanted reassurance, wanted Hartley to validate her choices, tell her she was on the right path. But in truth, that wasn't something Hartley could do. Jenny needed to make her own decisions, forge her own path. It was the only way she would grow.

So Hartley couldn't make the decision for her, but she could certainly offer some advice. “Whatever you decide, Jenny, make sure the choice fills you with peace.”

“Peace?” Jenny echoed in confusion.

“That's how you know you're doing the right thing for you,” Hartley told her gently. “You'll be filled with a sense of peace.” Jenny still looked confused, and Hartley smiled. “Sleep on it,” she said, nodding to the big, fluffy bed that awaited her. “You'll know what to do by the time you wake up.”

“Will I?” she asked, thready and unsure.

Hartley only smiled. “See you in the morning,” she said, turning and leaving the room, a lighthearted feeling in her chest, coupled with an overwhelming affection for the newly born Jenny – the newest addition to their brilliant little patchwork family.

* * *

Morning came – relatively speaking, of course – and Hartley dressed in old jeans and a pink sweater before wandering into the kitchen where she made her all-important morning cup of tea.

Donna wandered in next, barely muttering a hello to Hartley before seeking the coffee maker, only to let out a sigh of relief when she found that Hartley had already turned it on for her, and a fresh pot of the stuff sat ready for her to drink.

“You're a saint, you are,” Donna muttered between gulps of her coffee. Hartley only laughed, shutting the cover of her book and bringing her legs up under her on the chair. “Where's Jenny?”

“Sleeping still, I think,” Hartley replied.

“And the Doctor?”

Hartley snorted. “Who knows?” she asked wryly, wrapping her palms around her hot mug, feeling the heat of it seep pleasantly into her bones.

They fell into a comfortable silence, both sipping their hot drinks, Donna idly flipping through a gossip magazine the ship had left on the table for them to browse. “Wish the TARDIS would give me some tabloids from present-day London,” Donna complained halfheartedly. “What am I s'pose to care about some green woman named _Keeloo Avada_ from the planet Hanover in the year 6899?” she asked, lifting the magazine to jab a finger at the date stamp on the front page.

“I find it interesting,” Hartley admitted.

“Meh,” Donna responded vaguely, tossing the magazine aside and turning her attention back to her coffee and the other woman in the kitchen with her. “Where to next, then?” she asked eagerly. Hartley smiled at her glee, at her undeniable excitement for their travels. It was contagious.

“I think it's your turn to choose,” Hartley reminded her, hiding a smile in the lip of her mug.

“Nah – I reckon we should give Jenny a go next,” Donna said fairly.

Hartley's expression pulled down into an unexpected frown, but before she could say anything Jenny wandered into the room, pulling at the sleeves of a soft, mint green jumper. “I'm not staying, actually,” she said, the words easy and simple, but Donna looked flabbergasted.

“You're not?” Donna asked once she'd found her voice. “Why not? Where're you going?”

Jenny was hovering by the pot, trying to figure out how to use it. Hartley stood, moving over to give her a quick demonstration on which buttons to press to make it work. “I've decided to go back to Messaline, help them rebuild their society,” Jenny told Donna, who was still reeling from the reveal.

“But – the Doctor––” she tried to argue, jaw working up and down.

“We talked about it last night,” Jenny assured her, smiling at Hartley gratefully as she poured herself some tea, stirring in a few lumps of sugar and sipping it with a sigh. “It's just something I need to do,” she added to Donna, who still looked to be having trouble coming to terms with the news.

“You don't want to stay – don't want to _travel_?” Donna asked with wide eyes. “All of space and time – are you really giving that up?”

“Of course not,” Jenny smiled back, unperturbed. “This is only temporary. Despite all that happened, and despite being the Doctor's daughter, they're still my people. I still have their history, their values, engraved in my brain. I just want to help them rebuild – then, well, we'll go from there,” she shrugged, easy and light.

“I take it that sleeping on it helped?” Hartley asked, pulling some cut-up fruit from the fridge and putting it in the middle of the table for their breakfast.

“Yeah,” Jenny smiled. “That bed is _very_ comfortable.”

The Doctor soon sauntered into the room, clutching something in his left hand, a small smile on his face. “Morning, dad,” said Jenny brightly, and though the Doctor looked momentarily taken aback by the casual use of the word he still smiled, walking forwards and scooping up a slice of apple from the plate on the table. “When can we go back to Messaline?” she continued.

The Doctor looked surprised. “You want to go right now?”

Jenny gave something of a meek smile. “I have a feeling that the longer I stay on board the TARDIS, the harder it's going to be to leave,” she admitted, and Hartley had to concede that she had a good point.

“Fair enough,” the Doctor nodded, popping the apple slice into his mouth and taking a seat beside his daughter. “I got you something,” he told her, handing over whatever was held in his hand.

“A present?” she asked, eyebrows raising in surprise as she took the object, holding it up to the light. Hartley recognised it as a phone – though it looked a little more futuristic than the ones she was used to from her time. This one had no buttons, only a touch screen, flat and sleek in design. “What is it?” Jenny questioned, running her fingers over it curiously.

“It's a phone,” the Doctor explained. “Hartley's number is already programmed in. Donna's too.”

“But not yours?”

He shrugged, “don't have one.” Jenny gave a small smile, somehow unsurprised. “This way you can reach us if you need anything, or want us to come get you, or even just visit,” he told her, and Hartley's heart melted at the care and hope that had seeped into his voice. For all his quirks, she suddenly saw him as something of a natural parent.

He'd been holding back before, but now he'd finally surrendered. Jenny was his daughter, and he'd accepted that; embraced it, even.

“But you said this was a time machine, too,” Jenny began. “How am I meant to reach you if you're at the end of the universe or something?”

“For most phones, it's impossible. But not with me. With me it's just––”

“––a little unlikely,” Jenny finished with a grin. Hartley could see a pattern developing, and she was warmed by it.

They finished up their breakfast and slowly began to wind their way through the halls of the TARDIS until they reached the console room, where the Doctor began to pilot the ship back towards Messaline.

The trip was as rocky as it always was. Hartley held onto the railing as the room tossed this way and that, until finally it came to a stop with a loud, beautiful, mechanical wheeze. “Here we are – Messaline!” crowed the Doctor as he gave a little flourish that made his companions roll their eyes. “Only ten minutes after you left,” he told Jenny with pride.

“Ten minutes?” she asked with wide eyes. “But I've been gone for hours!”

“The wonders of time travel,” the Doctor grinned, and Jenny laughed.

Jenny stepped out first, followed by the Doctor and then Hartley and Donna. They were parked where they had been before – in one of those long tunnels, the floor piled high with miscellaneous rubbish and debris from the week-long war.

“I suppose this is where we say farewell, for now, anyway,” Donna said, bringing Jenny in for a hug. “And you're absolutely sure you want to do this?” she checked, pulling back enough to look her in the eye.

“I have to,” Jenny said plainly, a small smile on her lips. “It's my world.”

“But it won't be forever,” Hartley interjected, winding her way between the two to bring Jenny into a firm, warm embrace. “You have an open ticket to travel with us whenever you're ready,” she promised, gripping her tightly, rubbing her hand up and down her back. “We're just a phone call away.”

“I know,” said Jenny as they separated. There were no tears in her eyes, no outward sign of the sadness bubbling beneath the surface. She was strong like that – just like her dad. “Thanks, mum,” she continued on innocently. “I'll see you soon.”

Hartley felt rather like she'd been struck by lightning at the title, but Jenny only grinned and moved over to the Doctor, the two wandering just slightly away to say their goodbyes in private.

“ _Mum_ , huh?” Donna asked, eyebrows raised to her hairline.

“I s'pose she sees me as a motherly figure,” Hartley shrugged simply, cheeks a little pink.

Donna smirked. “I think everybody sees you as a motherly figure, Hart,” she said, amusement blooming in her heart, and Hartley smiled back shyly. “We'll come back and check on her, won't we?” Donna continued, casting a look over at Jenny where she stood with the Doctor, father and daughter exchanging quiet farewells.

“Of course we will,” Hartley assured her.

Jenny leant into her dad, squeezing the Time Lord in a tight embrace. The Doctor's expression was a little dazed as he rested his chin on the crown of her head, hugging her back firmly. They let go, the Doctor whispered one final word, and then he was walking back towards Donna and Hartley.

“Ready to go?” he asked them in a plain, unaffected voice.

“Ready,” Donna confirmed, leaning around him to wave at Jenny a final time.

Hartley smiled at the young girl and Jenny smiled back, wide and happy, before they stepped inside the TARDIS and the doors shut after them, their view of Jenny gone.

It was bittersweet, but Hartley was so proud of her. She'd made this decision for herself, hard as it was, it was the right thing to do.

So as the Doctor piloted them back into the vortex, Hartley smiled to herself, happy and unwaveringly proud of Jenny, the girl she knew would grow to be as much her daughter as she was the Doctor's.


End file.
